Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  “We’re coming right over the Whitestone Expressway right over there,” the pilot shouted. “I’m going to come in real low. We’ll be right over Willets Point Boulevard. There’s 119th Street, where they radioed these guys might be. Fortunately, there aren’t too many cars this time of night. I see some of our guys approaching the area.”

  Fletcher could see the area the pilot was pointing out and the several flashing red lights from the patrol cars heading toward the water. “We have to find that car before they get to the pier,” Fletcher shouted. His eyes strained as he tried to focus and interpret what he saw.

  “Get the big spotlight right over there,” Fletcher said, pointing to a spot where a solitary car with its lights on stood right next to the edge of the water. A single streetlight dimly illuminated the scene. There were people running, carrying something.

  * * *

  Morty looked at Michael as if he was one of the caskets he transported to the cemeteries in Brooklyn. During the night, his “packages” were not as neatly encased as the ones he moved during the day. He also missed the police escorts that accompanied the big daytime funeral processions. They helped him steer through the busy New York streets. At night, his “deliveries” tended to be to lonely, deserted parts of the city, so the police escort wasn’t needed—not to mention that the cops wouldn’t look favorably upon Morty’s night work.

  “Hey, Lump,” he said, “where we goin’ to dinner?” Morty figured they would be sitting down to either a thick T-bone or a bowl of spaghetti and hot Italian sausage in less than fifteen minutes.

  Morty remembered the sound of approaching helicopters from his service during the first Gulf War. He had heard that sound in the distance again just a minute ago but put it out of his mind. Now it was louder. LaGuardia Airport was nearby, but helicopters here were pretty much only for rush-hour traffic reporters. It was too long into the night for that.

  The chopper was coming closer; it was too low. And now sirens. They too were getting louder and closer. There was no way anyone could have followed them here, he thought. This had never happened before. Something was wrong. He felt a rush of energy, not fear but some strange excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time. He looked at Lump and Nicky. They were still clueless. But suddenly, Nicky Bats looked at Lump; then they both looked right at Morty. The edge of the pier was less than twenty feet away.

  Morty began to weigh the options in his mind. They could still dump Michael before anyone was going to get to them. But what if they were caught before they could get away? Kidnapping versus murder. Neither was good. How close were the cops? If they didn’t finish the job, Mr. Sharkey would be very upset.

  Morty saw the spotlight from the helicopter first. It caught the three of them carting the bound-and-concrete-anchored Michael. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Morty commanded. They dropped Michael hard on the ground and ran toward their car. Before they could enter, however, police cars appeared everywhere around them, blocking the car and even their own escape by foot.

  The helicopter searchlight moved between Michael, helpless but alive on the pier and the three perps. Cops were getting out of their cars, guns drawn, shouting, “Get on the ground, get on the ground!”

  Lump turned to Morty and said, “We should have dumped him. Mr. Sharkey’s going to be pissed.”

  “That’s the least of our fuckin’ problems,” replied Morty. And then he remembered the cassette still sitting in the car—and all the other recordings on it he had sworn to Mr. Sharkey that he had erased.

  Chapter 48

  Westport, Connecticut

  December 12, 2009

  Michael had spent most of the day speaking with the police and trying to juggle his responsibilities at Gibraltar. He had informed Richard Perkins and the security services at Gibraltar Financial about last night’s terrifying events. Everyone assumed this might be somehow connected to the murder of Michael’s brother. Fortunately, there seemed to be no suspicion that Michael’s life had now become completely intertwined with his brother’s.

  Michael knew that once that connection was even suspected, his legitimate business career would end abruptly. Just juggling the two businesses would be a herculean task. Michael knew he couldn’t do both for too long. Karen was already doing a great job covering for him.

  Now, alone in the silence and subdued lighting of his library, Michael opened up Alex’s laptop and once more visited with his brother. After the usual preliminaries of user name and password, Alex appeared on the screen.

  “Alex, it’s Michael.”

  “How are you, Michael?”

  “I’m great. I’ve acquired a taste for chloroform.” He then described the kidnapping in detail to Alex. “The police are looking for Sharkey. It’s just a matter of time until they find him. They want him for at least three other murders that were identified on the cassette tapes found in Morty’s car.”

  “He won’t be that easy to catch. His friends will get him to Italy or Venezuela. Sharkey’s a cheap thug, but he’s connected. I heard he’s sort of friends with the president of Venezuela, that guy Chavez. What about my murder? Who ordered the hit?” Alex was calm, almost expressionless.

  “Of course they suspect Sharkey—but why would he want to get rid of you when you owed him seven hundred grand?” Michael said. “Obviously, the cops don’t know about that.”

  “I agree. It wouldn’t make any sense. There’s more to it, or there’s got to be someone else behind my murder.”

  “What about those kids that Donna said approached you months ago and wanted a payoff or a piece of the action?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, it makes sense that it’s connected to that, but the question is, who was behind them? They were just doing someone else’s errands.”

  Michael remembered a comment Morty made in the car. “What do you think Morty meant when he said to me that Sharkey already has my money?”

  “Sharkey must have told him, or he was just fuckin’ bragging that he somehow had your money or was getting it. It could have just been bullshit, or there’s a connection or something going on that we don’t know about yet.”

  Michael continued to marvel at the whole idea of being able to actually carry on a conversation with his brother—and about events that occurred after he died. Although Alex didn’t have conclusive answers—no one alive did either, including the NYPD—he was making perfect sense and had good insights. Michael decided to see how far he could push the questioning; he wanted to test Alex’s “memory.”

  “Alex, do you remember the time you came home late from a date or something and in the morning you had to confess that you’d lost your shoes?” Michael asked.

  Alex became more animated. “Yeah, I remember. Christ, Mom was relentless. I told her that I forgot them. She wouldn’t give up, just kept asking me how I could possibly just forget my shoes—in the winter, no less.”

  “What did happen to them?”

  “I was in the hedges in Windsor Park with some girl, and a cop surprised us. We grabbed some clothes and ran, but neither of us got our shoes. It must have been even tougher for her when she got home. She was missing more.”

  Michael was impressed with the depth this artificial intelligence was showing. Obviously the program was sophisticated, but it was also evident that Alex and Russell had spent a lot of time feeding background experiences and personality characteristics into the system. Michael decided to press further, this time into the truly unknown.

  “Alex, where are you now?”

  “I’m right here with you, Michael.”

  “Do you understand that you’re now a product of your computer and the software that you had Russell put together before you died?” Michael wondered if Alex would be offended or angered by this question.

  “I know what the fuck you’re trying to say, Michael. But you may not be as smart as you think when it comes to this. You know that expression, ‘think outside the box’?”

  “I do, but I’ve never heard you
say it.”

  “My mind is a lot clearer now. I’m not drinking; I’m not eating a lot of crap. I’m getting a lot of fuckin’ rest too since you don’t seem to have the time to speak with me as much as I’d like. Actually, you seem to stay away now just like before.”

  “You’ve got to realize, I’m living two lives now—my old one and a good part of your old one—plus, until I open up about everything to at least Samantha, it’s hard for me to break away in privacy and speak with you.”

  Alex shrugged on the screen. “Whatever.”

  Michael felt like he was in an endless exercise with Alex to either solve major or minor mysteries or to try to tie up a myriad of loose ends that weren’t obviously connected.

  “Alex, a few days after you were buried, I received a text message stating that an Apple device that evidently was missing had been found. It gave the location, which turned out to be Saint Michael’s cemetery. Do you have any idea what that was about?”

  “I’m no expert on all this technical shit, but there’s some kind of connection between the spirit and the Internet.”

  “What kind of connection?” Michael asked.

  “It might have something to do with what they call cloud computing, but I don’t understand a lot of this yet. Give me time.”

  Michael decided to get back to more practical matters for which Alex seemed fully capable of providing guidance. He talked to Alex about his promotion to chairman after the death of Dick Applegarden.

  “Michael, you know, of course, that this guy didn’t die from that shit you’re telling me. Something else happened.” Alex’s eyes burned through the screen, directly to Michael.

  Michael didn’t answer. He thought about Applegarden, his duplicity, and his rage after Michael’s Los Angeles speech. He thought, the truth was, he didn’t care about Applegarden and he wasn’t sorry that Chairman Dick was dead. He knew that wasn’t a nice thought, but all he cared about now was who was behind Alex’s murder—and who was trying to kill him. He needed to get Alex back to what mattered.

  “Alex, can I trust Donna?” Michael asked.

  “Donna needs money. All my wives need money. She’s afraid of being broke. It’s too late for her to work anymore. She’s okay as long as she has some security, but she’ll do some crazy things if she feels she could run out of money. She’s not a bad woman, but a little nuts and totally insecure when it comes to money.”

  “Would she kill for money?” Michael asked.

  Alex stared straight ahead. His response took longer than any others. It was apparent that this question required much thought or complicated extrapolation from all the input and intelligence the system had accumulated. At first, Alex appeared to be unsure, but finally and firmly he answered, “Yes.” Then, several long seconds later, he added, “But then again, all my wives would.”

  Chapter 49

  Westport, Connecticut

  December 12, 2009

  Michael was a reluctant celebrity, although not as reluctant as Samantha. Nevertheless, he felt good, not only because he was at Mario’s, but because he was alive. He and Samantha had spent hours discussing the kidnapping, their new life, and the future of Michael’s new business. Now it was time to relax in their favorite hangout, even while continuing the challenging discussions.

  Paul, the ma�tre d’, greeted them at the door with his familiar welcome and upbeat spirit. He seated them at their favorite table by the window, which looked out at the Westport train station. Michael enjoyed observing the harried New York commuters begin to file home at the end of the day. He took perverse pleasure in watching them, like watching the rush-hour traffic reports on television on your day off.

  As Michael sipped his first martini and Samantha her sauvignon blanc, Tiger came by their table. Fletcher had been in earlier and told Tiger all the inside details about the kidnapping and rescue. Mario’s regulars already knew most of the story from the local news stations. Michael was now well known in town. It was more notoriety than he wanted.

  “Jesus, Michael. You guys had quite a night on Friday. Everybody in the bar was watching the whole thing on the late news. It was good for business, but, Christ, I was worried about you.” But it was apparent that Tiger, in his own low-key way, enjoyed the story now that Michael was safely home. “The folks at the bar said, ‘Wow, this guy always seemed so quiet. Who would want to kidnap him?’”

  “Don’t worry, Tiger. I’m going to keep him on a tight leash from now on,” Samantha said.

  Michael glanced at Samantha, knowing she was serious about the leash. He knew she was not on board with everything, particularly after last night. He also knew there was much she still didn’t know—too much that he hadn’t told her.

  “Your brother must have been some character,” Tiger said. “I always liked him when you’d bring him in for dinner. He was a nice guy—but you could tell he was probably into some things you couldn’t talk about. The two of you were different that way, you know. You were, like, Mr. Clean.”

  Before Michael had a chance to speak, Fletcher and his wife, Angie, walked in the front door and over to their table. Michael hugged Fletcher. A few people at the bar and in the restaurant glanced knowingly at their table. It seemed as if everyone in Westport knew what had happened.

  “I didn’t know you were coming here tonight. Please join us, sit down,” Samantha said, motioning to the other two seats at the table.

  “We don’t want to intrude on your dinner. This was just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Angie didn’t want to cook,” Fletcher said.

  “Are you crazy? I think after saving my life, dinner together is a good thing.” Michael was happy for their company. Fletcher and Angie sat down, ordered their drinks, and prepared to join their good friends for a quiet Westport dinner, secure amongst the locals they all knew or recognized.

  “Michael,” Angie said, “you are unbelievable. You must have been scared shitless in that car!”

  Michael enjoyed Angie’s colorful and direct speaking style. He appreciated her lack of affectations or patience for the more stuck-up, country-club types who populated many of the more prosperous Fairfield County towns. He knew she was someone you didn’t want to cross—but a most devoted and loyal friend to those she loved.

  “I was,” Michael said. “I didn’t see any way they’d find us in that Town Car. Even when I heard the sirens and the helicopter, I was already at the pier. I thought those guys were still going to throw me in.”

  Tiger returned and pulled up a chair to join in the minicelebration. “You know,” he said, “Fletcher is now a real big shot. Before last night, he was just a small-town police chief. When everyone heard he was on that helicopter with the NYPD, he became Clint Eastwood.”

  Fletcher smiled but then turned serious. “Yeah, I had to call in some favors to get them to pick me up in the chopper and take me with them.” He then turned toward Samantha. “But I have one question, Samantha. Why did Donna have a tracking device on Michael’s cell phone?”

  Samantha looked at Michael, who answered, “At Alex’s wake, she borrowed my phone and secretly installed this GPS tracking software on it. She had done the same thing with Alex when he was alive. I don’t think Donna knew whom she could trust. Until Alex was shot, I had never really spent that much time with her myself. It’s pretty strange, but then again, so is Donna.”

  “She told me she’d explain. I know she was embarrassed, but thank God she’d done it,” Samantha said.

  Fletcher turned now to Michael. “Are you really taking over Alex’s business? How the hell are you going to do that and run Gibraltar? Is this what you want to do at this point in your life?”

  “You know, the truth is,” Michael said to everyone at the table, “I’m tired of running things at Gibraltar. I’m tired of constantly finding ways to cut costs. I’m tired of cutting out everything that makes people feel good about where they work. I’m tired of getting rid of good, hardworking people and having to tell those left behind that they need to
now just do the work of their fired coworkers. This isn’t fun anymore. And I’m tired of answering to people who don’t have a clue about the business and could care less about anything farther out than three or six months. And, by the way, to do all these unpleasant things, I’ve spent half of my life on an airplane or in some Marriott. This isn’t a life.”

  “Wow, you’re serious. You know, I never saw it that way,” Angie said.

  “Michael,” Fletcher interjected, “you know that Alex’s business is illegal.”

  “Everything that Alex did is done either by the state—like the off-track betting parlors throughout New York, which take the same exact bets as a bookie does, or by Citibank, in terms of the loan-sharking. Loan sharks charge more than Citi’s 30 percent, but on the other hand, there’s no collateral to fall back on. We can’t put a lien or foreclose on someone’s house or garnish their wages the way the banks do, so a loan shark charges a higher interest rate. It may be illegal, but it’s only because our politicians are a bunch of hypocrites.”

  “Okay, and what about the IRS issue?” Fletcher asked. “Most of these guys get in big trouble when they’re caught because they don’t declare the income from these activities. How can you leave yourself vulnerable like that? You could wind up in jail.”

  Michael had obviously thought through a lot of this, surprising even Samantha with the depth of his research. “I’ve already spoken at length with my attorney, Larry Rothberg. We’re going to find a safe mechanism to actually report all the income I make, mostly by reporting gambling gains and loan interest income through some type of corporate entity. I think I can also expand into some totally legal investments so that the line becomes very blurred. At least regarding the IRS, I’ll be in total legal compliance.”

  Angie looked at Samantha. “And how do you feel about all this?”

  “Well …” Samantha at first hesitated and then said, “In the beginning, I couldn’t imagine it. I thought for sure Michael was just settling Alex’s affairs and then everything would get back to normal. But you know, Michael’s right. Normal meant rarely being together, except on weekends. And even that was sometimes not happening with all the off-site planning meetings or the company-wide motivational weekends or the team-building nonsense that went on.