The Chairman (24 page)

“I called your office and your assistant told me,” Faith murmured.

“My assistant went home before I left. You hadn’t called at that point. Besides, I didn’t tell her I was coming here.”

“All right,” Faith said, groaning. “I don’t know who she was. I don’t remember her name.”

“Was it Marcie Reed?”

“Where were you tonight, Troy?” Melissa asked angrily, hands on her hips. “It’s eleven o’clock.”

Mason closed the door of their penthouse apartment, removed his coat, and dropped it deliberately on a chair. Buying time. Trying to think. He’d been with Vicky for the last few hours, over at the Sheraton on Seventh Avenue, and he was exhausted. He should have used the time in the taxi on the way home to come up with an alibi, but he’d passed out as soon as he’d eased onto the backseat of the cab. The driver had been forced to shake him awake after pulling up in front of the apartment building.

“Tell me, Troy!”

Mason grimaced. “Shhhh. You’ll wake up the baby, honey,” he said, moving toward her.

“I called Apex three times,” Melissa said, ignoring him. “Everyone I talked to said you’d left a long time ago.”

He tried to slip his arms around her, but she stepped back and turned away. Facing the sliding doors to the spacious balcony that overlooked Manhattan from forty-two stories up. “I had a business dinner.”

“I bet. Who’d you eat?”

He shook his head and let out a long, frustrated breath. Why was he so driven to have sex with other women? Melissa was beautiful. She had a lovely face and, even at thirty-seven, an incredible body. And she was completely uninhibited. She craved sex and gave him anything he wanted. So why look elsewhere? He’d never be able to answer that question. He’d been asking himself the same thing over and over again for years, and he was no closer to an answer today than he had been the first time he’d asked himself.

He slipped his arms around her. This time she didn’t move away. Just let her head fall back against his shoulder.

“Why am I not enough?” she whispered.

“You are, baby. I told you. I had dinner tonight.”

“Don’t lie to me, Troy,” Melissa pleaded, turning to face him.

“I was at Carmine’s with the CEO of this company I might buy.”

“So, I’d see that receipt on the next Visa statement.”

“I put it on the Apex corporate card I just got today.”

Melissa shook her head. “You told me the other morning they weren’t going to give you a corporate card. Remember? You were irritated because you were going to have to fill out all this paperwork to get reimbursed.”

“I told Strazzi I didn’t have time for that bullshit, so he finally gave me one.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “Sure he did.”

“Honey, I—”

Someone rang the doorbell.

Strange, Mason thought. The doorman should have buzzed to let them know someone was coming up. “Yes?” he called.

“Pizza delivery.”

Mason looked down at Melissa. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.”

“What’s the name on the delivery?”

“What?” came the muffled reply.

“The name,” Mason repeated.

“I don’t hear you.”

Mason cursed under his breath and moved quickly to the door, yanking it open in frustration. “What’s the damn name on the—” He stopped short, swallowing his words as he gazed at the revolver, then at the two Hispanic men in the hallway.

“Back up,” hissed the one pointing the gun at him.

Mason obeyed, putting his hands in the air without being told.

“Troy, what’s going—” Melissa saw the men, shrieked, turned, and raced toward the baby’s room.

The second man darted past Mason and caught her before she got far. Dragging her to the floor, pulling rope from his jacket, and binding her wrists tightly behind her back.

Instinctively, Mason made a move toward her.

“Take another step and I keel you, fucker,” the man with the gun warned. He quickly closed the hallway door. “Then I keel her. And I keel her real slow. Lots of pain.”

Mason froze, heart pumping madly. There was nothing he could do.

The man on top of Melissa stuffed a rag in her mouth, then pulled her roughly to her feet and pushed her onto the couch and down on her stomach. Then he bound her ankles, and, with another length of rope, pulled her ankles and wrists tightly together. “She’s going nowhere now,” the man said fiercely.

“Now him,” the one holding the gun ordered.

The second man moved behind Mason and bound his wrists tightly behind his back.

“What do you want?” Mason asked, glancing at Melissa’s terrified eyes. Flickering all around above the gag. “Money? Jewelry?”

“Shut up. Sit down there,” the man holding the gun ordered, pointing at a chair beside the couch.

Mason obeyed. “Tell me what you want,” he pleaded.

“Information.”

It was déjà vu.
“What?”

“Information about companies at Everest Capital.”

A chill raced up Mason’s spine. “What companies?”

The man holding the gun pressed the barrel against Mason’s cheek. “You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“
Sí?
You don’t know anything?”

“No.”

“Okay. Sure you don’t.”

The man moved to where Melissa lay on the couch, not taking his eyes from Mason’s. He smiled, pointing the barrel at her head. “What about her? You think she knows about these companies?”

“She knows nothing!” Mason shouted, standing up.

The second man moved quickly to Mason and slammed him in the stomach. He sank to his knees, wrists straining at the rope, gasping for breath.

Jose bent down very close to Melissa’s ear and pulled the gag from her mouth. “Where does he keep his files?”

“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “I swear I don’t.”

“Why did you send me that e-mail from Los Angeles?” Gillette demanded.

Faith looked at him strangely, putting a hand on her chest. “What e-mail? What are you talking about?”

They were standing in the middle of an upstairs room at the Waldorf that Stiles had hastily arranged. “The one from the coffee shop. What did you mean I needed to be careful? And who are ‘they’?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know you sent that e-mail, Faith. We have a record of you doing it.”

“You couldn’t possibly have a record of it,” she retorted. “They don’t—”

“Don’t what?” Gillette asked when she stopped short.

She said nothing.

“Faith, you have to tell me—”

“Why did you lie to me?” she demanded.

“Lie?”

“About your mother’s death.”

It was Gillette’s turn to go silent.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

“I figured you would sooner or later,” he admitted. “I’m sure it wasn’t hard.”

“Why did you tell me she died that day?”

“She did for me. Maybe not physically, but in every other way. I’d had enough.”

“You pulled her out of the pool, didn’t you? You found her and you saved her life?”

Gillette stared back at Faith. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t tell me about your brother and sister, either. Why did you tell me you were an only child?”

“How did you—”

“I saw them mentioned in an article about your father’s plane crash. Your mother was mentioned, too.”

Faith glared at him for several moments, then her expression softened. Finally she smiled sadly, moved close to him, and slid her arms around his neck. “Thank you for helping me,” she said softly, hugging him. “The label called this morning to tell me they were doubling my ad budget.”

Gillette had called the music company’s CEO yesterday and ordered the increase. “I told you I would.”

“A lot of people tell me they’ll help me but they don’t.” She gazed up at him. “Remember what you said to me at dinner? About trusting no one?”

He nodded.

“I trust you,” she whispered, pulling his mouth to hers.

For a moment Gillette hesitated, then he pressed his lips against hers and kissed her deeply.

Jimmy Holt stumbled through the parking lot toward his car, drunk. It had been all he could do not to tell the other energy analysts from the office about the huge new oil and gas field in Canada, all he could do, as he stood at the bar and listened to them talk sports and women, not to cut in and describe the data he’d lifted from the tapes. Increasingly difficult with each beer.

So he’d left. Afraid that a seventh beer would make him spill his guts. Despite his boss’s warning.

Holt fumbled through his pockets for his keys, his head spinning. Finally locating them. Pointing the car key at the door and pressing the button. Vaguely aware of the car’s parking lights flashing and of reaching for the door. Knowing that he shouldn’t be getting behind the wheel. But he wasn’t going to leave his car here and have to come get it in the morning.

Suddenly he felt himself pitching forward. Forced to trot, then run, to keep from falling face-first. So drunk he was unaware it wasn’t the alcohol causing him to stagger ahead. Unaware that he’d been violently pushed.

Holt’s forehead slammed into the curb as he finally tumbled forward, the cement opening a gaping wound above his left eye. As blood poured onto the cement, Holt vaguely felt the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple. Then there was a flash and everything went dark.

Mason closed his eyes tightly, his heart in his throat. He was dangling over the railing of the balcony by his wrists, forty-two stories up. He tried to yell for help, but the heavy gag muffled his cries.

Then he felt himself dropping. He fell maybe only five feet and it lasted less than half a second, but now he was screaming like a baby as they hauled him back over the railing.

“Where are your files?” the Hispanic man hissed into Mason’s ear, pulling the gag down around his neck. “Don’t tell us and we’ll drop your wife over.”

“Wall safe in the bedroom,” Mason gasped. “Let me go in there. I’ll open it.”

Kathy Hays sat on the porch of the cabin, listening to the sounds of the night. She pulled her sweater tightly around herself and shivered. It wasn’t cold here in Mississippi, but it was eerie. She peered into the darkness, certain she’d seen something move among the Spanish moss draping the trees. She held her breath and looked harder. Nothing. Just a small tree moving in the breeze.

She let out a long breath. The time was going slowly.

“I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” Gillette said quietly to Isabelle as he held her.

“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “It’s incredible to me that you’d choose to be with me. I mean, Faith Cassidy is a superstar.”

“Well, I—”

His cell phone rang and he pulled it hastily from his jacket pocket. “Yes,” he answered, turning away from her and pressing the tiny phone tightly to his ear so she wouldn’t hear.

“Christian, it’s Jose.”

“Yes?”

“You were right. He was keeping files on companies at Everest. We got them. All the ones in his safe at his apartment.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Gillette closed the phone, and gazed at Isabelle. It was crazy to think she could be working with anyone who would want to kill him. Wasn’t it?

Stiles smiled as he snapped pictures of Stockman coming out of the apartment building with Rita Jones on his arm at dawn. Gillette would be happy. Which made Stiles happy. He liked Gillette. Hadn’t thought he would at first, but Gillette had proven to be a man of courage and compassion. A man he respected.

Stiles chuckled as he snapped a picture of Stockman and Rita Jones kissing on the street corner. People were so stupid sometimes. So incredibly stupid.

19

Choices.
Sometimes there are no good ones. Sometimes, because of our own actions, we create situations where any choice is awful. Then it comes down to making the one that’s simply the least bad.

MASON SAT IN HIS SPACIOUS office at Apex, dreading the interoffice call from Vicky that would let him know Strazzi was ready to talk. He glanced nervously at his watch: 6:58. They were supposed to meet at seven, but Strazzi was usually five to ten minutes early. Maybe, by some incredible stroke of luck, Strazzi had been delayed—or wasn’t coming in. Maybe he’d been—

Mason’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. Vicky. He picked up the receiver slowly. “Yes?”

“Paul’s ready to meet. He wants you in his office right away.”

Mason swallowed hard. These were the bad times.

Three minutes later he was in Strazzi’s office.

“Sit down.”

“Yes, Mr. Strazzi.”

“It’s Paul today.”

Mason sat down in the chair in front of Strazzi’s desk. “Okay . . . Paul.” Strazzi was one weird fuck. Maybe getting out of Apex was the best thing, which was surely how this was going to end up anyway.
Thrown out
was more accurate. Or worse.

“Do you have what I want?” Strazzi asked, his gaze intense.

Mason swallowed hard, felt his breath shorten. Strazzi versus the two men from last night. Neither option was much of a bargain.

But he’d lived through what the two men from last night would do—hung from his balcony forty-two stories above the street. Just before they’d left last night with his files, they’d told him if he gave Strazzi any information—even verbally—they’d kill him. Told him they’d know right away if he did because they had an inside contact, and somehow he believed them. He’d looked long and hard into the eyes of the one with the gun—dead, black, shark eyes—and seen a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill.

On the other hand, Strazzi was an unknown. His threats might be empty. There was that chance. And Strazzi’s people couldn’t be any worse than the two men who’d terrorized him and Melissa last night.

“Troy!”

“I don’t have the files,” Mason muttered, eyes down.

Strazzi banged the desk.
“What!”

“I don’t have the files,” Mason repeated. The half million had hit his account late yesterday afternoon, as promised. “I’ll give the money back right—”

“I don’t give a damn about the money.” Strazzi was seething. “Where are the files?”

“I don’t have them anymore.”

Veins in Strazzi’s forehead bulged. “Did Gillette get to you?”

As Mason was removing the files from the wall safe in the bedroom last night, listening to Melissa’s muffled sobs as she lay on the couch bound and gagged, he’d realized that only one person in the world could have been responsible for what was happening, only one person had the motive, the knowledge, and the courage. Christian Gillette.

There was no way to prove Gillette’s involvement. The only way to prove it would be to locate one of the men and get him to talk, which wasn’t going to happen. There were fifteen million people in the New York metropolitan area. It would be a complete waste of time to attempt to find the men. Besides, even if he could find them, they’d probably never admit to being involved with Gillette.

“No,” Mason answered, glancing around the office, wondering if Gillette had bugged Strazzi’s office. “He didn’t.” Wondering if that’s what the two men meant when they’d warned him not to say anything to Strazzi about what had happened. It wouldn’t surprise him if there was a bug in here. Gillette would stop at nothing. He was that driven, Mason knew. “It wasn’t Gillette.”

“Then what happened?”
Strazzi roared.

“I destroyed the files.”

“You
what
?”

“Last night I reread the confidentiality agreement I signed as part of the separation agreement from Everest. It’s a bear, Paul. Very tight. But what the hell was I supposed to do? I need that million bucks.” He glanced up at Strazzi. “I spoke to my lawyer. He warned me I might do jail time if I gave you those files.”

“That’s ridiculous. This is civil, not criminal. You would—” Strazzi interrupted himself as he stood up, towering over Mason. “Where are the files, Troy?”

“I told you. I don’t have them. I destroyed them.”

Gillette greeted the three Coyote Oil executives, taking their business cards without looking at them or giving them his. Cohen and Kyle Lefors had already been in here with them for fifteen minutes.

“This is Don Hansen,” Cohen said as Gillette shook hands with the third man. “Don’s the CEO of Coyote.”

“Hi.” Gillette gave Hansen a quick nod, then sat down at the head of the table. He motioned for the others to sit, too, glancing first at Cohen, then at Lefors, who had already taken extensive notes, which were now spread out on the table in front of him. “So, you have an interest in Laurel Energy?” he asked before Hansen was seated.

Hansen pulled his chair up and folded his hands together on the table. “I heard you were a damn direct son-of-a-bitch,” he said in a heavy Texas accent.

Hansen looked uncomfortable to Gillette, as if his suit was a size too small. As if he couldn’t wait to get back to Coyote headquarters in Wyoming to put on his plaid flannel shirt, boots, Stetson, and jeans with a big silver belt buckle. “How’d you hear I was so direct, Don?”

“Your damn partners,” Hansen answered, pointing at Cohen and Lefors with a wry grin. “They’ve been singing your praises. Said I better hold on to my damn wallet while I’m in here. Apparently, if I’m not careful, you’ll get it from me and I won’t even know you took it. They say you’re one of the best damn negotiators around.”

Hansen tossed ‘damn’ around as much as Faraday dropped the f-bomb, Gillette noticed. Everybody had to have their handle. “They did, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Well, Don, time is money. As a CEO, I’m sure you appreciate that.”

“Of course.”

“So, what’s your interest?” Gillette asked again.

Hansen sat up straight in his chair and forced a serious expression onto his face. “We’re prepared to offer you what U.S. Petroleum did. A billion in cash for your stock, and we take over the Citibank debt.”

“How exactly do you know what U.S. Petroleum offered?” Gillette asked, his eyes flashing to Cohen, who glanced guiltily away.

Hansen didn’t answer for a moment. “Well, I, uh, uh . . .” he stammered.

“I told him, Christian,” Cohen admitted. “I thought it would be more efficient that way. Everybody puts their cards on the table and we see what’s what. No screwing around.”

Gillette gritted his teeth. The first rule of negotiation was
never
to open the bidding as a seller. Cohen was terrible at this. “Why are you willing to pay us what U.S. Petroleum offered? Is it because of the option properties?”

Hansen shook his head. “No. Mr. Cohen told us the seismic tests you did showed there wasn’t much to those properties. Some reserves, but no mother lode.”

“Why a billion then?” No sense beating around the bush when both sides had perfect information. Thanks to Cohen singing like a canary, everybody knew everything. “The level of reserves at Laurel may not justify that kind of price.”

Hansen smiled widely at Cohen and Lefors. “Damn. For a savvy negotiator that’s one hell of a strategy your partner has. Negotiating against himself when I—”

“All the same,” Gillette cut in. “Why?”

“Okay, okay,” Hansen said, his head bobbing. Appreciating where Gillette was coming from. “Let me explain something. We’re backed by a group who’s trying to buy up reserves very quickly, specifically those in Canada.”

“I know I’m repeating myself, Don, but
why
?”

Hansen’s eyes flashed around the room and his head settled down into his shoulders, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk. “The confidentiality agreement we signed goes both ways, right?”

Before agreeing to meet with the Coyote executives, Gillette had instructed Lefors to make them sign a nondisclosure agreement that made Coyote liable for monetary damages if they disclosed any confidential information about Laurel Energy to the outside world.

“Yes,” Gillette agreed. “Under the terms of the agreement Kyle had you sign, we have to stay quiet about anything you tell us concerning Coyote Oil.”

“All right,” Hansen said, his voice dropping. “Based on good inside information, we think there are still some huge undiscovered fields up in Canada. So, we need a base of operations there. We need critical mass.”

The explanation seemed thin to Gillette. “Our information is that the experts think Canada is played.”

Hansen began rocking slowly back and forth in his chair. “Mr. Gillette, I’ve been in this business forty years. Started out at seventeen on a rig in the Gulf of Mexico as a grease monkey. Now I’m a CEO. Been just about everything in this industry you can be and been almost every place in the world where there’s reserves. You know what I’ve learned?”

Gillette knew what was coming. Guys like Hansen in every industry said it: When everybody else is getting out, you should be getting in. The contrarian play. Gillette could have given the speech word for word himself, he’d heard it so many times. But, in the unlikely event Hanson was serious about doing a deal, he wasn’t going to steal the man’s thunder in front of two subordinates and piss him off. “What’s that, Don?”

“When everybody goes left, you go right, and when everybody goes right, you go left. If you do the opposite of what others are doing, as long as you have good information and conviction,
then
you make
big
money.” He stopped rocking. “Unfortunately, your option properties are pretty dry. But, like I said, we think there are still some huge undiscovered fields in Canada. In the same general area as your properties. My experience is you don’t find those gems unless you got feet on the ground so you can hear things you wouldn’t from a thousand miles away. Laurel’s an excellent company. We think a lot of the senior executives and believe they can help us make progress quickly. A couple of our guys know a couple of your guys from way back, so we’re willing to pay a little more to get access and experience.”

A decent speech, Gillette thought to himself. Probably practiced a dozen times on the flight from Casper to New York to make it sound natural, but there was still something forced about it. “Who’s your backer, Don?”

“A European group.”

“You’ve got to be more specific. If we’re going to start negotiating, I have to understand that you have money, that you can come up with a billion dollars and convince Citibank to stay with Laurel after you take control. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course, of course,” Hansen replied quickly. “How about if I get a name to Mr. Cohen and you two call them together. Or go visit with them if you feel like it. They’re based in Switzerland.”

Criminal liability.
That was bullshit and Mason knew it. “Damn it!” Strazzi cursed loudly. Stockman was right. Without Mason’s files, Donovan’s widow might not agree to sell her stake in Everest. He’d told her he had proof. Not being able to produce the files might blow the whole thing.

Strazzi picked up the TV remote and turned the set on. He was scheduled to meet with her later, after the announcement had been made. He checked his watch: 12:55. He’d only have to wait another five minutes.