Death logs out, p.7
Death Logs Out, page 7
The man who had been behind him slammed the door shut then jumped in the back seat. John turned around; he didn’t recognize the well-dressed stranger.
He turned back around to face Father McCarthy. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”
Father McCarthy looked straight ahead at the road. John saw the priest’s polished black shoe step hard on the gas pedal, he felt the pull of the acceleration, his head slamming against the headrest. The window rolled up and he heard the door locks click.
Continuing to stare straight ahead, the priest spoke, calmly. “You saw things, didn’t you?”
“No, things? . . . What things? I didn’t see anything.” But John knew he had.
“Did you tell your parents what you saw? Because, if you did, it’s all right. I’d expect you to.”
“No, no, I didn’t. My mom would . . . I just couldn’t.” He wished now that he had.
The car made two quick turns.
“Where are we going? The schoolyard’s the other way.”
Father McCarthy turned, finally making eye contact, “Don’t worry. I’m taking you somewhere you’ll be safe. People may be trying to harm you. I’m going to protect you. That’s why I have my friend in the back seat. He’s a body guard . . . for you.”
“I need to get out. My parents can protect me. Please—stop the car. Let me out.” He tried to open the door but the handle moved uselessly.
He looked over at McCarthy, who ignored him, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white.”
Just as he turned around to beg the guy in the back seat he saw the man’s arms reach over at him. There was something in his hands, it came at him swiftly, a streaking black blur, until it wrapped tightly around his neck, the thick belt pinning his head to the back of his seat and blocking off his air. He kicked his legs in the air, seeking leverage but the belt was too tight and the man’s arms too strong. He felt it tighten even more, compressing his windpipe, closing off any chance of air. He knew he had only seconds to do . . . something. He dropped the rubber ball. He looked straight ahead out the front windshield. Cars were nearby, the world was going about its business, unaware that he was being garroted in the front seat. Father McCarthy drove though a yellow light.
Choking, out of air, with his head forced upward by the force of the belt, John Nicholas looked up, out the top of the windshield, the only vantage point he had left, and saw the light turn red. He knew it was too late.
Yet as his world was slipping away, he heard, as clearly as he had ever heard anything in his life, Father McCarthy’s whispered words, “May God forgive me.”
Chapter 27
Raleigh, North Carolina
“The Vatican didn’t know who knew what, exactly—only that they were vulnerable. They had it on the cassette interview with this dirty priest, McCarthy, just a few months before he died.”
Michael tried to absorb Sindy’s story. “So, they paid the cops off too?”
“Yes, of course, and maybe the coroner’s office in Queens. Who knows?”
“Did they punish McCarthy? The Church, I mean.”
“Yes,” she said. “In their own way.”
“What does that mean?”
“They made him a bishop.”
Michael just shook his head.
“Listen to me. They will wipe you and your family out before this is over. They have to. These . . . men . . . I don’t know how many of them there are or exactly how high up inside the Vatican this goes, but they will be locked in a fight to the death. Either yours—or theirs.”
“But Alex’s murder was –”
“They gladly agreed to help with Alex’s murder because they owed the guy that covered everything up with McCarthy—Joseph Sharkey—a favor. An obviously big favor.”
“Joseph Sharkey was the man in the back seat?”
Sindy looked straight into Michael’s eyes. “Yes. And now, all these years later, I think Sharkey believed that Alex was close to finding out the truth of what happened to his brother that day in the car.”
“So he –”
“So he arranged to murder Alex in the restaurant and then, when the NYPD figured out that he was behind Alex’s murder, he fled to Rome and forced these priests or whatever they are to protect and hide him as his payback. And they did, for a while. But they knew he was a ticking time bomb. He started to make demands, money, women. They couldn’t trust him to stay quiet.”
Sindy Steele, leaned in towards Michael, her long black hair flowing over her athletic shoulders, her breasts gently protruding from her thin black cotton blouse. For a moment, Michael recalled the attraction he’d felt for her, and the brief indiscretion that he had regretted ever since. And he knew that she knew what he was feeling.
She continued, “Sharkey was the very first assignment they gave me. It’s how I proved myself to them. I met him in Florence, in a leather boutique. He thought he was going to have sex with me that day. He was a creep. I slid a stiletto into his side. I almost had an orgasm watching him die.”
Michael’s head was spinning. “This is a lot . . .”
“The point is, John was murdered, just like Alex. By the same man, three decades apart. And protected by at least two high-level priests—a monsignor and a bishop—inside the Vatican. I had to tell you this. Now you know. They assume you do already. It’s why they’ll make sure they kill you.”
Michael sat back, at first saying nothing. He had decisions to make. “And what about you, now?” he said finally. “Where are you going from here?”
“I’m going back to Greece. There’s a doctor there I need to see. She will help me. After that, I don’t know. But you have to listen: they will never leave me—or you—alone. Not now. Not ever.”
Michael knew she was right.
Chapter 28
Raleigh, North Carolina
Minutes later, back on board the Gulfstream, Michael filled Fletcher in on his meeting with Sindy Steele and the new revelation on how his brother John had been murdered.
“It seems we go from one shock to another. I couldn’t believe it when I opened that door and she’s sitting there like the head of the TSA. How the hell does she pull this stuff off?”
“I don’t know, she’s got money and a great body. Take your pick. Michael, don’t take this the wrong way but . . . do you want me to fix this thing with Steele? . . . to take care of it for you?”
After Sofia’s kidnapping it had already crossed his mind but he wasn’t about to admit it.
Fletcher continued, “I don’t have to . . . hurt her or anything.”
Michael knew Fletcher was back-pedaling. Hurting her was exactly what he meant—and more. Sindy Steele wasn’t the type you intimidated or hurt in order to get her to do something. You had to kill her to control her.
“And who would you send this time?”
“Next time around would be easier. There’s no hostage.”
“No, I’ll deal with it myself.” Michael said it but even he knew he had no idea what that meant. He knew he couldn’t kill. It was a line he couldn’t cross, except in self –defense, or to save his family . . . or to protect . . . The more he thought about it, the fuzzier the line became, as did his relationship with Sindy Steele. From one minute to the next, she veered out of control, from friend to deadly enemy and then back.
Fletcher handed him a glass of chilled white wine as Michael glanced over at the local newspaper on the side table. A small article on the bottom of the front page caught his attention:
Firefighters were summoned last night to put out the remains of a flash fire in an unoccupied guest room at the Holiday Inn motel on Carrboro Road. According to Fire Chief John Sculley, the fire appeared to have been deliberately set, scorching the room’s walls and carpeting. In an even stranger twist, however, it appeared that the arsonist or an unidentified bystander attempted to contain the fire, using a fire extinguisher that was left at the scene. The front desk clerk reported that the guest who had earlier occupied the room apparently had dropped off the electronic key hours before smoke was noticed by a passerby. The police report stated that local youths had likely gained access to the vacated room and, after setting it on fire as a prank, had apparently tried to contain the blaze and then fled. No injuries were reported.
He tossed the paper over to Fletcher who read the article, shaking his head.
“Let’s leave her be for now.” Michael said. “I’ve got to take care of the people behind my brothers’ murders. I’m the last one left. I’ve got to get to them before they get me.”
“How?” Fletcher said. “These guys are surrounded by Swiss guards.”
Michael thought about that for a minute. “I don’t know exactly yet—except for one thing. I’m going to take this fight right to their door.” He sat back, feeling almost relaxed now. “Samantha and I have been to Rome many times over the years and yet, oddly, we’ve never visited the Vatican. I think it’s time for a guided tour . . . maybe one behind the scenes.”
Chapter 29
Whitestone, New York
There were two things that Alex had given her in their six years of marriage that Donna Nicholas still treasured. Both of which, she was sure, would help her snag her next, equally rich husband.
The first was Chanel No. 5, a perfume Alex had introduced her to and made sure was always in stock in their bedroom. She loved the scent, despite finding out that Alex also supplied it to his earlier two wives and each of his many mistresses. She knew now that the perfume had been Alex’s way of making sure that his wife never caught a whiff of the “other” woman, or, to be more precise, women.
The second were her perfect, perky 34DD breasts, created by the prominent Park Avenue surgeon Dr. Armando Simonetti and paid for by Alex. She loved them too, despite finding out that Alex also provided exactly the same surgeries for his earlier two wives and at least a few of his mistresses.
Alex’s murder two years earlier had left her a rich widow. Michael had been instrumental in finding Alex’s hidden two million dollars and that, and a fully paid-for house and a share of the profits each month from Alex’s—now Michael’s—illegal gambling business “Tartarus”—kept her financially comfortable.
But having just turned thirty-seven, Donna knew it wasn’t enough. Alex would be easy enough to replace, but his steady stream of money wasn’t. She knew she needed someone who could take care of her financial needs for the many years ahead of her. She was a stunningly beautiful woman who knew how to make herself attractive to men but the singles scene in Queens left a lot to be desired. Instead of attracting men with money, she was attracting men who were attracted to her money. It was time to branch out, to try something new.
She snuggled under the covers, propped her head up on three pillows and, after drinking down half of it in one swallow, placed her glass of Chardonnay on the table by her bedside. She placed her laptop computer on the bed tray in front of her. She was ready to begin a new chapter, and it wasn’t in a book.
She logged onto the site and typed in her new password. When she saw her account come up on the iJewishMingle.com website, she felt good. After all, she’d hardly ever even used a computer until Alex had been murdered.
Her girlfriends had told her about the great dates and matches they’d discovered through the Internet. So, what did she have to lose? It was worth a try. And what could be safer than a nice dating site with Jewish men, unless, of course, they were religious. In any case, if she didn’t find anyone worth pursuing, all she had to do was close her laptop.
This morning she had spent a few hours on the site, answering questions, they actually called it Who Am I?—what did she like, dislike, her favorite colors, hobbies—really? Hobbies? It was all intended they said to help her learn who she was. Donna knew who she was and she didn’t need a dating site to find out.
Then there was the Relationship Questionnaire. What did she look for in a partner? She knew that, too.
She didn’t always answer truthfully, just as she wouldn’t always do so in her real life, face to face with someone. Particularly a man whom she was interested in, especially when it came to her age. Between her breasts and her Botox, she knew she could pass for a lot younger than her thirty-seven years.
Then she loaded in a photograph and smiled. It felt good to be twenty-five again.
She would revert back to her maiden name, too. After all, Donna Finkelstein was a much better fit for a Jewish dating site than Donna Nicholas. It was time to see the results, learn who fit the dating site’s ideal match up profile for the criteria she’d plugged in. She clicked where it read, Who Wants To Meet You.
It was a long list. Not that she was surprised. The first step was to find the ones she was interested in replying to and then the process was to send an email to their special mailbox through the dating site. Then, as the ad said, let the fireworks begin.
She scanned the names—only first names at this point—and the short bios beneath each one. They were supposedly sorted based on the likelihood of a successful match. She was about to begin at the top when her eye went to the second name of the list. She was sure it was a coincidence. Maybe it was fate. She’d start with this one.
She clicked on Alex.
Chapter 30
Westport, Connecticut
It took a few hundred thousand dollars in software upgrades and high-priced tech consultants, but Michael was now able to communicate with Alex not only on his main computer downstairs in the wine cellar, but on his numerous laptops and even his iPhone.
At home in his library, Michael opened up his laptop.
In seconds, Alex appeared on the screen. Michael wasted no time. “Do you know how our brother John died?”
Alex appeared to freeze, his face frozen, a blank. Then, as though he’d recovered from something . . . maybe an overload, perhaps a stressful thought? . . . he came back.
“John? He was killed in a car accident.”
But Michael could see an uncharacteristic look of doubt, uncertainty on Alex’s face. “That’s what you know? What you believe?”
Alex hesitated again. “Yes, no . . . I’m not . . . sure. There was something, I remember, but I can’t quite . . . just before I was . . . shot. Why are you asking me . . . now?”
Michael told him what Sindy Steele had heard on the cassette tape.
“Yes, there was something, something I’d learned that was different from the story we’d all been told at the time. I never mentioned it to you before because I wasn’t sure. I think I was just putting it together before . . .”
“So, there are people inside the Vatican—we don’t know how many—who are behind both your murder and John’s.”
“And now they will do the same to you,” Alex said. “Except you know it. I had no idea until it was too late.”
“Yes, and I have you helping me—and, strangely enough, maybe even Sindy Steele, in her own way.”
“Be careful with that one, Michael. She’s no Mother Teresa but I’d worry more about those holy guys in the Vatican than I would about her. Especially now that we know about John.”
“I’m glad she found out what she did, though. We needed to know the truth.” Michael said. “But, she’s not in control of herself.”
“Yeah, well, who is? But it also looks like she just can’t stay away from you. She’s obsessed. She’s also not a very good judge of character, but that’s another issue.”
“Thanks. How’s your character these days?”
“You know, unlike yours, I think mine’s getting better. I met a girl, Donna was her name.”
“Wasn’t that a song?” Michael remembered hearing it on the oldies station. “And/or your widow—or, ah, excuse me—your wife’s name?”
“Yeah, it was. What’s it to you?”
“Just out of curiosity, what’s her last name, the one you just met?”
“Finkelstein.”
“Oh God, don’t tell me any more. You haven’t tried to reach Donna, have you?”
“Not yet. But she’s going to reach out to me.”
“How is that possible since she knows—or thinks—you’re dead?”
“She’s on iJewishMingle.”
“Are you crazy? And how would she find you? You’d have to be registered on the site yourself.”
“I am.”
“You can’t be doing this. We’re not ready or prepared to deal with you going public—and a dating website? Jesus, Alex. You could be attacked by any number of hackers out there, you’d be a sitting target, they’d destroy you. Not to mention, the last thing we need is Donna thinking you’re still alive.”
“I was lonely. Just so you know . . . she lied about her age.”
“And when did you do all this?”
“I don’t know exactly, I don’t have the same sense of time as I used to when I was . . . But, I guess it was the over the last few days.”
“You mean, while I was going through everything with Sofia—you were going on dating sites?”
“I was there when you needed me. Anyway, one’s got nothing to do with the other in the world I live in. Did you ever hear of multitaking?”
“I think you mean, multitasking, don’t you?”
“Whatever you want to call it.” Alex never did like to be corrected. But it was an interesting point. At first, Michael thought that Alex was only conscious or active when he actually logged onto him. Now, it was apparent that Alex’s activities, whatever they were, went on independent of Michael signing in to Alex’s site—or Alex—whatever it was. In any case, Alex had taken on a new dimension, no longer in Michael’s control or dependent upon him. Michael wasn’t sure that was a good thing. He was pretty sure it wasn’t.
“So,” Alex said, “if the Chapel Hill cops had gotten to Sindy Steele and she’d opened up about what she’d done for the Vatican it would have been their worst nightmare. They can’t afford to have a loose cannon out there—not with everything she knows about them.”
