The Protégé Read online

  He took a deep breath. Conflict, always conflict in this world.

  “I have a breakfast,” Allison answered. “How about dinner? I could stay another night.”

  Gillette couldn’t remember if he already had a dinner scheduled, but if he did and he couldn’t remember, then it couldn’t be important. “Okay.”

  “Great,” she said, her voice turning pleasant again. “Come get me around seven at the Parker.”

  As he slid the phone back in his pocket, there was a knock on the hallway door. “Yes?”

  “Open up!”

  Gillette’s gaze snapped toward the door. He knew that voice: Quentin Stiles. He hurried over and yanked on the knob. Suddenly, Stiles was standing before him.

  Quentin Stiles was African American: handsome, lighter skinned, six four, and normally a rock-hard 240 pounds. He was from Harlem, a self-made man who’d never been to college but now owned a fast-growing security firm with fifty agents.

  Gillette embraced him immediately, unable to remember the last time he’d been so glad to see someone.

  “Hey,” Stiles said, stepping back. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m . . . I’m welcoming you back.”

  “Don’t get so emotional.”

  “I just . . . well, I just—”

  Stiles broke into a loud, good-natured laugh and wrapped his arms around Gillette. “Hey, brother, I’m just playing. It’s good to be back.”

  “You look great,” Gillette said. “A lot better than you did in the hospital bed last time I visited.”

  “I don’t look great,” Stiles answered irritably, “I look terrible. I’m down thirty pounds from my normal weight. I probably can’t even bench-press three hundred at this point. Christ, none of my clothes fit. Look at me,” he said, holding out his arms. The black blazer hung loosely from his frame.

  “We’ll fatten you up fast.” Gillette moved toward two comfortable chairs in front of a plasma television screen hanging from the wall. “Sit down,” he said, pointing at one of the chairs as he sat in the other, “and tell me what the hell you’re doing out of the hospital. Saturday, the nurses told me it was going to be at least another two weeks before you’d be released.” He watched Stiles wince as he lowered himself slowly into the chair.

  “If I’d stayed in the hospital another two weeks, I’d have gone crazy,” he answered. “Hell, if I’d stayed there another ten minutes, I’d have gone crazy. The mattress was like cement, the nurses were even harder, I hate the way hospitals smell, and the food was awful. Let me tell you something, what I need is a big fat juicy steak. How about Monday lunch?”

  “I can’t, I—” Gillette interrupted himself. Lunch with the commissioner was at noon and would go no later than one-thirty. Landry’s executive assistant had told Debbie that he had to catch a four o’clock flight to the West Coast and couldn’t stay longer than that. “Can we do it later on? Say, one forty-five? Can you hold out till then?”

  “Sure.”

  “How’d you know I was here?” Gillette asked, relaxing.

  “I called the main number about an hour ago and Faraday picked up. He said you were going to be here for a while. He let me know where to find you,” Stiles explained, looking around. “Hey, this is quite a place.”

  Gillette had built the pool room last spring—it had originally been O’Brien’s office, but Gillette had kicked him out to get the space. Stiles had already been in the hospital several months at that point and hadn’t seen it. “Thanks.”

  “You lost a match in here yet?” Stiles asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, what you need,” Stiles declared, starting to get up, “is a good old-fashioned ass whipping on your home court.”

  Gillette reached over and caught Stiles, forcing him gently back into the chair. “Not now.”

  “Why not?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Stiles cocked his head to the side, recognizing Gillette’s serious tone. “What is it?”

  “Last week I told you about a meeting I was going to have this morning with a man from Washington, remember?”

  “Yeah.”

  During hospital visits with Stiles, Gillette had kept him up to speed with everything at Everest. Since last fall, Stiles had become as much a partner as Faraday, not just the man in charge of Gillette’s personal protection.

  “So how’d it go?” Stiles asked.

  “It was strange; he didn’t really tell me anything. I don’t know much more about him or the people he represents than I did before the meeting, but I’m still going to Washington next week to meet with them.”

  Stiles’s face contorted into a curious expression. “Sounds like he’s a waste of time. Why would you bother?”

  “Senator Clark arranged the meeting. I trust his judgment.” Gillette hesitated. “More important, the guy I met with this morning mentioned my father’s plane crash.”

  Gillette had told Stiles about Clayton’s plane crash many times. How Gillette had been cut off from the family money immediately afterward, how he’d been born out of wedlock, and how he desperately wanted answers to so many questions surrounding all of that. “Now I get it.”

  “The guy also said he didn’t buy the official explanation for the crash,” Gillette continued. “Said pilot error seemed ‘thin’ to him.”

  “Christian, be care—”

  “To others as well.”

  “They want something,” Stiles warned.

  “Everyone always does.”

  “I guess that’s true,” Stiles agreed quietly, “at least in your world.”

  Gillette nodded, then closed his eyes and pushed the thoughts away. “So, how are you?” he asked. “Really, shouldn’t you still be in the hospital?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Well, when can you go a hundred percent? The guys you’ve had with me have done a great job, but I want you back full time as soon as possible.” Gillette tapped the arm of the chair. “And Nigel’s really raised his game. Like I told you, I’m surprised how dedicated he’s gotten. This time last year, he was in at nine and gone by six, the latest. Now he’s in early and here most nights until ten. I depend on him.” Gillette hesitated. “But Nigel isn’t you. Like I said, I need you here full time as soon as possible—but I don’t want you coming back too soon, either,” he added quickly. “No relapses, or worse.”

  “I’m fine,” Stiles replied firmly. “We’ll need to keep your current security detail with you because I won’t be back to full speed for a few months, but they’d have had to stick around anyway. You need three to four men around you constantly.”

  “Amen,” Gillette agreed. He’d stared down the barrel of an assassin’s gun last fall, and he didn’t want to do it again. “Monday at lunch we’ll talk about your role at Everest. Debbie can arrange temporary space for you. It won’t be great, but we’ll get you into a big office quick.”

  “Whoa, whoa,” Stiles said, holding up both hands. “Not so fast, Christian. I’ve got QS Security to run.”

  “It’s done fine the last ten months without you.”

  “Without me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been running it from the hospital. I’ve still been hands-on.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “We’re almost ten million in revenues at this point.”

  The number caught Gillette’s attention, and he started going through his options. But there was only one that made sense. “Okay, I’ll buy it.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I’ll use McGuire and Company, the security company we already own. How much do you want?”

  “Jesus, Christian, is this how you negotiate? I thought you were supposed to be a hard-assed motherfucker when it came to buying and selling.”

  “This is different.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Stiles shook his head, fighting back a grin. “I’m not ready to sel
l.”

  Gillette did a few quick calculations. At ten million in revenues, QS Security probably netted around half a million dollars. “Any debt on the business?” he asked.

  “Three hundred grand.”

  “Okay, I’ll give you five million for it.”

  “Five million,” Stiles repeated incredulously.

  Gillette chuckled. “Now who’s the bad negotiator?”

  “I just didn’t . . . well, I . . . I just thought—”

  “Take it, Quentin,” Gillette advised. “It’s the best deal you’re going to get, at least anytime soon. In the morning I’ll call Craig West and tell him what we’re doing, that we’re buying you out. And I’m going to pay you a million a year here at Everest, plus bonus, plus ups.”

  “Christ. That’s incredible, but why?” Stiles asked. “I don’t know anything about finance.”

  “I trust you more than anyone else on the planet. From where I sit, that’s worth every penny I just offered. Plus, you know a lot about running companies. You just grew one and sold it for five million dollars.”

  “What exactly will I do here?”

  “For starters, you’ll get me everything on the guy I met with this morning and the people he reports to. And you’ll go with me to Washington next week.”

  “Why don’t you have Craig West get the info and go with you?”

  “Craig’s a good man, but I don’t trust him like I trust you. It’s not the same. And something tells me I’m going to need to be very careful with these people.” Gillette took a deep breath. “There’s something else, Quentin.”

  “What?”

  “Faraday thought he saw Tom McGuire on Park Avenue this morning.”

  Stiles’s eyes shot to Gillette’s. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.”

  Stiles looked down and was silent for a moment. Finally he glanced up. “Chris, I don’t think a million bucks is going to cut it.”

  DAVID WRIGHT rose up on one elbow and ran his fingers gently through his wife’s hair as she slept on the bed beside him. A half hour ago, Peggy had wanted to make love, but it hadn’t happened. He was too distracted, expecting detectives from the New York Police Department to pound on their apartment door at any moment. Salivating to arrest him for the murder of the woman at the sex shop.

  A half hour ago he couldn’t perform; now he couldn’t sleep. He kept replaying that awful scene in the bondage chamber in his mind. His foot hitting the block of wood, the awful sound of her neck snapping like a brand-new Ticonderoga pencil between two thumbs. A quick crack, then her body going limp. God, if he could only have those few seconds back.

  Wright groaned and reclined slowly on the mattress until his head settled onto the pillow, listening to Peggy’s heavy breathing, staring at the ceiling through the gloom. She’d tried hard to arouse him, going down on him for a full five minutes—which she didn’t really like to do—but nothing. He’d blamed it on work, on Gillette being a slave driver, and she’d bought it, at least for tonight. But she wouldn’t buy it for long. Typically, he couldn’t go a day without sex. Soon she’d figure out something else, something more important, was wrong. Maybe the cops would have already led him off in shackles by then.

  He tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. It was as if he had something heavy constantly pressing on his chest now. “Shit!” he hissed, rolling away from Peggy and grabbing the sheet. When he’d run into Gillette in the hallway at Everest this morning and talked about Hush-Hush, it was as if the older man had seen right through him. As if he’d known something was wrong. Wright still had that question ringing in his ears: “You okay?” And that look in Gillette’s eyes was etched into his memory: like a spinning drill bit coming at him, ready to splay him wide open for everyone to see.

  It was the damnedest thing about Gillette. It was as if he could tell exactly what you were thinking—or what you’d done. Probably one of the reasons he was chairman of Everest Capital at just thirty-seven. He was different. He had an edge others didn’t. As if he were ten steps ahead of you all the time.

  Well, Wright thought, forcing his eyes shut. He was going to get away for the weekend and take Monday off. He was going to avoid the apartment and Everest just in case the police decided to visit. What he’d do if he found out they’d come by either place looking for him, he wasn’t sure. But there was one thing he knew: He wasn’t going to jail. At least not for a few days.

  Suddenly there was a furious banging, a loud fist slamming against a door over and over.

  “Jesus Christ!” Wright shot up in bed.

  “What’s wrong?” Peggy was up instantly beside him, rubbing her eyes. “My God, what is it?”

  As quickly as it had started, the banging subsided, and Wright realized that the knocking had been on the door across the hall. He swallowed hard and ran his hand over his forehead. He was sweating like a leaky faucet. “It’s all right,” he murmured.

  “David, what’s wrong?” Peggy asked fearfully, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Nothing, baby, nothing,” Wright assured her, lying back down and pulling her beside him. He wanted to tell her so badly, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell anyone. Which was the hardest part of it all.

  4

  “SO, YOU EXCITED?”

  Gillette watched Kurt Landry shove a cell phone–size forkful of sirloin steak into his mouth as they sat at a back table of Sparks Steak House in midtown Manhattan. Landry had starred as a defensive end for the New York Jets in the eighties, then caught on with the National Football League’s front office after a couple of high-profile stints—a two-year deal as a booth analyst for NBC’s primary Sunday game and some heavily marketed rental car commercials. So he was instantly recognizable to the public, a perfect spokesman. Once at the league office, he’d played his cards right by doing a lot of palm pressing and behind-the-scenes lobbying at off-season meetings, and he’d been elected commissioner two years ago in a close vote by the owners. He’d beaten out the senior partner of a prominent Wall Street law firm in the election, mostly because the bloc of owners backing Landry believed he’d act as their puppet—they didn’t want someone who would think independently.

  Craig West had done some checking for Gillette, and apparently Landry’s backers had been right, he was doing exactly as they wanted. There were strings everywhere.

  But Landry’s backers weren’t here today.

  As he watched Landry gorge, Gillette noticed how many of the man’s physical features seemed oversize: his head, his mouth, his ears, his hands. He barely fit in a chair made for a normal-size man.

  “How tall are you?” Gillette asked, ignoring Landry’s question.

  “Six seven.”

  “How much do you weigh?”

  Landry laughed, a baritone rumble. “Two fifty, but that’s forty pounds under my playing weight. I’m damn proud of myself for taking off all that weight and keeping it off.” He scooped up a greasy spoonful of home fries and downed them with one swallow. “Come on,” he said, slapping Gillette on the back with a bear paw of a hand after putting down the spoon. “You excited?”

  Gillette nodded. “Sure.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. Hey, you’ve got a lot of fun coming your way with this thing. I mean, what could possibly be better than owning an NFL team?”

  “I don’t like getting ahead of myself.”

  “What does that mean?” Landry asked, scooping creamed spinach onto his plate out of a serving bowl.

  “I want this to be a good investment for my partners,” Gillette answered. “Four hundred and fifty million is a ton to pay for something that’s never generated a dime of income. When we’ve done well financially, when we’ve made a good return on our money, then I’ll get excited.”

  “Money-schmoney,” Landry said, smirking. “Think about all the perks, especially with a Vegas franchise.”

  “There’s a downside to that city, too.”

  “Hey, you’re the youngest owner in the NFL,” Landry
pointed out, paying no attention to Gillette’s caution. “Everybody wants to see you again, too, especially after that article in People.”

  Gillette pushed his plate of half-eaten filet and steamed broccoli into the middle of the table so he could put his elbows down. “Look, I’m not the owner, Everest Capital is. And I was never even interviewed for that article. People did that all on their own.” He was starting to feel like siccing Stiles on the guy who wrote the thing.

  “I wouldn’t be complaining if I were you,” Landry said, wiping his mouth with a white linen napkin. “What was the story line? ‘Most eligible bachelors in the country’? Jesus, most guys would die for that kind of pub. I bet that article’s opened some doors, especially to some very attractive women. You’ve got it going on, don’t you, boy?”

  “You know, I’m just not into personal publicity, Kurt.”

  A concerned look came over Landry’s face. “But you’re going to be chairman of the team, right? You’re going to be making the major decisions, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Landry seemed relieved. “Uh-huh, well, I would have liked it if that article had been written about me.” He waved at one of the waiters, indicating that he wanted more water. “So, tell me about Everest. The Reader’s Digest version, please, I don’t know much about the investment world.”

  Clearly, Landry hadn’t been very involved in the selection process. If he had, he wouldn’t have needed the Everest primer. His minions—or the owners’ minions—must have done the heavy lifting as far as analyzing the different bids. “We’re an investment firm,” Gillette began. “We usually buy and manage companies that manufacture things or provide services. And they’ve usually been around for a while before we get involved, so this situation is different for us. Which is why we have to be extra careful here. Not that we aren’t always careful, but we want to be extremely cautious in this situation. Anything goes wrong with this thing and my investors will be on my ass. That’s why I don’t want to get ahead of myself.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it. You’re going to make a boatload of money on this thing,” Landry said confidently. “Besides, that article said you have the magic touch when it comes to investing.”