Death logs out, p.8
Death Logs Out, page 8
“So what are they going to do?”
“They have to protect themselves now. Steele can expose them. Now that she’s gone back on her word and did something crazy with Sofia, they can’t risk waiting for her next move. They can no longer rely on her to stay sane or keep her mouth shut. When they hired her to be a hit man and do their dirty work, they didn’t realize she was nuts.”
“Do you know exactly who these people are inside the Vatican?”
“Some of them, but there are more. I see things flying across . . . the Internet, cell phones, fax machines, bugging devices and security cameras linked to WiFi . . . I just can’t tell exactly who they all are but I’m trying. It appears to go pretty high up the ladder.”
“High up—what does that mean in the Vatican? God?
“No, but try a Cardinal. Sindy was in contact with one, we know that.”
Michael took a deep breath. “I need to see the Pope,” he said.
Alex laughed, “No one sees the Pope. He’s like The Wizard of Oz.”
Chapter 31
Westport, Connecticut
Michael looked out from the patio of Arezzo onto the Saugatuck River and then back to Samantha. The early evening sun had not yet set completely. The sky cast a pink glow over the table. They were sharing a bottle of Rosé which glowed as the setting sun reflected on the bottle. Even though they’d just begun their main course, the bottle was nearly empty.
Michael knew the look. Despite the setting, dinner tonight wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.
“Samantha, you look beautiful—but icy—tonight.”
“Sindy Steele needs to be removed from our lives,” Samantha said.
“Believe me, I was hoping she was. Months ago, after she got her payment from the Vatican guys, she said she was going to go to the Greek islands and rebuild her life, start over –”
“I guess she chose to kidnap Sofia instead,” Samantha shot back. “We can’t be at her mercy each time her chemical imbalance kicks in.”
“I already have someone working on finding and then tracking her.”
“Who?”
“Fletcher has some people –”
“Like that Rick Martin?”
“Yes, but alive.”
“Well, whoever it is, they need to fix this.”
“And how exactly do you define fix?” He had the sense that Samantha’s answer would not only define the rest of the night—but possibly, the rest of their lives. “I’m hoping she’s gone back to Greece like she said.”
“We’re not who we used to be, you know. You’ve already done things that in your wildest dreams you could never imagine you were capable of. Whether you’ve noticed or not, we’ve changed, both of us. Since your brother was murdered, we’ve become different people. Really, you more than me.”
“So, what are you saying?”
“I think you know.” Samantha said. “We’ve already crossed certain lines. What was forbidden before isn’t anymore.” Underneath her blonde hair, pretty face and soft, calm demeanor, Michael knew there was a hard, cold edge that, while providing him tremendous strength and support, could be turned against him in the wrong circumstances. Like now.
He waited, delaying any response while he tried to read the labyrinth that was his wife’s soul.
“So what do you want me to do—have her murdered?” a rhetorical question, he hoped.
But Samantha’s face betrayed no such understanding. She just looked back at him and then, as though just discovering it, down at her plate.
“You’re not serious,” he said.
Ignoring his comment, Samantha picked up her fork and proceeded to pick at her grilled salmon.
It was clear Samantha wasn’t going to say more, at least not yet.
“I’ve spoken to my cousins down in Chapel Hill; they’re going to arrange for a discreet security service to keep an eye on Sofia,” Michael said, as he watched Samantha lift a slice of Burrata pizza from his plate.
“Have you told her?” she said, before biting into his prized slice, a particularly large one with lots of cheese.
“Pretty much. I just underplayed it a bit. It’ll be a lot more intense than I implied. It should make her dating life more interesting.”
“Just so you know, these kids don’t date.”
“What do they do?”
“I don’t know, I think they hook up or something.” Samantha gave her best smile but Michael could see that she still had more on her mind. It was that look that she had when, although she was listening, her brain was multi-tasking. “And when were you going to tell me that you had security people watching us or is that guy at the bar just a prop?”
Michael looked behind him; he saw the painfully obvious plainclothes policeman that Fletcher had arranged as part of a regular security detail.
Michael laughed, “I was waiting for dessert to break it to you. We’ll be on our way to Rome as soon as I can make sure that the proper arrangements have been made. There’s more information I need to get before I can go. There’s no point leaving until that’s been done. And, while we’re waiting, I’ve got to meet Goldstein for dinner tomorrow night. I can’t exactly tell him that my other business has put our lives in jeopardy so I’ve got to run off to Rome.”
“I hope you’re right about not going to the authorities about all of this. You’ve had two brothers murdered.”
“So, what do I do? Call the FBI, explain that I run a major global illegal gambling operation on the side, that Sindy Steele, who worked for me, has herself killed a few people, most recently in Chapel Hill, and that people inside the Vatican murdered both of my brothers and are after me? Oh, and by the way, one of those brothers is still alive, on my computer. How long before they have me tasered and in a straight jacket on my way to Bellevue?”
As soon as he said it he realized he’d brought up a sore point with Samantha. He could see the spark of recognition cross her face.
“I have a question—how did this Rick Martin figure out where Sindy was hiding with Sofia?”
As Michael scrambled for an answer, Samantha reached over and took another slice of his pizza.
“Why didn’t you order your own pizza instead of salmon?” he said, moving his plate further away from her.
“Because pizza is fattening. You shouldn’t be eating it.”
This was a familiar dance, he thought. Hoping she’d forget her question, he picked up a slice himself, admired the rich red tomato sauce and the layer of white Burrata cheese. After he separated the strings of Burrata that stretched from the pie to his slice, he took a bite, savoring the sweetness of the tomatoes, the contrasting texture of the cheese and the crisp thin crust that held it all together.
“You never answered my question,” Samantha said. “How did Rick Martin find them?”
Michael had to think. Alex certainly wasn’t going to be the right answer for Samantha, but it was the truth.
“I know you’re not going to believe this, but Alex told me.”
Samantha’s expression changed. “Really? Here we go again. We’ve been through this before. Remember, two years ago you took me to the wine cellar and I saw what you thought was Alex? We both know this is nothing more than a fancy computer game.”
“I told you, you didn’t give it a chance. You bolted out when he started talking to you.”
“Not he, Michael, it. Yes, it was a little too weird for me. I still think you’re suffering from a combination of depression from your brother’s death—and stress from running your corporate job—and Alex’s business.”
“You’ve got to keep an open mind on this –”
“Listen, I’ve done some of my own research. The Internet makes it easy. The brain is, on some level, like a computer. So a computer can emulate a lot of what the brain does. But that doesn’t mean that this so-called virtual Alex on your computer is really your brother. I’m willing to concede that it’s some sort of very good software, probably with an algorithm that can simulate what Alex might have done, especially if someone loaded into the computer a lot of background and history on him. But, let’s face it, Alex is dead—and, in thousands of years of civilization no one—except maybe Jesus Christ—has ever come back from the dead in any way. It’s hard for me to believe that the one person who has—would be, of all people—your boozing, womanizing, bookmaking and loan sharking brother.”
“I’m telling you, this is Alex. I don’t totally understand it myself. But maybe there is more than we can see, Samantha. We can’t see or feel whatever the religious or spiritual people say exists. We can’t find anyone’s consciousness in anyone’s body, we’re not even sure what it is—but we know it’s there. Maybe this is the same thing.”
“Jesus, I thought you skipped most of your college classes. Where’s all this coming from? It’s a computer, Michael, a computer, a machine—one that people have made, not some God with special powers.”
“I know—but a bird flies, right? That’s a miracle of some sort. And a plane flies too.”
“Yes, and sometimes I think you’ve flown over the cuckoo’s nest.”
“Very funny. But listen, the plane is completely man-made yet it flies just as well and using the same principles as the bird’s natural way of doing it.”
“So, your point is?”
“My point is that we can recreate things that nature does. We can create machines that fly as well as birds, and we can duplicate a human being, at least the essence of what a person is—his mind, his consciousness, his brain.”
“Well, let’s just agree to disagree on this. That’s all I can say. But there’s one thing we can’t disagree on.”
“What’s that?” Michael knew.
“Sindy Steele.”
“Samantha –”
“Let me speak. I’ve forgiven you for your fling with her. As I said, you were stressed and vulnerable when your brother was murdered. But I haven’t forgotten, I doubt I ever will. Thank God she never hurt Sofia, I don’t know how you could have lived with yourself if she had.”
“I know, believe me.”
“I do. But let me make one thing very clear, Michael. I don’t ever want to hear that woman’s name spoken again. If you don’t deal with it properly—whatever exactly that means—if I ever hear that she is back in your life, I’ll take matters into my own hands. And I may surprise you with how I’ll deal with it. You know that I’ll do anything to protect those I love—and that includes you. She’s not only a threat to us—she’s a threat to you. You need to understand that.”
“I need a limoncello,” Michael said. He sat back. His eyes moved towards his iPhone sitting on the table next to his dessert plate. He noticed a waiting text message and leaned in closer to read it. Once he did, he quickly placed the phone in his coat pocket. He would have to read Sindy Steele’s message later.
Chapter 32
Whitestone, New York
Wouldn’t it be funny to go out with another guy named Alex? She imagined running into some of her—or the original Alex’s—old friends and introducing her date, “I’d like you to meet . . . Alex. Alex two, or Alex the second.” She laughed out loud at the thought and then finished her second glass of Chardonnay. She looked at the small photo—there actually was a vague resemblance between the two Alexs. This one was much younger, which was to be expected. He was looking for a woman in her twenties. Perfect. He came from New York, good; attended but didn’t finish college, okay, who cares. Even better. She clicked on the Send Him A Message icon and began typing.
Donna: Hi, I’m Donna.
She couldn’t believe it when she saw the dots appearing on her screen, indicating he was typing a response—already.
Alex: I know. I can see your name. You must be new at this.
Donna: I am. This is my first time.
Alex: First time?
Donna: You know what I mean.
Alex: Sure. Yeah.
Donna: I assume you’re single, right?
Alex: Yeah.
Donna: Divorced?
Alex: I’m a recent widower.
Donna: I’m sorry.
Alex: It’s okay. It was a few years ago. I’m starting to . . . heal.
Donna: Oh, that’s good. I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.
She hoped he wasn’t going to be one of these brooding, insufferable melancholy types. It’s so hard to tell through email.
Alex: So, what about you?
Donna: I’m a widow. My husband died a few years ago. I guess we have something in common.
Alex: Probably more than you think. How long were you married?
Donna: To him?
Alex: How many husbands did you have?
Donna: Just two. How many wives did you have?
Alex: Just three.
Well, she thought, we’re off to a good start. Jesus, that’s five marriages already between us. I guess there’s not a lot of difference between two or three marriages. After all, her next one would be her third.
Donna: Were you happy?
Alex: Yeah, I guess.
Donna: You guess? What’s that supposed to mean?
Alex: It means I was happy.
Donna: Okay, sorry I asked.
Alex: Me too.
This wasn’t going too well but I’ll keep going for a while.
Alex: You look beautiful in your picture.
That’s better, she thought.
Donna: Thanks—you look pretty good yourself.
Alex: I know.
Chapter 33
New York City
“I’d love to be a fly on the wall tonight.” Karen DiNardo’s voice came across the phone with her usual tone of enthusiastic sarcasm. “He’s not there yet?”
Karen was more than Michael’s trusted secretary, a friend, and the only person within Gibraltar Financial that he trusted enough to know of his other life, running Alex’s business, Tartarus.
“No, he’s one of those ‘my time’s more important than yours’ guys. I hate wasting dinner on someone I don’t want to be around. You know there are only so many dinners in a lifetime. I cherish each one.” The truth, however, was that even though Michael had more important issues to deal with, there was no putting Goldstein off.
“I know. Believe me. I didn’t think you had a choice on this one.”
“Lunch—or, even better, drinks—would have been better.”
“He doesn’t drink,” she said, curtly.
“Of course not.”
Since the acquisition of Gibraltar Financial by Cartan Industries, Michael had a new boss: Jonathan Goldstein. Tonight they would dine together, at Goldstein’s invitation, at The Modern, a stunningly beautiful Alsatian-French restaurant located within the Museum of Modern Art. Michael stared out through the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Abby Aldrich Rockefeller sculpture garden. It was, architecturally at least, an inspiring setting.
Michael spied Goldstein approaching his table. “Okay, I gotta go. He’s here. Not bad, just half an hour late.”
“Good luck. And don’t forget one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“He bought the company.”
He clicked off the phone.
Although Michael had dined there before, he wasn’t a regular. As the servers scurried to take their orders, he observed that, although the staff appeared to recognize Goldstein, he doubted they liked him. He could sense their nearly imperceptible signs of loathing.
Goldstein looked as bored as Michael was. His expression was sour, even for a notorious cold fish. He finally made eye contact, ever so briefly. “Normally, I’d have fired you by now.” Goldstein drank his seltzer, simultaneously diverting his gaze to a slim but busty twenty-something young lady passing by on the way to her nearby table.
Michael listened and watched as Goldstein looked away.
“And, normally, I’d have quit by now.”
Goldstein seemingly reengaged. “Then why didn’t you?”
“I like the work, I’m interested in the business, and I care about the people.” Not to mention, he thought, I still need a legitimate front.
“I don’t care about any of those things,” Goldstein said.” His eyes shifted away again. “I just want to make money. A lot of it.”
“And to make money—the kind you want to make—we’ll have to fire good productive people, strip away everyone’s pensions, sell off assets, outsource work to Asia or India, take on debt—and all the while you pull out millions in fees and then you turn around and sell a company stripped of what made it successful and loaded with debt.”
“Whatever . . . listen. I don’t care about your ethics or business and how it operates—or even what the hell the company does, for that matter. I’m an investor, not an operator. And your employees are your problem. You do care; good for you. That’s why you’ll never be anything more than another CEO of a mid-size company. They come and go, Michael. You may enjoy what you do but you’ll never make big, FU money.”
Michael knew he couldn’t really connect with this guy. Then again, he hadn’t really tried, nor did he care to.
“Fine. I understand. So, why am I here instead of home tonight?”
The server gently interrupted, placing what appeared to be a work of abstract art from the museum, a plate of beautiful slices of roasted duck breast, in front of Michael and a salad plate for Goldstein.
“Mergers—let’s call them what they are—takeovers, are complicated. You’re useful to me, Michael . . . especially now, during the transition. Since that speech you gave in LA a few years ago—knocking private equity and hedge funds—the business press is in love with you. I need good press and I want to be sure enough of the organization staying together.” Goldstein looked over at the closest person in a uniform he could find, and lifting his finger in the air, nearly shouted, “Waiter, I’ll have another seltzer water.”
The busboy scooted away.
“Michael, let me be honest, I need you right now. I could care less whether you like me or respect me. Emotion has no place in my business; it barely has any place in my life. I don’t ‘entice’—I pay. Do what I need for you to do and I’ll make you richer than you could ever imagine. It won’t take long and then you can go away, bitch and moan like every other executive that takes my money and then does a tell-all book and speaking tour. In the meantime, however, you’ve got enough money so you can spend the rest of your life doing whatever makes you happy. You know, help the poor, build a village, whatever.”
