Part 17 (1/2)
”I'll pay you five grand a day plus two for each additional man. But you have to start right right now.” now.”
Stiles eyed Gillette for a few moments, then glanced around the office. As if he was trying to figure out whether or not all this was real.
”Okay,” Stiles agreed, moving back to where Gillette stood and handing him a business card. ”I'll be with your executive a.s.sistant for the next half hour, going over your schedule and your routine. Before the end of the day, I'll need fifteen minutes to sweep your office for listening devices. Call if you need me,” he said. Then he was gone.
Gillette went to his desk. ”Debbie, have Ben come in,” he instructed through the intercom. ”And give Mr. Stiles any information he needs.”
”Anything?”
”Anything,” Gillette confirmed, checking stock prices on Bloomberg. Dominion S&L was off 3 percent in early trading, but the overall market was up. There might be a fly in the ointment, a silver-haired one with designs on the Oval Office.
A few minutes later, Cohen entered Gillette's office and sat down. ”Who's out there with Debbie?” he asked.
”A guy named Quentin Stiles. He'll be my personal bodyguard from now on. We'll pay him five thousand a day plus expenses.”
”Five thousand?”
”And two thousand a day for any additional people he uses. He'll have a contract to you this afternoon.”
”But Tom McGuire has people with you,” Cohen protested.
”I need my own person,” Gillette said firmly. ”Not Tom's, not yours, not anyone else's. Just mine.”
”That seems like a pretty big non sequitur non sequitur to me.” to me.”
Gillette drew himself up in his chair, tempted to forbid the use of Latin at Everest, but he controlled himself. ”No more questions about this.” He wasn't going to tell Cohen about last night's shooting. There was no need for him to justify anything to Cohen. Or anyone else for that matter. ”Got it?”
Cohen squinted. ”Got it.”
”Good.” Gillette checked Bloomberg again. Dominion's share price had fallen another twenty cents in the last few minutes. ”Have you gotten the money to those kids yet?”
”It's all taken care of.”
”Thank you.”
”Sure.”
”How about those questions I had about Faith?” Gillette asked. Yesterday afternoon he'd tasked Cohen with following up on what Tom McGuire had relayed about Faith Ca.s.sidy. ”Anything?”
”Yeah.” Cohen flipped back several pages in his pad. ”Sales of her latest alb.u.m are off 30 percent from her first one-when you compare where the first one was after the same number of release weeks.”
”When was that last alb.u.m released?”
”A few weeks ago.”
”And her contract negotiations have been on hold for a while?”
”Yes,” Cohen confirmed. ”According to the chief counsel at her record label, anyway.”
”Did he give you specifics on the marketing dollars the label committed to that alb.u.m versus the first one?” asked Gillette.
Cohen nodded deliberately. ”Fifty percent less.”
”Fifty percent? Did he tell you why?” Did he tell you why?”
”He's still checking.”
”That p.r.i.c.k,” Gillette muttered under his breath.
”What was that?” Cohen asked quickly.
”Nothing.” The situation was exactly as McGuire had described it. Donovan was getting back at Faith for not letting him have what he wanted in the limousine. This was all about revenge.
”When are you seeing her again?” Cohen wanted to know.
”She's on the West Coast doing some PR. She's supposed to be back tonight or tomorrow.”
”Be careful,” Cohen warned.
”Don't worry, Ben.” Gillette checked another stock quote. ”You were going to give me the latest on Laurel Energy, right? Did they finish shooting seismic up there yet?”
”Yeah, but it's strange,” Cohen said, shaking his head.
Gillette glanced up from the computer. ”What is?”
”Last night they found the team leader's SUV abandoned fifty miles north of this no-phone, one-horse town called Amachuck. The tapes from the shoot were in the front seat, but he was gone. There was no sign of him.”
”Did we get the tapes to the lab?”
”They're a.n.a.lyzing them as we speak.”
”Any idea what happened to the guy?”
Cohen shrugged. ”The truck died. There were heavy snows up there yesterday. Our people think he must have tried to make it out on foot. But he'd been up there quite a few times. He would have known that he was still fifty miles from town. He should have just stayed in the truck. That was his best shot.”
Gillette peered at Cohen for a few moments, thinking. ”You said the truck's battery died?”
Cohen checked his notes. ”That's what I was told. The key was in the truck when the guys found it. They tried to start it but it wouldn't go.”
”How does a battery die out in the middle of nowhere? I mean, once the engine starts, the battery doesn't matter anymore, right?”
”I guess. I don't know much about cars.”
”Why would you turn the engine off and let the battery die?”
Cohen shrugged. ”Beats the h.e.l.l out of me.”