Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

“I’m not sure,” Lester said. “I would have easily said yes except, a few minutes into it, Alex suddenly got real quiet. He shut the computer down and muttered something about how he and Russell still had a lot of work to do on it. And then he looked at me with that real serious look that he’d get and told me not to tell anyone.

  “He said, ‘Lester, I mean no one, ever.’ I remember thinking it was as though he’d had too much to drink that night and was sorry he’d shown it to me. That’s why I’m not sure it was just one of his computer games. Plus, it was damned good. This didn’t look like some off-the-shelf computer software.”

  Lester looked down again at Alex’s grave. “There was something else, too. Your brother was afraid of only one thing.”

  “What was that?”

  “He was afraid of dying. It was the one thing he couldn’t control. And maybe more than that, I don’t think he could imagine the world going on without him.”

  “Lester, did you ever tell anyone about what you saw that night?”

  “Not a soul. When Alex tells you—or told you—not to say anything, you kept your mouth shut.” Lester looked down again at Alex’s grave. “In fact, I’m still nervous about it.”

  Chapter 17

  It was just a blur, but Michael was sure he saw it.

  “I just saw someone move, over there,” Michael said, pointing to a spot over Lester’s right shoulder.

  Lester jumped, turning around to look. “Christ, no one moves in a cemetery.”

  “Well, someone’s here. I have a bad feeling. Maybe it’s nothing, but whoever it is, they didn’t drive up. There’s no car around.”

  “Michael, all the people that live here had drivers.” Skinny Lester’s voice cracked as he spoke.

  “Someone’s watching us,” Michael said as he scanned the area and then looked back at Lester. He realized that Lester was too weak, if not fragile, to be of any real help if physical danger threatened.

  “You don’t happen to carry a gun or anything, do you?” Michael knew better.

  “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding,” Lester said nervously.

  “Let’s get to the car and get out of here. Just go nice and slow, not like we’re running away,” Michael said, almost in a whisper. Although logic might have dictated a hasty retreat, Michael’s instinct was to move slowly, showing no fear. Perhaps, he thought, if it worked when confronted with wild dogs, it would also work with bad guys chasing you.

  Michael’s black BMW sedan was parked on the narrow, winding road, less than fifty feet away. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. There was only Lester walking behind him at a slight trot. He reached the door and then grasped the handle and opened the door, quickly sliding into the rich black leather driver’s seat. He looked around, fearing his pursuer was close, but he saw no one.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Lester shouted as he pulled his own door shut.

  Michael firmly pressed the ignition button, expecting the usual powerful but quiet start to the 740’s German engine. But there was nothing, not even the problematic clicking sound.

  “Shit. This has never happened.” Michael checked the gauges and clicked his seat belt in place in case something missing in his usual routine had caused the car’s complex computer to shut down. Still, not a sound.

  Michael looked up into his rearview mirror and saw a shadowy figure passing behind the car. “Lester, someone’s coming behind the car.”

  Lester turned around, and his eyes appeared to be following someone now. “He’s coming around to your door.”

  Michael now turned in the same direction and saw the tall stranger as he approached his driver’s side window. “Lester, do you recognize this guy?” Michael said, trying not to move his lips.

  “I don’t think so, but I can hardly see his face. Who the fuck wears sunglasses in a fuckin’ cemetery in November?”

  Michael knew he was trapped. There was no point in either staying in the disabled car—or in getting out. If this guy meant them harm, he would certainly be armed. Michael turned to Lester. “What do we do?” But Michael could see that Lester was mentally immobilized.

  There was a tapping on the driver’s side window, and Michael turned to his left. He looked at the stranger, and then he pressed the automatic window button. The window wouldn’t go down. The man was inches away, separated by a thin—and not bulletproof—layer of glass. He was trying to say something to Michael. Although his looks were menacing—black attire, pockmarked face, big hands, black sunglasses—his manner seemed calm, if not helpful. Michael opened the door halfway.

  “Looks like you need some help.” His voice was gravelly and hoarse.

  Michael didn’t know what to make of this. But he did need help. “Yes, I can’t get the car to start.”

  “I can have a tow truck come by. I know a lot of people here.”

  Lester murmured to himself, “Of course you do.”

  Michael didn’t know what to say. He had his own cell but knew he would probably just have to call the BMW roadside assistance 800 number he had somewhere. That didn’t look too promising inside a cemetery at the moment.

  “Sure, that would be great. Do you work here?” Michael hoped the man was a cemetery administrator.

  “No.”

  Michael hesitated; he looked at Lester.

  “Who cares, Michael, let him get us a tow truck so we can get the hell out of here. We’re surrounded by dead people.”

  Chapter 18

  Westport, Connecticut

  November 17, 2009

  Mario’s had the best meatballs in the world. But tonight, Michael had another dish in mind.

  Inside a quaint old building near the Westport train station, Mario’s old-fashioned, polished mahogany bar was always bustling with a lunch and dinner crowd of locals and daily Manhattan commuters. The shots weren’t premeasured, the tablecloths were still pressed white linen, and a cash register, not a computer, sat on the counter. Whiskey, scotch, gin, and vodka flowed from eleven in the morning until two in the morning.

  Dinner at Mario’s was comfort food that warmed your soul even before the food arrived. Michael loved the restaurant and its owner, Tiger. He had owned and operated the venerable Westport establishment for over forty years. Tiger was a short, bald barrel of a man well into his seventies—a no-nonsense but lovable teddy bear.

  Michael and Tiger would lament that many new chefs looked down on the traditional dishes like lasagna or spaghetti and meatballs. Tiger was proud of those dishes. Michael also liked Mario’s clientele—just good, hardworking people of all income brackets and walks of life, without an overabundance of chardonnay-drinking, overindulgent investment bankers. Tiger took care of his restaurant and his customers. Michael always felt at home whenever he walked in the door. It was a clubby atmosphere, without the club.

  Tiger saw Michael seated at a quiet table near the window. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. Where’s Samantha?”

  “She’s in South Bend with Sofia at Notre Dame for a few days. I’m solo tonight.” Michael realized that although he’d eaten at Mario’s hundreds of times, this was the first time he’d been there alone. He needed time to just think about the next few days’ challenges. Even though Tiger was the proprietor—and a good friend—he knew that Tiger was, in some ways, like himself. He liked to say hello, make a little small talk, and then move on.

  “Jesus, Michael. If you’re going to get in trouble this week, just don’t do it here. Samantha will kill me.”

  Tiger, Michael thought, as he watched his friend’s eyebrows arch up, was one of those guys who are naturally funny. He doesn’t try; it just comes out of him.

  “Don’t worry, Tiger. You know me, I like being alone more than I like other people. Plus, this way I can taste the food. I’d rather eat than talk.”

  “I wish more people were like that. If people would eat more, they’d have to talk less and I’d make more money. And, I wouldn’t have to listen so much. How about your usual martini
?”

  “Sounds great.”

  Mario’s cocktails filled a proper martini glass, but they also arrived at your table with the glass shaker, which contained a second full drink. Michael knew he was at that optimum point, where the drink opened up his mind and thoughts beyond what they seemed capable of without the gin—yet he was still sharp and incisive. The veal parmigiana sizzling in front of him helped too. Maria had mentioned that this had been Alex’s last meal that night at Grimaldi’s. Michael leaned back and began to think about his brother.

  Michael had always felt that Alex’s personality was pretty straightforward. What you saw on the surface was what was going on underneath; it was all up front. People who knew them both always assumed, as did Michael himself, that it was only Michael whose personality had layers of complexity. Certainly Michael knew there was always a lot going on under the outward and most visible layer of his own personality or what he showed the world. Beneath the easy smile, there were tensions, strains, hopes, doubts—almost other lives going on simultaneously.

  Could Alex have been the same—did his gruff exterior and rough-and-tumble lifestyle mask a similar complexity? Clearly Alex was not only smart but shrewd. He could not have succeeded in his business without those skills and a highly developed emotional intelligence. But if all that were true, what did it mean? What was going on under all the simple sentences and frequent antisocial behavior? Were there nuances that no one really had picked up on? And what did that mean in the context of Alex’s life?

  Michael’s thoughts focused on that last phone call. And what is the secret that he couldn’t tell me over the phone? Is it connected to what Skinny Lester saw on Alex’s computer that night? But the police had checked all Alex’s computers. If there was something unusual on them, the cops would have found it. And what about the instant message at the cemetery?

  He had spent the last week with uncharacteristically little communication with his office. Michael had that nagging tug in his gut that told him he was going to need to quickly reengage. His role was too high profile and visible—and the problems at Gibraltar too severe—for him to be able to coast, let alone disappear for any extended period. The death of his brother had kept other executives and staff away for the time being, but that time was coming rapidly to an end. Without his active presence back in the office, questions would, subtly and cautiously at first, be asked. He knew he needed to reestablish his presence back in New York. He also knew he could not just walk away from the new life he had entered, even if he was only visiting.

  He wondered how far through his veal his brother had progressed before the gunman struck. Knowing Alex, there was probably a split-second where he would have been annoyed at not being able to finish his meal. His brother, he thought, had an uncanny ability to alternate between issues of life and death—and those of the immediate satisfaction of his next bite. It was a trait, Michael realized as he savored the contrasting tastes of thinly sliced veal, sweet tomato sauce, and melted mozzarella, that they both shared.

  Michael allowed the gin to open up his mind and the meal to satisfy his hunger. He waited for some inspiration, an insight into his brother and the secret Alex couldn’t wait to reveal. He ate his dinner, absorbed in the past and his memories of Alex. As he finished his dinner, he realized the absurdity of his hope that a dinner reminiscing would unveil any mysteries about his brother’s life. But nothing came … other than the check.

  But as he put the credit card down on the table and waited for the bill to sign, Michael thought more about the scene Skinny Lester described with Alex and his computer.

  Then Michael heard the familiar ringtone he had programmed into his BlackBerry to notify him of a text message from a member of his family. It must be either Samantha or Sofia, he thought. But as he checked the screen, it was a message from Apple:

  The owner of this Apple device has requested that you be notified in the event that it should be located. Here are the longitude and latitudinal coordinates, representing the current location of the Apple product named, “Alex’s Apple”: latitude: 40.76626; longitude: -73.89695

  Confused, Michael’s attention momentarily drifted to the television monitor hanging above the bar. The news anchor was reporting on a recent Jeopardy quiz show contest, featuring a battle between Watson, a computer armed with specialized artificial intelligence, and a human contestant. Apparently, the newscaster stated, the computer won handily.

  His mind spinning, Michael punched in the speed-dial number for his administrative assistant.

  Chapter 19

  “Hi, stranger. Are you okay?”

  Karen DiNardo had worked for Michael since he joined Gibraltar. She was a smart young woman in her early thirties, a devout Catholic, conservative Republican, and a Rutgers graduate who commuted into Manhattan each day from her home in New Jersey. Michael trusted her implicitly, and he knew that Karen was totally loyal to him. She was intelligent and knew the volatile politics of the organization, but more importantly, she had great street smarts and was not afraid to tell Michael things others wouldn’t tell him or that he didn’t want to hear.

  “I’m doing fine, Karen. It’s all still just a little crazy. Listen, I’m going to need to be out for a few more days, but I want to catch up. Can you meet me in the city tomorrow? I’ll treat you to Lattanzi.” Michael knew Karen loved Italian food, and the restaurant on West Forty-Sixth Street was one they had both enjoyed during a number of business dinners over the past year.

  “Just tell me what time, and I’ll be there!”

  “Let’s meet early—noon. Karen, just two things before you go. First, if I give you a latitude and longitude coordinate, would you try to figure out where exactly in the world that point is?”

  Karen didn’t answer. Michael could picture the expression of bewilderment on her face. Better, he thought to just keep going.

  “You may want to write these down. The latitude is 40.76626 and the longitude is minus sign, 73.89695. I vaguely remember this stuff from geography class. There must be some way to find out where the heck this is.”

  “O-kay,” she said. Michael recognized the expression. “And what’s the second thing?”

  “The second one should be a lot easier. Would you do some research for me on artificial intelligence?” Again, there was a silence. Michael knew Karen would be frustrated until she figured out the point of his questions.

  “I can see you’ve had maybe too much time to think.”

  “Listen, Karen, I know this might be a bit strange. I’ll explain it all to you tomorrow.” Again, there was just the slightest delay before he heard her response.

  “Boss, before we go, while we were speaking, I Google-mapped those coordinates and then I went onto this thing, iTouchMap.com. I have the location you wanted. It’s in Queens, looks like Astoria.”

  “Jesus, that was fast. Do you have an address by any chance?”

  Karen’s voice was suddenly tentative. “I do. I do …” Michael felt like she was stalling, perhaps thinking. “Hold on.”

  “What’s wrong? Did you find it?” he asked.

  “Yes, Michael, I did.”

  He was becoming impatient. She was hiding something. “So, where is it?”

  “It’s Saint Michael’s cemetery. Isn’t that where your brother is buried?”

  Chapter 20

  New York City

  November 18, 2009

  Wednesday was a matinee day on Broadway, so Lattanzi was nearly filled with an unlikely pairing of out-of-towners and the “women who lunch” crowd. Michael led Karen to a table off to the side, away from much of the bustle. The soft lighting and the rich wood paneling provided a serene backdrop for their conversation.

  Seeing Karen with her office attire and briefcase full of folders was an unwelcome reminder to Michael of the world he would soon need to reenter with all his energy and attention. Michael was aware that he was, uncharacteristically for a supposed business meeting, attired in a sport shirt and black woolen swea
ter instead of a suit and tie. He wondered how that would register with Karen. He felt different and was sure it was obvious.

  He ordered a bottle of Antinori brunello and a bowl of linguine with fra diavolo sauce over fresh lobster, mussels, calamari, and shrimp. Lattanzi was like being in Rome for lunch, he thought to himself. The room was relatively dark, the waiters Italian, and with no windows to the outside world, you could just as easily be on the Via del Corso as Forty-Sixth Street. As he completed ordering, he could see the expression of surprise on Karen’s face.

  “Wow, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you order such a full meal at lunch. That’s a change.”

  You have no idea, Michael thought.

  While picking at her crisp calamari salad, Karen took Michael through the topics summarized in great detail in each of the manila folders. Michael watched her watching him and knew that Karen would have an uncannily accurate idea of what was going on inside his mind, at least to know when he was bored or unengaged in the subject matter, as he certainly was now. So as Michael’s attention was wavering, he knew Karen would pick up on it in just a few more seconds if she hadn’t already.

  “Michael, is it too soon? I know you’re upset about Alex …”

  “No, that’s not it. I mean, I’m upset, but that’s not what’s on my mind. The other thing I asked you yesterday to research was artificial intelligence. What have you got?” Michael knew he hadn’t made a smooth transition, but he couldn’t help the curiosity tugging at his mind after his discussion with Skinny Lester at the cemetery.

  Karen was clearly surprised, but she appeared to recover quickly. “I can see that you’re not interested in this part of our agenda, so let’s move on before you fall asleep.”

  Michael tried to control his amusement.

  “Okay, here’s the story.” Karen handed Michael an inch-thick file filled with detailed analyses and studies, most printed from the Internet.