by E. J. Simon
“Right now, I’m sure they suspect everyone. You just have to stay away from any further questioning until a lawyer gets here. I called Larry Rothberg, my attorney. He’s on his way. Then, we’ll let him handle it and buy time. We need to talk this thing through.”
Michael could see that he was no longer just an observer trying to clean up loose ends. He felt the sensation one gets when stepping over a threshold, one with no safety net and a life-threatening drop below.
“Michael, who’s doing this? What’s going on? I can’t stay here.”
He first thought he should take Donna up to his home in Connecticut but quickly came to his senses. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you a room in the city, at the Carlyle. You’ll be safe there. I’ll hire some security to guard the house and someone to guard you. Whoever is behind all this must be looking for Alex’s cash.”
“Well, that makes two—” Donna hesitated and locked eyes with Michael before continuing, “three of us.”
Michael averted his gaze, as though trying to release himself from Donna’s power. “But I don’t understand why they needed to kill Alex to steal the money. And, what’s most frightening, I don’t know what danger we are in from these people.”
Donna didn’t appear to miss a beat. “I don’t understand what’s going on either, Michael, but I’ve been around enough to know it’s just a matter of time before they get to us.”
Chapter 10
Westport, Connecticut
November 12, 2009
Michael and Samantha’s home was a forty-five-minute drive from Queens, over the Whitestone Bridge and then up the Connecticut coastline. Situated along Long Island Sound, Westport was a picturesque Connecticut town with one of those charming main streets filled with little shops and trendy restaurants.
Formerly the home of celebrities like Paul Newman and Martha Stewart, it was fast becoming a suburban hub of hedge-fund headquarters.
“You can spot them around town, the guys wearing baseball hats, blue jeans, and then custom shirts with their sleeves rolled up and thousand-dollar loafers,” Michael would often comment.
The house was a large but unpretentious gray colonial behind a manicured lawn and near the water. It was only a five-minute drive to the beach. High, thick hedges concealed a lush private backyard and a swimming pool covered for the winter.
As Michael drove into his garage and entered his house, he had a sense of stepping from one life and into another, the process of disarming and then rearming the alarm system giving him permission to pass through. Yet he was no longer sure which one he was visiting and which one was home.
During his drive, he had begun to think more about Samantha and how she would feel about his involvement, however temporary, in Alex’s business. He knew he had to bring Samantha up to date on a lot of what he had been doing the past few days. So far, he had been somewhat vague on many of the details. He hadn’t mentioned Russell’s murder to Samantha when they spoke on the phone earlier in the evening. He wondered whether that alone was some sort of transgression, a temporary breach of faith. He decided to tell her tonight, in person.
He knew the murder and its grizzly details would be like a stick of dynamite going off in her psyche. He wondered why it wasn’t equally so for him. Samantha would be highly skeptical—if not petrified—of Michael’s participation in a life he had so adamantly rejected for so long. He was too … or was he?
They had not made love since Paris, but as soon as Michael entered the bedroom and laid eyes on Samantha standing in the black, short sheer negligee she had purchased on the Rue Saint-Honoré, he knew that drought was about to end. The negligee fell to the floor as they collapsed into a passionate embrace. They were on the bed in less than a minute. As Michael watched her below him, he marveled that she could look so good at nearly fifty. But, as crazy as he knew it was, he struggled to stay in the moment and tried not to think about the conversation he knew they needed to have. It was over quickly, neither of them having the patience for leisurely lovemaking.
As Samantha began to cool off, she sat up in bed and pulled her beige cashmere Hermes throw over her shoulders and breasts. “I think we needed that.”
Cautiously, Michael began to recount the last few days’ events including the details of Russell’s murder, Donna’s earlier plea for Michael’s help, and his reluctant consent to do so.
Samantha tilted her head slightly, her mouth dropping open. “Michael, are you out of your mind?”
Before Michael could formulate his response, he saw Samantha’s eyes fixate on the alarm panel near the bed. The series of tiny red lights that indicated the system was armed had turned green.
“Michael, I thought you turned the alarm on when you came in.”
“I did. Those lights were red a few minutes ago.” Michael bolted out of bed, locked the bedroom door, and pushed a large, low dresser several feet so that the door couldn’t be pushed open. In a series of visual flashbacks, he mentally retraced the brutal events of the past few days. “Call 9-1-1.”
But just as Samantha picked up the phone to dial, it rang. Flustered in her attempt to dial out, she answered on instinct, “Hello, who is this?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nicholas, this is your alarm service. We understand there has been a breach. Is everything okay?” The voice was loud and deep; Michael could hear everything from where he stood.
“No, we’re not okay. Send the police. Someone is in our house.” Her voice was cracking.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Nicholas. We’ll be upstairs to help you in just a minute.” Michael could see that Samantha was momentarily comforted, but he then saw a look of confusion on her face.
“Michael, how did he know I was upstairs?”
Michael looked closer at the multiline phone. The numerous buttons and lights showed which telephone lines and extensions in the house were being utilized. A paralyzing chill darted up his spine. A red light was flashing, indicating that the telephone extension in the downstairs library was being utilized. The caller was inside the house.
Michael reached for his cell phone on the bureau near his bed. But before he could press in 9-1-1, a voice seemingly coming from in the bedroom stopped him in his tracks. “Don’t touch that cell phone, Michael.”
Samantha appeared to bolt upright. “Michael, it’s the same guy I just heard on our phone. But where is this coming from?”
Before Michael could answer, the stranger spoke again. “I’m here with you.”
Without moving from where he stood, Michael looked around, his eyes scanning the large bedroom. He looked at Samantha. “He’s not here. There’s no one here.”
The voice echoed through the room again. “Oh, but you’re wrong, Michael. I was here before you moved the furniture against the door. I didn’t want to interrupt your screwing around.” Michael again reached for his cell phone.
“If you want to die right now, go ahead and get your phone. By the way, Samantha, I just loved your little nightgown, although you look even better in that blanket.”
Michael continued to look around the room, unable to find anyone—or anything—unusual. “What do you want? Who the hell are you? Where are you?”
“Where am I? I’m here, Michael. You can keep looking around, but you won’t see me until it’s too late. By the way, I enjoyed the show.”
Michael rushed toward Samantha, taking her in his arms. She whispered closely into his ear, “What do we do?”
The phone rang again. They both stared at it, sitting on the table by their bed, the blinking red light indicating the incoming call. The first ring seemed to last forever. And again there was another red light glowing on the phone panel, indicating that someone was on another line in the house. But this time the call wasn’t coming from the library downstairs. Michael stared in disbelief at the indicator light signifying “Guest Bedroom #1.” The caller was on the second floor, in the room next door, just five feet away from their bedroom.
Michael whispered to Samantha, “But how can he see us in here?” He s
canned the room again. Connecting to their huge bedroom was a large bathroom and two dressing rooms. The doors to each of those rooms were open. Four large windows were, as always, obscured by thick fabric drapes behind which were blackout shades. The lighting was soft, coming from the dimmed lamps on either side of their bed and from recessed spot lights, also dimmed, illuminating the several pieces of fine art, mostly fashion photographs, each framed in either black or silver, on each of the white walls.
“I don’t see anyone here—unless they’re hiding in the dressing rooms or the bathroom and peeking in,” Michael said after checking one door after another, looking for movement or, worse, a pair of eyes staring back.
The distinct squeak of a turning brass door handle interrupted their hushed huddle. They both looked at the bedroom door. The shiny gold brass knob, just visible above the dresser, was turning back and forth. “I locked it, but that lock won’t keep anyone out for long,” Michael said. “It’s just to keep little kids out.”
“Oh my God, Michael. Do something, please.”
“We’ve got to take a risk. I’m going for the cell.” Michael broke away from Samantha and headed again toward the bureau where he had left his cell phone. But before he could reach it, all the lights went out. The room turned black. “He’s cut the power.”
As Michael groped in the sudden darkness to find his cell, the stranger’s voice let out a piercing, horrific laugh. It reverberated through the room. Michael finally grasped his cell phone. It was then that he saw the unfamiliar tiny blue light near the floor at the other end of the room.
Chapter 11
Michael knew he had to call for help. As he dialed, he whispered into Samantha’s ear, “Check out the little blue light near the bathroom door.” The cell phone keyboard lit up as soon as he hit the 9.
But before Michael could finish dialing 9-1-1, the bedroom phone rang again.
Michael looked at Samantha. Finally, he checked the caller ID. “It’s Fletcher!” he whispered to Samantha as he switched his cell into his left hand and picked up the receiver with his right. Fletcher Fanelli was a close friend and the police chief of Westport.
“I’m two minutes away, but we’ve already got three patrol cars approaching your house right now. Where exactly are you?”
Michael could hear the police sirens in the near distance, and soon the red-and-blue flashing lights were reflecting through the windows and partially opened curtains, creating a light show on the walls. He felt a flush of relief.
“Samantha and I are locked inside the master bedroom.” Michael moved toward the other end of the room. “I’m looking out the front window. I see the patrol cars out front. But, Fletcher, someone’s inside the house. He actually called us, first from the library downstairs and then from the bedroom right next to us here upstairs.”
“Okay, Michael. Just stay where you are. Don’t leave the bedroom. I’m on the radio with my men now. They’re going to enter the house through your front and back doors. We’ve got officers all around the house. They know you’re in the master. Just stay there. I’m pulling up to your street myself. Just don’t leave the bedroom and don’t open the door until I tell you to.”
“Fletcher, there’s something else—he spoke to us, from inside our bedroom.”
“What do you mean, from inside your bedroom?”
“I don’t know, Fletch. We could hear his voice like he was right here in the room. But I don’t see anyone. The doors to the dressing room and the closet are open, but I haven’t gone in there to look.”
“Don’t. Don’t go into the closet or the dressing room. We’ll do that. Stay put until I tell you otherwise.”
“Fletcher, another thing.” Michael looked again in the direction of the blue illumination. “There’s a strange blue light, like an LED or laser or something. It’s coming from the other side of the room. I didn’t notice it until the power and the lights went out. It’s very small. I haven’t gone near it yet.”
“Is it flashing?”
“No, it’s a steady blue glow.” Michael felt like he could read Fletcher’s mind.
“Michael, is it ticking?”
“Jesus, Fletcher. No. There’s no sound that I can hear from it. And there are no little digital numbers counting down, if that’s what you mean.”
“Okay, Michael, we’re just turning down Imperial Road, we’re a minute away.”
It seemed like a very long minute before Michael could hear a commotion downstairs as half the Westport police force, led by Chief Fanelli, entered the house.
“Police! Don’t move,” the command repeated as officers moved throughout the house. The police radios were abuzz with chatter and static. Looking out the window, Michael saw the lights from the surrounding homes, one by one going on. He recognized several neighbors standing on their front porches. He realized too that this was the second police scene he had been in the middle of in less than four hours.
But as he retrieved his cell phone from the night table where he had left it, he noticed something unsettling: the screen was still lit up, indicating the last digits Michael had tapped in when he had begun dialing 9-1-1. And only a flashing 9 appeared.
“How did Fletcher know?” Michael said to Samantha.
“What do you mean?”
“How did Fletcher and the police know to come to the house?”
“You called him, didn’t you? On your cell, I saw you.”
“Samantha, the call never went through. I only got as far as the 9—see?” Michael watched as Samantha stared at his cell phone screen, the 9 blinking, a stark reminder of the unfinished call.
Chapter 12
Samantha was trembling. She looked stunned by what was happening but alert to every sound, her eyes darting from the blocked bedroom door to the opened doorways leading to the dressing room and closet. While keeping an eye on the strange blue light, Michael took her again in his arms. “Don’t worry. The cops are here. Fletcher’s here too.”
“But, Michael, how did they find out? What’s going on? I don’t understand.”
“We’ll deal with that later. Right now, let’s be thankful they’re here.” He handed Samantha her robe and put on his trousers and a sweater. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”
The bedroom lights came back on. Michael looked at the spot where the blue light had been. It was nearly impossible to see now. His cell phone rang. “Michael, it’s Fletcher. We’re outside your bedroom door.”
“Did you find anyone in the house?” Michael asked anxiously.
“No, not yet anyway. You can open your door now. We’re going to secure you guys and search the rooms off your bedroom—and check out that light. Samantha must be crazy in there.”
Michael pushed aside the bureau as he unlocked and opened the door. Samantha, in tears, hugged Fletcher as four uniformed policemen with guns drawn walked swiftly by them and proceeded to check out the rooms off the bedroom.
“Oh my God, Fletcher. He was here, on the phone, in the house, and then … We heard his voice—and that laugh, that horrible laugh, here in the bedroom.” She looked around the room, as though she was now unsure of what she had seen and heard. “Somewhere here. But I don’t understand.”
“Where’s this light?” Fletcher asked, his eyes scanning the room. Michael pointed to the far end of the bedroom, to a spot near the door to the bathroom.
“Over there, around the sculpture,” Michael said, pointing to a white polished-marble sculpture at the other end of the room, near the door to the bathroom. “But once the lights came back on, I lost it.”
He watched as Fletcher walked to the spot and stared at the Picasso-like cubist rendition of a woman’s head sitting atop a glossy white wooden pedestal. It was twice the size of a normal head and distorted, with only one giant eye. Michael could see that Fletcher had spotted something else. It appeared to be a small white box, about the same size as a pack of cigarettes. It was cleverly camouflaged, wedged securely inside the white marble cubist sculpture. Fle
tcher cautiously moved to within inches of the mysterious box, pulled it out of its crevice and then examined it, turning it over in his hand.
”It’s one of those home monitoring devices. It’s got a camera, a speaker, and a microphone all built in. It connects to someone’s computer through the Internet. They can see everything going on and even carry on a conversation with you. If the light level gets too low, as it did when your power was cut off, it has an infrared blue light that kicks on, enabling it to see in the dark. I’ve seen these used by law enforcement to monitor people on home confinement or early release programs.”
“So someone actually broke into our house, planted this monitor in our bedroom, connected it to his own laptop through the Internet, and then went around the house and called us on the phone?” Michael said. His mind wandered back to Russell’s murder earlier in the evening, and in another part of his brain, he wondered when to break that news to Samantha.
“You got it,” Fletcher said. “But he must have come into your house earlier to plant the device. He then either left and returned, or …” Fletcher stopped, looked at Samantha, and took a deep breath, “he stayed in the house and hid out waiting for the right time.”
Samantha let out, “My God, I was out most of the afternoon. Do you mean he may have been in the house for a while, just watching me and waiting? He was here while I was alone, before Michael came home?”
Fletcher and Michael exchanged concerned glances. “Right now, Samantha, we’re not sure exactly what happened here.” Fletcher said as he watched the faces and signals of the parade of officers as they approached after checking out every corner of the house. He stepped aside and conferred with the one who appeared to be his next-in-charge. The officer spoke, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s all clear; no one’s in these rooms, Chief.”
Fletcher resumed speaking with the officer and then turned back to Michael and Samantha. “As he said, everything’s okay now. But not only didn’t we find anyone hiding, we can’t even find any indication of a break-in. The doors to the outside were all locked, although with most of your locks, they could have been relocked easily by someone on their way out. Except for some damage we did to your doors getting in, nothing appears to have been disturbed.