Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  “Michael, so nice to meet you. I’m Catherine Saint-Laurent. Please, help yourself to a glass of champagne.” Her English was perfect, although she spoke with an unmistakable French accent.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Miss Saint-Laurent. I’ve enjoyed so many of your films. I hope my timing wasn’t a problem. I just wanted to say hello to Jennifer and thank her for some nice things she’s done for me.”

  “Michael, Catherine is aware of my relationship with Alex. In fact, your brother was also a big fan of Catherine’s. The three of us went out together many times.” Jennifer was obviously relishing breaking this news to Michael and appeared to be cleverly leaving to Michael’s newly energized imagination all the titillating possibilities.

  “Please accept my sincere condolences over the loss of your brother. Jennifer is correct; we enjoyed each other’s company many times. The three of us had an extraordinary time together. We shared many dinners and late nights. Alex loved women—and women loved Alex. He didn’t care whether you were famous or had money. Even cultural differences were meaningless to him. He was a unique man—a very generous man. I will miss him.”

  Michael poured himself a glass of champagne. The scent of Chanel No. 5 filled the suite.

  Chapter 33

  Westport, Connecticut

  November 29, 2009

  Michael recognized an increasing and troubling pattern of deception in himself. Samantha had always been his closest confidant. Now, in the space of less than a month, he had delayed, downplayed, or never even told her about the bizarre series of events that seemed to be a pattern of his life and that he no longer found to be unusual.

  Samantha had just arrived back again from her extended stay with Sofia. Michael had intended to correct it all tonight. It was a rare dinner at home, with candlelight and fine crystal in their dining room. The spotlighted contemporary art contrasted with the otherwise soft hues and lighting.

  But as Michael began to lay out the corrections and clarifications, he saw panic in Samantha’s eyes. And he had only begun to tell her about his discussions with Alex.

  “Michael, why didn’t you tell me all of this until now? My God, you had a virtual séance with your brother, who was having an affair with a lesbian, who in turn is having an affair with a French movie star … and in the meantime, you’ve had guns pointed at you, and now you’ve almost choked to death some old Mafia guy? What’s going on?” Samantha was distraught. “And what are you trying to say, that Alex is somehow still alive? Have you lost your mind?”

  “It’s not exactly like that,” Michael protested, but he knew it was like that and more. It was now clear to Michael that if he was going to continue to clean up his brother’s affairs, he would have to keep more of the details to himself. In fact, he would have to keep more of his life to himself until he could make Samantha more comfortable—at least temporarily. Unless, of course, it wasn’t temporary. But his mind couldn’t go there just now. He feared he may have already told Samantha too much. It was a habit, an openness they both had with each other—but that would have to change, he thought.

  “How much longer are you going to have to be involved in Alex’s business affairs?” Samantha asked.

  “I need another month or so. That’s all. It looks like we’ve collected most of the money Alex was owed, and now that Sharkey has taken our ‘settlement’ offer, we’ve paid off most of Alex’s debts.”

  “So, what’s left? And, Michael, what about Gibraltar? When are you going back to your office? What’s going on there? I thought you felt so vulnerable. How much longer can you afford to be away?”

  Michael had hardly thought about Gibraltar and the job that, until Alex’s murder nearly two weeks ago, had consumed him virtually day and night.

  “Dick knows I need another week or so. Next week, we are all flying out to Beverly Hills for a big financial services conference, on ethics no less. I’m giving one of the keynote speeches. Here, we still have to find Alex’s money. Donna needs that to live comfortably, and George is entitled to a good part of it. I may not have been close with any of them, but I owe it to Alex to finish all this and be sure his family is taken care of. There are millions of dollars hidden somewhere.”

  “How are you possibly going to find it?”

  “I’ve got Alex’s laptop now. The answers may very well be there.”

  Samantha had not yet actually witnessed the miracle of Alex’s virtual resurrection. Michael had significantly downplayed some of the imaging and artificial intelligence aspects to her, so she had not pressed Michael to actually see Alex on the computer monitor. And Michael was not yet ready to have her meet the new version of Alex.

  “Michael, no one was ever more practical—if not downright cynical—than you. You can’t seriously believe in this ‘artificial intelligence’ scheme or whatever it is. How could your brother have had the means to really put this together, when our own government with all its resources hasn’t done it?”

  Although Michael knew he had again given Samantha too much information, he now wondered if she had also heard more than he thought when she surprised him during his last conversation with Alex at the Drake. Either way, he would have to be more careful in the future.

  “But they have, Samantha. You just don’t read about it. They’ve kept it pretty secret. The CIA has already replicated the personalities of many foreign leaders. They created an artificial model of Saddam Hussein. They tested his reactions to our threats and sanctions. They were then able to predict that Saddam would never allow full UN weapons inspections.”

  “Michael, you’re telling me that our government staged the whole weapons thing, knowing that Hussein would never want the world to really know he didn’t have them and, therefore, would never let the inspectors in to prove it to the world?”

  “Exactly,” Michael continued. “The CIA could see from Hussein’s model that first, he wouldn’t believe we would really invade his country and start an unprovoked war, and second, his own pride would lead him to want the rest of the world to believe that he actually did have the weapons and, therefore, was stronger than he was.”

  “How do you know all this and the New York Times doesn’t?”

  Michael took a deep breath. “Fat Lester read it somewhere.”

  Chapter 34

  Westport, Connecticut

  November 29, 2009

  Michael sat alone in his library, surrounded by the hundreds of books that had meant so much to him during his life, the very volumes he had read and relied upon since his childhood. They were his history, the input of his life so far, and his serenity and security. Michael knew he could always be entertained and educated—even if he was alone—as long as he had his books. They were an antidote to any stress or strife of the moment.

  Alex had also been a source of security to Michael. From childhood, Alex, the older brother, had provided an introduction to the adult world, a more relevant one than his much older parents represented. Alex was Michael’s protector in the schoolyards or on the baseball diamond. Alex’s hidden Playboy magazines, which Michael would examine when Alex was not home, were Michael’s first introduction to the sensual world of the opposite sex.

  And so, while Samantha slept upstairs, Michael clicked on the icon, typed in the password, and stared at the laptop where, in just a few moments, he would see his brother again.

  “Next time, do me a favor and don’t slam the fuckin’ computer shut without warning me,” Alex said.

  “Sorry about that. Samantha surprised me in the hotel room. She’s not ready for you yet.”

  “She wasn’t quite ready for me when I was totally alive. That’s the problem with Jewish girls, they think too much. Jewish guys, too, for that matter. You’re smart to go slow on this with her. Of course, if it were me, I wouldn’t tell my wife anything. I don’t marry a woman to talk to her and tell her everything.”

  “We’re different that way, to say the least.”

  Alex gave a sarcastic smile. “Well
, we’ll see how different. You may be surprised. Anyway, what’s going on?”

  “Well, now, I’m not only tied up with one of your wives, but two of your girlfriends,” Michael answered.

  “Which two of my girlfriends tied you up?” The expression on Alex’s face showed genuine curiosity. From his question, it was obvious that Alex had more than two girlfriends.

  “Neither of them tied me up literally, although nothing would surprise me. I went to thank Jennifer for letting me know about this laptop and giving me the password. When I met her at her hotel, she had just left the bedroom with Catherine Saint-Laurent.”

  “Christ, you hit the jackpot already.”

  “I didn’t hit any jackpot. I’m not even looking to hit a jackpot. I just want to clean up your affairs for Donna.”

  “So you went to Jennifer’s hotel room to do that?” Alex was smiling at him with his best dirty-grin expression.

  Michael knew he needed to get to the heart of some major mysteries. “Alex, I need to find some things out. A lot of things have happened since you were murdered. I’m trying to be sure Donna’s fixed financially.”

  “And George too,” Alex quickly interjected. “I know you hardly know him, but without me, he’s lost. Greta can’t help him; she can hardly take care of herself. He’s my only kid, don’t forget. He’s a good kid.”

  “I know, Alex,” Michael said. “That’s why I’m trying to help with all this. Donna has asked me to get involved. I’ll see this through and take care of Donna and George. I promise.”

  “Listen, Michael. You may enjoy it too. It’s a lot better work than all that corporate shit you’ve done all your life—working for all those lowlife suits.”

  “I know. You’re probably right. But it’s been a pretty good ride, and the money’s been good. I have to admit, though, I’m a bit fed up with all the bullshit, the hours, and the travel. I’m never home.”

  “Yeah, well, I was always home—or a few blocks away in a bar—and, believe me, the money’s better; it’s tax free.” Alex laughed.

  “It’s tax free—but you can’t spend it,” Michael responded. “But listen, I don’t know what’s weirder, that I’m having this conversation with you or with a computer. Anyway, here’s what else has happened. Someone murdered Russell just before he was going to show Donna and me where he built secret compartments in the house to hide your money. So, as far as I know, whatever cash you had is still sitting somewhere, and without tearing the whole house down, I don’t know how to find it.”

  “That’s not the only money, you know,” Alex said.

  “Where else do you have money hidden?”

  “My cash is in two places. First, the house. There’s exactly one million dollars hidden in a compartment under the carpet and wood flooring in the dining room. When you pull the rug up, you’ll see a section of the wood flooring that is a slightly lighter color. You’ll have to pull up the wood planking to find the compartment. Russell was the only person I could trust. He was a good carpenter. He knew his shit. Have they figured out who killed him?”

  “I don’t know, Alex. Someone is out there who wanted both you and Russell dead. They probably figured out that Russell knew where your money was stashed. I don’t think he gave up the information before they killed him.”

  “He only knew about the hiding places in the house. The rest of the money is in a bank safety deposit box in the Citibank branch on Main Street in Flushing. The keys are in a false compartment in the kitchen cabinet just to the left of the refrigerator.”

  “Who has access to the box besides you?” Michael asked.

  “No one. Just me.”

  “Oh, shit. How the hell am I going to get into that box?”

  “You’re probably the only one who can pull it off. You used to forge my signature when we were kids. You’ll get past them at the bank. We don’t look that different. You’ll just use my IDs from my wallet, sign my name, and they’ll let you in.”

  “And what if the bank has been notified of your death?” Michael felt that sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Listen, it’s a risk, but a small one. They don’t know me there at all. That’s not my regular bank; I hardly ever go in that branch. I only have the box there, not my checking and savings accounts. Plus, you’re thinking of one of those old wives’ tales. There is no formal, automatic notification process to banks when someone dies, unless maybe when there’s a lot of money involved.”

  “Jesus,” Michael moaned, seeing himself getting in even deeper and with another unlawful transgression on its way. “How much is in the box anyway?”

  “A little over two million,” Alex said proudly.

  “Holy shit, Alex. You mean you’ve got over three million dollars stashed away?”

  “I told you, it’s better than your corporate shit. And by the way, the issue of my ‘death’ as you call it, is still open now, isn’t it?”

  Michael wasn’t sure what to expect. “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? I mean, how could I be dead if you and I are having this conversation? That’s what I mean.” Alex arched his eyebrows.

  His brother might be right. Michael felt a surge of adrenaline. It had been a long time since he had felt it coursing through his bloodstream. The virtual reappearance of his brother, the danger, the promise of instant caches of cash—it was a thrilling week. Michael realized that he thought less each day about Gibraltar Financial. But before he could reflect further or respond to Alex, Michael heard Samantha’s footsteps; she was coming down the stairs. It was time again for “Alex” to leave.

  Chapter 35

  Whitestone, Queens, New York

  November 30, 2009

  Michael opened the drawer in the coffee table where his brother’s wallet still rested, as though it expected to be reclaimed by its owner at any moment. He was sure that Alex never figured it to outlast him. Well-worn, soft black leather—it looked frozen in time, almost shriveled. Michael remembered seeing it as Alex would pull it out after every restaurant lunch or dinner, peeling off large bills to pay the tab. Inside were the typical remnants of a life: a New York state driver’s license, a few credit cards, and a wrinkled photograph.

  Donna had placed the wallet in the drawer after collecting it back from the police detective and then removing the substantial amount of cash Alex always kept in it

  Since his brother’s death, Michael had made no grand decisions about the direction of his own life. Yet he knew that each small daily choice would eventually move his life in a certain path. As he replaced his own wallet with that of his brother’s, he knew that he was also burning the bridges behind him.

  Accompanied by Fat Lester, Michael left Donna’s house with Alex’s wallet and his large navy-blue gym bag that had a New York Yankees logo emblazoned on its side.

  Main Street in Flushing, New York, looked like a lot of small cities across the United States until the 1990s, when an influx of Korean and other Asian immigrants settled there. Now it looked like a typical street in Seoul. The Citibank branch on Main Street, with its modern blue sign, looked out of place amongst all the Asian symbols. The branch was not one of the more attractive storefronts, with a sterile exterior and inhospitable interior, made more so by the presence of thick, bulletproof glass partitions separating the bank’s employees from potential bank robbers and its customers alike. Today, as Michael entered the bank, he was thankful for the lack of intimacy.

  Fat Lester double-parked outside and waited anxiously for Michael. Once inside the bank, Michael approached a young lady sitting at a desk near the entrance.

  “I need to get into my safe deposit box, please.”

  Michael realized that he was again breaking the law by misrepresenting himself and showing false identification to gain access to the box in order to obtain the cash his brother had earned illegally and, perhaps worse, not reported as income to the Internal Revenue Service.

  He thought of Al Capone, who had died in prison for less than wha
t Michael was doing today. What if the branch had somehow been notified of Alex’s death and had impounded the box? Although highly unlikely in just a few days, Michael would be caught red-handed. He was relying on the guidance and wisdom of his brother, or some version of his brother, and taking risks he would have thought unimaginable just weeks ago.

  The middle-aged bank clerk looked at Michael, and rising from her desk said, “Just follow me. I’ll need two forms of identification, one with a picture.” With his empty gym bag folded under his right arm, Michael followed her to the rear of the bank and through a door leading to a small room, behind which was a huge vault with its thick steel door wide open. Inside he could see a series of safe deposit box doors, each with an engraved number and two keyholes. Michael handed over Alex’s driver’s license and a gold American Express credit card.

  “Here, I also have my Peter Luger’s credit card if that helps.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a silly attempt at humor since few bank clerks in Flushing had likely heard of Peter Luger’s. The woman just looked at Michael with a quizzical expression. She checked the driver’s license, looked at Alex’s picture, and then looked up at Michael. She nodded; he had passed the first test.

  “Please sign your name on the card.”

  Michael looked at the signature card, which already had Alex’s signature on it from three previous visits to the box. Michael saw that he could easily replicate his brother’s signature. He signed Alex’s name below the other three signatures and handed it back to the clerk. She glanced at it quickly and said, “Follow me.”

  Before she could lead Michael into the vault, however, the phone on her desk rang. As she picked it up and listened, Michael began to perspire. Had someone recognized him as Alex, knowing that Alex had been murdered weeks before? Had the bank been notified of Alex’s death? He tried to gauge the situation by watching the expression on the clerk’s face. She was listening intently and did not make eye contact with him.