The Power Broker (33 page)

Hewitt motioned to the man holding Allison. “Take her upstairs, then back to the main floor. Wait for us there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wanted me to look in your study at the ranch,” Christian uttered, realizing suddenly that he’d been played the whole time.

“Figured you might. I left that file for you to find. I wanted you to know what I had. That I could take you down whenever I wanted to with the CST fraud or with the bribe you paid to get the casino license.”

“Why did Bob Galloway blame me in his suicide note? What did you do for him?”

Hewitt pointed at Fleming. “We kept CST going by putting money into it from Black Brothers. Not directly, of course. Through a series of dummy corporations to keep the origin of the money secret. That gave Mr. Galloway time to pump up the numbers and get that nice valuation in the initial public offering. The one you took twenty million bucks out of, Mr. Gillette.”

“Why would Galloway do all that, then commit suicide?”

“Mr. Galloway had Alzheimer’s. He wanted his wife and children to be set for life before he couldn’t take care of them anymore. His deal with me was that he had to commit suicide once he had everything permanently in his wife’s name. Then blame you in his suicide note for the fraud that would be discovered. That way he wouldn’t be around to recant. In return, his wife’s now worth thirty million dollars and there’s no way the government can take it from her. I understand she’s going to open an adoption agency with part of that money, a lifelong dream of hers. I’m sure you can relate to that. Maybe she and the Clayton House can work together someday.” Hewitt smiled, pleased with himself. “I convinced Mr. Galloway that he didn’t want to put his family through Alzheimer’s, especially without enough money to take care of him. He saw the light very quickly.”

“Did you kill Carmine Torino?”

“A friend of the Wallace Family did,” Hewitt answered. “But don’t worry about that. Mr. Torino was scum. He tried to hide in that canyon outside Vegas when he heard about what we did to Mr. Agee, the chairman of the Gaming Commission, but it didn’t work. We found him, the same way we found Mr. Stiles this morning.” Hewitt chuckled. “But don’t worry, Mr. Stiles is resting comfortably. I’m surprised you even hired Mr. Torino,” Hewitt continued. “Actually, I was surprised you got into the casino business in the first place, but I guess we all make mistakes. I really don’t like that business. I’ll want you to sell the casino as soon as possible.”

“What have you done to Quentin?”

“We didn’t want Mr. Stiles interfering in our discussions with you, so we’ve taken him into custody for now. He’s fine, and he’ll stay that way as long as you cooperate.”

Hewitt was talking like the world was his, like he was the law, like he decided who went into custody and who didn’t. “What did you mean when you said you wanted me to sell the casino?”

Hewitt took off his black Stetson and placed it in his lap. “You won’t be running as Jesse Wood’s vice president this fall.”

“You going to give the SEC that suicide note of Bob Galloway’s?” Christian asked. “Show them the pictures you have of me handing the bag of money to the Mob guy? Let the press go wild?”

“If I have to,” Hewitt replied, “but it won’t be because I don’t want you to run with Jesse Wood.”

“What do you mean?”

“Senator Wood won’t be a presidential candidate by this time next week, so
you
won’t
have him
to run with. But I do have some things I want you to do for me, which include selling the casino. If you don’t want to work with me, I’ll do as you suggested. I’ll contact the SEC and the authorities in New Jersey and Nevada, let them know about the proof of your involvement in CST and the bribe you paid to get the license.”

“Why won’t Jesse be running for president by this time next week?”

“I’ll show you in a few minutes.”

“What else do you want me to do?”

Hewitt stroked his chin for a few moments. “I want you to join me, Mr. Gillette. I want you to join us. I want you to be a member of the Order.” He paused. “Just like your father was.”

Christian’s eyes narrowed. The news about his father was no surprise. Kohler had mentioned that in his notes.

“Obviously Mr. Kohler ruined my surprise. You can’t be that good a poker player.”

“I guess not.”

Hewitt stood up and moved down the steps to the altar. “You made a terrible mistake joining Senator Wood’s team. You need to join
this
team, Mr. Gillette,” he said, gesturing around the room. “In the end, you’ll be very glad you did. So will your father. Make him proud, don’t embarrass him. Don’t ruin his good name as he lies cold in his grave.” Hewitt smiled. “Look at us, Mr. Gillette, we’re old. We need new blood. You can end up being one of the most powerful men in the world without ever having to be elected, without ever having to answer to anyone. You’re already powerful but nothing compared to what you could be. Nothing compared to how powerful I can make you.”

Christian stared at Hewitt for several moments. “Show me what you have on Jesse Wood.”

“Gladly.”

The four men climbed back up the narrow stairway to the third floor, then headed for the main staircase.

As they neared the first floor, Christian could hear Allison yelling. He spotted her as they all moved into the great room, sitting in a chair, now guarded by two men.

“You piece of slime!” she shouted at Meade. “The family’s going to find out all about you.”

“The ones that matter already know, sweetie pie,” he shot back.

“Then the authorities will—”

“Shut her up,” Hewitt ordered.

Instantly, one of the men guarding her grabbed her hair and pulled her head back, choking off her cries.

“Now,” Hewitt said calmly, picking up the television remote. “Watch.”

The clip of Wood, Stephanie, Osgood, and Roundtree began to play. Christian watched it all the way through, more shocked as each moment passed, amazed and disappointed that Jesse could ever be so stupid.

“I’ll be sending that to Jesse sometime next week with instructions for him to drop out of the race immediately,” Hewitt explained when the screen went dark. “I’m pretty sure he’ll do so for unspecified personal reasons the very next day. I doubt he’ll fight this.”

Jesse would definitely drop out of the race the next day. There was no way he’d fight it, no way he
could
fight it. It would be political suicide to even try, to prolong it in the media. It would be much better for him just to pack his bags and go home.

“I haven’t decided whether I’ll release the clip anyway,” Hewitt added. “Even after Jesse drops out. I might want him out of the Senate, too.”

Christian rubbed his eyes for a moment. “So if I join the Order, then you don’t send Galloway’s suicide note to the SEC, and you don’t send those pictures of me handing the bag to the mobster to New Jersey, Nevada, or the feds? Is that the deal?”

“Better than that. I’ll fix it so the SEC stands down, so Vivian Davis gets off her high horse and goes away completely. I’ll fix it so you never even have to worry about the accounting scandal coming out. And don’t forget the carrots, Christian,” Hewitt added quickly. “Me buying Laurel Energy from you and Everest Capital for five billion dollars, you continuing to get good players for the Dice. You’ll be in the Super Bowl before you know it.” He gestured at Fleming and Meade. “We’ll all watch a few games from your skybox.”

So that was why the trade with Buffalo had suddenly changed so drastically in the Dice’s favor. “The Bills’ quarterback. Did you—”

Hewitt shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

Incredible. Christian looked over at Meade. He was staring back with a satisfied smile.

“Don’t fight us, Christian,” Meade said quietly. “You won’t win.”

As he started to say something, five men burst into the room, guns drawn. Three of them raced to the two men holding Allison, reached inside their jackets, and pulled out pistols. The other two moved smartly to where Christian, Hewitt, Fleming, and Meade sat, then forced each man to stand and searched each of them for weapons.

“All clear!” one of them yelled.

“What the hell’s going on here?”
Hewitt roared.

Elijah Forte strode into the room, Heath Johnson behind him. Christian recognized Forte instantly from pictures he’d seen in business magazines.

“Hello, Samuel,” Forte said calmly, moving to where Hewitt stood. “You can sit down now.”

“How in God’s name did you—”

“All in good time,” Forte interrupted, “all in good time.” He moved to where Christian stood. “Hello, Christian, it’s nice to finally meet you. I assume you know who I am.”

Christian nodded.

Forte smiled, then walked to the television, popped the CD out of the DVD player, and put it down on top of the set.

“That’s not the only one of those I have, Mr. Forte,” Hewitt snapped.

“I’m sure it’s not, but I know you’ll tell me where the rest of them are by the time we’re through here tonight.” Forte waved at the men with the guns. “These guys are very good at what they do. Just ask your spy, Samuel. Ask Clarence Osgood.”

Christian glanced up at the mention of Osgood’s name.

Forte snapped his fingers. “Oh, that’s right, you can’t ask Clarence anything. We pulled his brain out through his nose last night while we were getting the last few pieces of information from him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone in so much pain.”

Christian glanced over at Fleming, who looked as if
he
was about to pass out.

“How did you find this place?” Meade asked angrily.

“I’m the man behind the man,” Forte answered. “Jesse being president is my dream come true. I’ve been working on getting him into the White House for years, and I’m very close to his staff, including Stephanie Childress and Clarence. So I was able to figure out that Clarence was working with Samuel. After that, it was pretty easy. I had Samuel followed. One of the places he kept coming to was here. We’ve been all over this place for a while.” He chuckled. “I think we surprised poor little Patty Roth a couple of times. Of course, no one’s going to surprise her anymore. Are they, Samuel?”

“What do you want?” Hewitt demanded. “Other than my copies of the clip.”

Forte pointed at Fleming and Meade. “I thought it might be interesting for these two men to hear about what you did to their friend Jim Benson.”

Christian watched Hewitt’s face for some sign of pressure. In his notes, Kohler had accused Hewitt of murdering five members of the Order, the last, Blanton McDonnell, CEO of Jamison & Jamison. But Hewitt’s face remained impassive.

“Jim Benson committed suicide,” Hewitt said calmly.

“Did he now?” Forte asked sarcastically. He snapped his fingers loudly, and a moment later Todd Harrison and Don Roth entered the room. Forte pointed at Harrison. “Mr. Harrison is an investigative reporter. He works for me now. Tell them, Todd.”

Harrison held up Benson’s pearl-handled revolver. “This was the gun Benson was supposed to have killed himself with, but it was never fired. Still has six bullets in it.” Harrison pointed at Hewitt. “You had him killed, Mr. Hewitt. You had him killed because he came to me and told me there was something bad going on here at Champagne Island. You suspected that he’d turned on you, so you had him followed. Your men probably saw him come up to me in the bar that night.”

“You killed them all,” Christian said, “didn’t you, Samuel? Benson, Massey, Dahl, McDonnell, Kohler, and Laird.”

Hewitt laughed bitterly. “Me? No, no. Kohler killed them.”

“Kohler didn’t kill himself. I know that.”

Harrison pointed at Hewitt. “I know you killed Jim Benson. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt.” He turned and looked at Roth. “Right, Don?”

Roth nodded as he stared at the floor.

“You piece of shit!” Hewitt yelled. “The Miami cops will—”

“Shut up, Samuel!” Fleming shouted, standing up. “Did you have Laird killed?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “Did you?” Fleming’s voice rose even higher. “He’s
blood,
Samuel. Our blood.”

“I didn’t, I—”

“Goddamn it!”

Fleming lunged at Hewitt, but one of Forte’s men grabbed Fleming and wrestled them apart.

“All right,” Forte said loudly, “that’s enough.” He pointed at two of his men. “Take Mr. Hewitt upstairs,” he ordered. “Find out where all his copies of the Jesse clip are. Do whatever you have to do, I don’t care.”

“There’s another way,” Christian spoke up.

Forte peered keenly at Christian. “What do you mean?”

“Give me five minutes.”

Forte shook his head. “No, I—”

“If you’re the man behind the man, then you must want me to be Jesse’s vice president,” Christian said. “Right?”

Forte nodded. “Yes.”

“If you trust me that much with your dream, then give me five minutes.”

“Why do you want to save Samuel Hewitt?”

“I don’t, believe me.”

“What is it, then?”

“Just give me the time.”

Forte chewed on it for a second. “All right. But make it fast.”

Christian raced to the main stairway and to the second floor, checking in bedroom closets, finally finding two canvas bags. Then he headed up again, taking two steps at a time, sprinting down the hallway to the far door on the left when he reached the third floor, racing down the three flights of narrow steps back to the Order room. He moved to the closet and rifled through the tapes and DVDs, gathering up all the ones marked “Hewitt,” “Fleming,” “Meade,” and “Kohler,” and stuffed them into the two bags. Then he retraced his steps, back down to the great room.

“Time’s up, Christian,” Forte announced loudly as Christian jogged back into the room. “What do you have?”

“Clips
you
want,” Christian answered, breathing hard. He bent over and grabbed his knees, catching his breath. Catching Allison’s eye, too. Then he tossed one of the canvas bags at Forte, the heavier one. “Check it out.” He nodded at the television, then at Hewitt, Fleming, and Meade. “You can destroy these men with what’s in that bag.” In the bag Christian was still holding were one each of Hewitt’s, Fleming’s, and Meade’s clips, and all of Kohler’s. The one he’d tossed at Forte contained the rest. “Go on, Elijah, take a look.”