Part 42 (1/2)
”Paul Strazzi was murdered in Central Park.”
”What?”
”That was the widow. The deal's off to sell her stake.”
Cohen relaxed into his chair and let out a long breath. ”Congratulations, pal.”
”Thanks.”
A sly grin came to Cohen's face as he lounged in the chair. ”So, how did you do it?”
”Do what?”
”Kill Strazzi.”
Gillette leaned forward and began searching the Web for stories on Strazzi's death. ”Go get Stiles,” he ordered, ignoring Cohen. ”Tell him I want to see him right away.”
”I feel so much for you,” Isabelle whispered, pulling back from the kiss for a moment. ”It's all happened so fast.”
”I know,” Gillette agreed.
”It scares me,” she said.
”It shouldn't.”
”Why not?”
Gillette hesitated, gazing at her long, black hair cascading down one side of her neck. ”It just shouldn't.” The phone on the end table beside the couch rang. He was tempted to ignore it, but then he saw who it was. ”Yes, Miles.”
”Are you going down to SoHo?” Whitman asked. ”You need to tell me now if you are. I'm going to bed.”
Gillette smiled over at Isabelle. ”No, I'm staying right here. But thanks.”
”Okay. Hey, why don't you come out here to Connecticut tomorrow for lunch? I've got some ideas I want to talk to you about. Ideas about the new fund. You've never been out here, have you?”
”No, I haven't.”
”Well, call me in the morning. We'll set it up.”
”Yeah, sure.” Gillette hung up, hesitating a second before turning back to face Isabelle. ”Where were we?”
”Right here,” she murmured, slipping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.
Stiles pressed the two b.u.t.tons on either side of the Glock's barrel, releasing the top half from the bottom so he could clean the gun. He was sitting in Gillette's study on the first floor of the apartment, cleaning apparatus spread out in front of him on old newspapers covering the desktop.
Gillette was upstairs with Isabelle. Alone with her. And that made him extremely uncomfortable. Gillette hadn't convinced him yet that she could be trusted.
24.
”QUENTIN, I WANT YOUR a.s.sESSMENT of the last twenty-four hours.”
Stiles stretched and groaned. He'd fallen asleep in Gillette's study chair a few hours ago, cleaning his gun, and his neck was sore from sleeping in an awkward position. ”I'm not sure there's much to a.s.sess.”
”Strazzi's dead,” Gillette reminded Stiles, checking his watch. It was almost nine o'clock.
”Big deal,” Stiles muttered, getting up from the chair and sprawling onto the study's long leather couch. ”You make it sound like he was the Wicked Witch, we're the Munchkins, and, now that he's dead, we can all come out and play.”
Gillette took a bite of an apple he'd gotten in the kitchen on his way downstairs from the bedroom. ”I think Strazzi was the one trying to kill me. I didn't for a while, but now I think he was. I think he was responsible for Donovan's murder, too. Donovan had to be out of the way before he could put the Dominion thing in motion, then go to Ann about her Everest stake.”
”Wouldn't just the Dominion scandal have accomplished the same thing?” Stiles asked sleepily. ”Wouldn't Donovan have come under the hot lights the same way you are now?”
”But that wasn't real and, if he were alive, Donovan would have been able to prove it right away,” Gillette argued. ”Even if the feds had somehow been able to force him to sell the stake because, by some huge coincidence, there actually was something bad going on that Strazzi didn't know about, Donovan would have sold it to someone else. Never to Strazzi.”
Stiles thought about it for a few moments, then nodded. ”Yeah, I guess you're right.”
Gillette took another bite of the apple. ”Did you get anything from your friends at the NYPD on Strazzi's murder?”
”Yeah, he was definitely hit. Whoever pulled the trigger knew what they were doing, too.”
”But who would want Strazzi dead?” Gillette asked, more of himself than Stiles.
”That's the million-dollar question.”
”I can think of a lot of people who'd want want him dead,” Gillette said, ”but n.o.body who'd actually pull the trigger.” him dead,” Gillette said, ”but n.o.body who'd actually pull the trigger.”
”Or arrange arrange for the trigger to be pulled?” for the trigger to be pulled?”
”Not if it really came down to it.”
They were silent for a few minutes.
”Isabelle still upstairs?” Stiles asked.
”Yeah.” Gillette looked up. ”By the way, did your guy get to Canada yet?”
”I'm expecting his call soon.” Stiles said, checking his watch. ”So, how was your night?”
Gillette smiled. ”Excellent. A lot of fun, and no sharp blades in the back. Imagine that.”
Stiles put his hands underneath his head and shut his eyes as Gillette walked out. ”Yeah, imagine that.”
Pepper Billups had been working with Stiles and QS Security for three years.
Like Stiles, Billups had been Secret Service but was now enjoying the private sector. The money was better-if you were willing to work the hours-and there was more satisfaction. Even on days like this, when he'd just finished flying eight hours straight. First from New York to Calgary on a Gulfstream V, then from Calgary to Amachuck on a little King Air through some rough turbulence.
The trick to days like this was being able to sleep on any kind of equipment in any kind of weather. Before joining the Secret Service, Billups had been an Air Force pilot flying the big cargo planes-C-5s and C-130s. He'd been through his share of bad storms, especially during long flights like the ones from Delaware to Guam. During those flights, the crew would take turns at the controls, catching a few hours sleep strapped to a cot in the back with the cargo. If your turn to sleep came while you were flying through the ma.s.sive thunderclouds that built up over the Pacific in the summer months, so be it. It was sleep or exhaustion, so he'd figured out how to sleep. Compared to some of those flights, a King Air and turbulence over Canada was a day in the park.