The Protégé Read online

  “Yeah, it’s cute.” She winked at Gillette before turning and walking back out.

  “Cute?” Stiles asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The Wallace boat sails out of South Beach,” Gillette explained. “It’s two hundred feet long. That’s a real boat to her. This is cute.”

  “Oh.” Stiles gestured toward the door she’d gone through. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Makes that piece of sewing thread she’s wearing look awfully good.” Stiles cleared his throat. “Tempting, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Stiles hesitated. “Is something happening between you two?”

  Gillette looked off toward Long Island again. They were getting farther and farther away from land. “No.”

  “I don’t mean to pry.”

  Gillette ran a hand through his hair. “Yes, you do.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m attracted to her, Quentin, I’ll admit that. Who wouldn’t be, for Christ’s sake? But I won’t let anything happen. It’s business between the two of us. That’s it.”

  They were silent for a few moments.

  “We talked about how lonely it gets at the top sometimes,” Stiles finally said.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “And you’ve got to be careful who you get close to, especially when a lot of people are depending on you. And watching closely. Especially when there’s a lot of money at stake.”

  “I told you, I’ll never let that happen.”

  “Might be tough to resist at some point.” Stiles chuckled. “It’s funny how different people look in bathing suits, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice growing stronger as he switched subjects. “For example”—he laughed loudly—“on the other end of the how-do-you-look-in-a-bathing-suit spectrum is Nigel Faraday, who should thank the Lord for big baggy business suits. He’s white as paste, with a belly Mr. Claus would be proud of.”

  Gillette laughed, too. “It’s the gallon a day of ice cream.”

  “A gallon? Really?”

  “Just about.” Gillette watched a large sailboat off the port side. There was a decent wind, and the skipper had his spinnaker up, a blue-and-gold sail that puffed out majestically off the bow. “That’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t like blow-boats,” Stiles said. “They’re too slow, and they’re lots of work.”

  “That’s how our ancestors got around.”

  “Yours, maybe, not mine. Mine were smart. They paddled.” He motioned for Gillette to move to the back of the bridge with him. “I’ve got some things I want to go over with you,” he said when they were out of earshot of the captain.

  “What’s up?”

  “The first thing’s kind of a shocker. This morning one of my guys found some very powerful GPS trackers on both Everest planes. They were tiny, but he found them. They were put on recently, judging by the screws used to attach them. No rust or wear.”

  Gillette cursed under his breath. Norman Boyd. He should have anticipated this. “It was probably the guys in Washington.”

  Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know. You won’t tell me much about them, and I’m not going to ask again. Even though, as your head of security, especially now that we found those things, I think you should come clean with me.” He waited for Gillette to say something. “Anyway,” he kept going when there wasn’t any response, “we removed the devices.”

  “No,” Gillette spoke up quickly. “Put them back on. Right away.”

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  “Okay, okay, but—” Stiles stopped short. “Oh, I get it.”

  “Any idea when those things were put on?”

  “No, impossible to tell.”

  “But it was recently,” Gillette pushed. “That’s what you said.”

  “It could have been a couple of weeks ago, it could have been this morning. I’m not sure.”

  Gillette’s mind was racing, trying to think of other ways Boyd might be watching. “What else you got?”

  “We ran a background check on that guy at the hospital ground-breaking ceremony, the one who handed you the shovel. He’s definitely a member of the Carbone family.”

  Gillette took a sip of soda. “Well, we got our answer about the Mafia in Vegas, didn’t we? Did you talk to any of those consulting firms out there? The ones that can help us with our issue?”

  “Almost a dozen of them, and I’ve narrowed it down to two. Like you wanted. After we’re finished here, I’ll send you an e-mail from my Blackberry with the names and numbers of the people I talked to.”

  “Thanks.” Gillette had instructed Debbie to get Stiles a Blackberry earlier in the week. “Like I told you, we’re going out there next week. We’ll meet with them then. Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been doing some more checking on the Carbones. First of all, this guy Joe Celino, the boss of the family, makes John Gotti look like a puppy dog. Celino’s ruthless as hell. His nickname’s ‘Twenty-two,’ after his weapon of choice. His list of suspected victims is long, but he’s never been prosecuted. Anyway, from what I’ve learned, Celino gets into things for the long term. So you won’t just be doing business with him during the construction phase of the stadium and the casino. He’ll want a piece of the action on the team, maybe concessions, and the casino, part of the take. He’s not going away.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Listen,” Stiles said, leaning over so he was talking right into Gillette’s ear, “I’m getting close to something that involves the Carbones. I’m working with some people in Philadelphia on this. People from the old days, before I started QS. It’s something we might be able to use against Celino so he can’t get into your businesses. We could release it anonymously once we’ve got it tied up, and it would probably block him from doing anything in Vegas.”

  “Fantastic. What is it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it now,” Stiles said, glancing at the captain.

  “Come on, Quentin.”

  “No, we’ll talk about it when we’re back on dry land. I should have all the information by then.” Gillette started to say something but Stiles held up his hand. “One more thing, Chris.”

  “What?”

  “I checked with a few more people about Allison Wallace. Still no indication she’s ever done drugs.”

  “Thanks. You can call off the dogs.” Gillette didn’t want Allison hearing from anyone else that they were still checking on her. “By the way,” he called as Stiles headed toward the stairs leading belowdecks.

  “Yeah?”

  “Your girlfriend’s nice. I like her son, too.” Stiles’s girlfriend had brought her six-year-old son, Danny, on the boat. “I’m glad he came.”

  Stiles grinned appreciatively. “Danny’s having a blast, Chris. He’s never been on a boat before. Thanks for letting him come along.”

  “Of course. Hey, if you see Wright, could you ask him to come see me up here?”

  “Yup.”

  Gillette moved to where the captain stood and tapped him on the shoulder. “Billy, I need to use your cell phone.”

  It was lying on the shelf in front of the wheel. Billy reached up and snatched it. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yours out of juice?”

  “Yeah.” It wasn’t, but Gillette wasn’t going through the whole thing for Billy. He dialed Cathy Dylan’s number at her apartment in Manhattan.

  “Hello.”

  “Cathy, it’s Christian.”

  “Hi.”

  “I need a favor.” The GPS devices on the planes were worrying him.

  “Of course.”

  “I need you to call our friend in Richmond. I need you to thank him for meeting with me.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Call me after you talk to him, and call me on this number. It’s—”

  “Already got it,” she interrupted. “It’s on my caller ID.”

  “Okay.” Gillette wanted to make cer
tain Scott Davis was all right, that Boyd hadn’t done something crazy. He took a deep breath. He was putting people in danger, and it was wearing on him. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  As Gillette hung up, Wright walked onto the bridge.

  “You wanted to see me, Chris?”

  “Yeah. Figured we’d do an update before people started having too much fun. What’s up with Hush-Hush?”

  “I’m already starting due diligence. I’m using Cathy Dylan to help me. That okay?”

  Cathy Dylan was busy these days. “Fine.”

  “She should have a request-for-information list ready to go over to the Hush-Hush people by COB Monday. My buddy Hobbs is going to head up the team on their side. It should go pretty smoothly. Hobbs says Maddox couldn’t be happier. He’s already looking at real estate in the Caribbean.”

  “Good. Just so you know, I’m going to Las Vegas on Tuesday afternoon to see about some things related to the casino. After we meet with that insurance company you’ve got us set up with. I’ll be out west for a few days. I’m going to the coast after I finish in Vegas. We’ll talk every morning while I’m out there, just like we do now.”

  “Okay.”

  “There’s one more deal I want to bring you in on. It’s a company called Veramax. Are you familiar with it?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a privately held drug company based outside Chicago. Allison’s introduced me to the owner out in Pittsburgh. That’s why I was there. The company’s growing fast and has some great new products coming out soon. Allison’s family has known the family who owns Veramax for a long time. We’re going to be able to get it pretty cheap because they’ve got some issues with the FDA I can help them with.”

  “Nice.”

  “But I want your take on it. Do some digging and tell me what you think about it when I get back from Vegas.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Good. By the way, don’t let Allison know I told you about this.”

  “Okay.”

  Gillette patted Wright’s shoulder. “Well, that’s it. Go back out and have some fun. It’s nice seeing your bride again.”

  “Thanks.” Wright turned to go, then paused. “Chris?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is there something going on with you and Allison?”

  My God, Gillette thought, don’t these people have anything else to worry about? “Of course not.”

  “It’s just that—”

  Billy’s cell phone rang before Wright could finish.

  “Christian,” Billy called, “it’s for you.”

  “Excuse me, David,” Gillette said, taking the phone. “Hello?”

  “Christian, it’s Cathy.”

  “Yes,” he said, watching Wright head off.

  “I spoke to Dr. Davis. Thanked him for meeting with you like you asked.”

  A wave of relief washed over Gillette. “Thanks.”

  JOSEPH “22 ” CELINO sat on the patio of his modest Staten Island home, enjoying the hazy view of lower Manhattan in the distance. It was across New York Harbor, which was dotted by pleasure craft and the two orange ferries about to pass each other. He glanced to the left at the Statue of Liberty, thinking about his Brooklyn childhood, about how the United States really was the land of opportunity—if you were willing to take risks. His father had tried to bring up nine children without taking any risks, in and out of work as a welder in the shipyards, but he’d gotten further and further behind every year, racking up huge debts, finally committing suicide when Celino was nine. As far as Celino was concerned, his father was a coward and had gotten what he deserved. No risk, no reward.

  Celino had dropped out of high school to work as a bag boy in a grocery store for a buck seventy-five an hour, trying to help pay the family bills. But he’d quickly grown frustrated with the meager paycheck and agreed to make his first hit when a friend of a friend introduced him to a Mafia capo. The target was the owner of a Queens liquor store who refused to pay protection, and Celino had shot him with his twenty-two pistol as the guy was locking up one hot summer night. Celino found killing easy, sticking around a few minutes after the store owner crumpled to the ground to watch him vainly fight death, fascinated by the struggle. Celino was paid three hundred dollars later that night and never went back to the grocery store. By the time he was nineteen, Celino had murdered twenty-eight people.

  Despite his small size—five six and a hundred forty pounds—he developed a reputation as one of the meanest, coldest men in New York. Never making a hit with a partner—not even another made man—so there were no witnesses. And always with his twenty-two. Now he was don of one of the most powerful Mafia families in the country—the Carbones. A name that struck fear in the heart of every other mobster and lawman in the country.

  “How’s Christian Gillette doing?” Celino asked, picking up a cheese-and-salami cracker from a platter in the middle of the table.

  “He’s going to Vegas next week.” Al Scarpa was Celino’s only direct report. Scarpa took care of all the details so Celino rarely had to leave the house. He was even smaller than Celino, and he carried a forty-four.

  “Is he going to play?”

  “I think so,” Scarpa said, picking at something under one of his fingernails. “Quentin Stiles talked to our consulting friend out there yesterday. Gillette’s going to meet with him next week. And one other,” Scarpa added.

  “He better pick the right one.”

  “He will.”

  “Has Stiles completely recovered?” Celino asked, chewing on the cracker.

  “About ninety percent.”

  “Even at ninety percent he’s dangerous. We’ve known that for a long time. The Philadelphia people warned us about him.”

  Scarpa nodded. “I agree, but don’t worry about it, boss. I got everything taken care of.”

  Celino’s eyes narrowed. There was no reason to ask any more questions when Scarpa said he had something taken care of. Scarpa had been his underboss for eight years, and Celino trusted the man completely. As much as a Mob boss could trust anyone. “Are we keeping up with things as agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have our top people on this, right? I can’t have anything going wrong here, you understand? It’s critical that we hold up our end of the bargain. Critical to many of our operations, to the advantage we have over our friends.”

  “I know, boss, believe me.” Scarpa moved his chair to the right a few inches, to stay beneath the shade of the umbrella. “You know, I’ve always admired how you keep things so low-key, Joseph.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re worth so much money, but your house . . . well . . . I don’t want to insult you. I mean, it’s a very nice house. But you could afford so much more. I know you do this so you don’t bring attention to the family, but it must be frustrating sometimes when you see the Wall Street guys spreading money around on houses like its manure.”

  Celino waved. “Doesn’t bother me at all. They work hard, just like I do. Whatever a man wants to do with his money is his business, as long as it doesn’t affect me.” He gazed out over the harbor again. “Now, how is Allison Wallace fitting in at Everest?”

  Scarpa smiled. “Very well, boss. Very well.”

  GILLETTE AND PEGGY WRIGHT stood alone on the aft deck of the Everest, sipping drinks—Peggy her third martini, Gillette another Pepsi. They were thirty miles offshore, out of sight of land. Gillette liked seeing nothing but water. It made him feel as though he were truly unreachable, safe from the stress of business, if only temporarily.

  “Thank you for promoting David.” Peggy was a petite brunette with a pretty smile. “He was so happy.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “He works hard.”

  “Yes, he does,” Gillette agreed. “And I depend on him.”

  Peggy looked around, making sure David wasn’t anywhere in sight. “My husband thinks you walk on water, Christian. He’s always saying, �
��Well, Christian would look at it this way,’ or, ‘Christian would do it that way.’ He’s always thinking about Everest. Always thinking about how he can find deals or raise more money.”

  “That’s why I promoted him. I know how dedicated he is.” Gillette swirled the ice cubes in his cup. “Where are you from, Peggy?”

  She’d been looking out to sea, watching a flock of seagulls diving at something dead on the surface. “Columbus, Ohio. Why?”

  “We’re involved in a deal on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and David said he had relatives there. I was pretty sure his family was from Connecticut, so I thought maybe he meant the connection to Maryland was on your side.”

  Peggy shook her head slowly, a perplexed expression crossing her face. “I don’t have any relatives in Maryland, and David’s never mentioned anyone on his side who lives there.” She swallowed hard when she saw the intense expression on Gillette’s face. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Gillette shook his head calmly. “You know what? It’s my mistake. I was thinking of someone else. Sorry.”

  BILLY HURRIED into the yacht’s large dining room and leaned down close to Gillette so the others at the table couldn’t hear him. “We have a problem,” he said quietly. “Come with me.”

  Gillette excused himself and followed Billy into the next room. “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s a line of thunderstorms coming straight at us that’s really bad. It’s a freak thing. They popped up out of nowhere with all this heat and humidity.”

  “Jesus.” Gillette moved through a sliding door onto a side deck and glanced up into the black sky. There’d been stars out an hour ago; now they were gone. “How long until we get hit?”

  “About forty minutes.”

  “We can’t make it to a harbor?”

  “No way, not enough time.”

  “How the hell can a storm this bad form so fast?” Gillette asked.

  “It doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, it can be deadly. You remember what happened in Baltimore a couple of years ago? Freak storm hit the harbor, right downtown. Bunch of people drowned in a ferry.” He checked the sky nervously. “Look, the Coast Guard’s on the radio telling everybody who can’t make port to batten down hatches and point their crafts due east, into the storm. They’re saying we could get fifteen-foot seas, maybe higher, with sustained winds up to forty miles an hour and gusts up to a hundred. It ain’t gonna last long, but it’s gonna be hell while it’s on us.”