Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  He took his first sip from his Baccarat martini glass and felt the warmth stir in his stomach as the clear drink found its way down. Then he gently opened his laptop.

  Alex spoke first. “I see that you’re headed for Paris again?”

  Michael was surprised. “Yes, we leave tomorrow night. How the hell did you know that?”

  “I’ve gotten a lot better with this technology shit. Anyway, I noticed it on your e-mail; it was your American Express travel confirmation.”

  Michael couldn’t read anything into Alex’s expression, but he suspected that his brother was enjoying his ability to penetrate Michael’s communications more than he let on.

  “Well, that’s a little frightening. Please don’t start e-mailing me the death notices of every athlete and famous person who dies, like you used to when you were …” Michael hesitated. “You know.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes, I guess so, for want of a better word.”

  “Michael, I’m more alive than many of the living. You should check out my Facebook page by the way.”

  “You’re kidding. You’re on Facebook?”

  “Yeah, I never paid much attention to it when I was really alive, but now I’m hooked. You would be amazed at how you can follow everyone on it.”

  “Oh, Christ. I hope none of your friends—let alone your wives—ever discover your page.”

  “Don’t worry, they’ll have no way of knowing it’s really me. There are other guys named Alex Nicholas. I listed my occupation in my profile as ‘astronomer.’” Alex appeared to take a deep breath. “I’m learning, Michael, I’m getting fuckin’ stronger, you know?”

  “That’s interesting. Things are happening so quickly, Alex, for you and for me. This is all so strange—so real, yet so unreal.”

  “Michael, you have no idea. There’s more I want to tell you, but not now. This still isn’t the time. Not yet. Just be patient. Anyway, how’s my business going?”

  Michael’s head was spinning. He had never envisioned the degree to which technology would allow Alex to link up with the rest of the virtual world. It seemed that every few weeks, Alex would make another connection or find a new link to the world from which everyone thought he had departed. Again, Michael needed time to absorb the ramifications; he needed to think. He was thankful that Alex changed the subject.

  “It’s going very well. You know, it’s mostly baseball right now, although we cleaned up on the Kentucky Derby. I think we cleared nearly half a million last month.”

  “Sure, you and Donna and everyone are making a pile of money off my business, and I’m not collecting anything here.”

  Michael laughed, but he knew Alex meant it. “I’d pay you a royalty if I could.”

  “Yeah well, don’t laugh, Michael, because you can. Ha, you’re so smart.”

  “What do you mean? How the hell am I going to pay you anything?”

  “Well, smart guy, did you ever hear of PayPal?”

  “Oh Christ. You can’t be serious,” Michael said.

  “I’m going to set up a PayPal account. Don’t worry, I haven’t actually figured that out yet because I’d have to link it to either a checking account or a credit card. Those things would be a little tough at the moment—although I expect to get a credit card offer online any day. You know those banks. They don’t care if you’re dead, as long as you can pay. Anyway, don’t worry about it just yet. Ha.”

  Michael could see that, perhaps more than ever, Alex was enjoying himself. Has he settled in? Michael thought to himself. And, if so, where is in, exactly?

  Alex turned somber, his face tightening up. “What’s going on with Sharkey? Is there anything new?”

  “Fortunately, he’s dropped off the face of the earth. The NYPD has had a warrant out for his arrest for months now, but there’s no sign of him. Skinny Lester agrees with what you guessed earlier, that he’s left the country, and that since he had connections in Italy and Venezuela, he’s most likely in one of those two places. And I know this is going to sound odd, but I thought I may have even seen him in the background of a CNN interview going on in Rome.”

  “I think you watch too much fuckin’ television. That would be pretty coincidental, don’t you think?”

  “I thought so too, I mean, what would be the odds that—”

  “About a thousand to one, assuming he is in Rome. No odds at all if he’s not. I wouldn’t take either side of that bet.” Michael realized that mentioning odds to Alex was like waving a red cape in front of a bull.

  “In any case, it’s certainly been nice and calm with him out of the way,” Michael said, still wondering whether he imagined the whole thing with Sharkey on the television at Mario’s. Or was it just another strange occurrence, a clue offered by some unknown person or thing to the myriad of puzzles that had surrounded Michael’s life?

  Alex suddenly appeared to be looking away, his attention was somewhere else. Michael couldn’t tell whether it was something not visible on the screen or whether he was simply thinking.

  “I don’t like not knowing where the fuck he is. I’ve tried to find him, but he’s too stupid to use a computer, and I can’t find any cell phone trace of him. But, I’ll keep trying. He worries me, Michael,” Alex continued, although Michael sensed that Alex was still thinking about Sharkey. “Speaking of the Lesters, how are they doing?”

  “They both miss you. It’s strange to see them; your friends, but guys that I knew as a kid and then hardly ever saw again for thirty years. Now I see or talk to them every day—like you did, I guess. They’re doing a good job, too. Things have settled down. I’ve got good people around me both at Gibraltar and in your business. That’s what’s made it all possible for me. You know what it’s like; you had two jobs at once, too.”

  A flash of recognition crossed Alex’s face as he spoke. “Between the restaurant and the bookmaking, I had no day job—just two night ones, for several years. It was fuckin’ good though because none of my wives would ever know where the hell I was. I could stay out all night, working. Then I got bored with Grimaldi’s, and it became a pain in the ass, always having to watch everything, bartenders stealing from you and shit. So, I finally sold it to Maria.”

  “Well, Gibraltar won’t last forever for me. Sometime, I’ll get out or they’ll force me out.”

  “So what happens then? Do you go to a bigger job or a bigger company?”

  “I don’t know. When you’re on top, you always assume your career is on the upswing. But for all you really know, you may have peaked and your next step may be down. You don’t know until it’s too late—and you’re looking back on it.” Michael watched Alex’s expression. He had lost him. He remembered how brief Alex’s attention span on Michael’s corporate life had always been.

  “Anyway, I’ll never have another CEO position. I’d never get through a background check again, at least not for something at that level.” Time to wrap up this topic, he thought. Alex’s eyes were wandering.

  But to Michael’s surprise, Alex came back with, “Why not? You haven’t been arrested or anything, have you?”

  “No, but now they get these security firms to do background checks before they hire you. They’ll find all the news stories about your murder, my kidnapping, and the stuff at my house. There’s too much smoke to ignore. Then they’d start interviewing people. It wouldn’t take long for them to figure something out. I’d be eliminated—and they’d never tell me why. My life has changed, you know.”

  “Yeah, well so has mine.” Again, Alex was bored with the discussion. Just as he would have while alive, he moved on to a new topic—no smooth transition, almost like a short circuit. “Have you looked at the other things on my laptop?” he asked.

  “Like what?” Michael asked, puzzled.

  “Like what? Like Jennifer’s thing. Have you clicked on her icon? You couldn’t have missed it. Her fucking blue eyes even light up on it.”

  “Oh, that. I promised her I wouldn’t.” Michael realized he�
��d actually forgotten about Jennifer’s private show on Alex’s computer. “Or to be more precise, I promised her I wouldn’t let it get out.”

  “That’s not what I asked you. Did you open it?”

  “Not yet.” Michael wasn’t sure he wanted to view it. “I promised her I wouldn’t.”

  Alex laughed; it was his bullying laugh. Michael recognized it from those times when Alex’s darker side showed itself. “That’s the fucking difference between you and me. Who gives a shit what you promised? This will be the best sex you’ve ever seen.”

  “Are you in it?”

  “No, it’s Jennifer, alone. With some of her favorite toys.”

  Chapter 63

  Paris, France

  July 17, 2010

  While the Parisians were preparing to evacuate their city for their traditional summer holiday, Michael, Samantha, Angie, and Fletcher were enjoying a week on the town. For Michael, it was a combination of work and play. He needed to meet with several of Gibraltar Financial’s Paris-based clients, and he took the opportunity to bring Samantha along to their favorite city before they headed off to the traditional summer holiday in Saint-Tropez. Adding to the fun, Fletcher and Angie decided to meet up with them for a few days of Paris shopping, dining, and celebration. For Michael, it was a time to cherish just being alive.

  Situated in a chic, cobbled courtyard leading to a meticulously renovated seventeenth-century hotel, Ralph’s—a new restaurant and the latest extension of Ralph Lauren’s classic American, high-style empire—was already a hit in Paris.

  Michael and Fletcher both relished cheeseburgers. Michael wouldn’t be caught dead ordering one while in the company of his French Gibraltar clients. But the burgers at Ralph’s were popular with the begrudging Parisians. It was lunchtime, and while Samantha and Angie looked on, two splendid burgers made from Black Angus steers raised at Ralph Lauren’s own ranch, appeared in front of Michael and Fletcher.

  Just as the waiter was leaving the table, Bertrand Rosen, the French financier and head of the highly touted investment firm Rosen & Sons, approached their table.

  “Monsieur and Madame Nicholas, such a pleasure to see you again.”

  Michael was surprised that Rosen remembered meeting them; it had been years ago. Rosen gushed over Samantha and kissed her hand, and after a few words of small talk, he moved on. Before biting into his burger, Michael said to those at the table, “Why don’t I trust that guy?”

  As Michael devoured his burger and everyone enjoyed a robust glass of French Bordeaux, the conversation turned to the events resulting in Greta’s death. Maybe, Michael thought, they all needed the emotional distance that a few months provided to put things in perspective.

  “Would you have shot her if you had been confident of hitting her?” Fletcher asked Michael.

  “I really didn’t want to shoot her. Not so much because I just didn’t want to kill her or anything. After all, it would have clearly been self-defense—not only legally but morally.”

  “So, what was the problem? Why the hesitation?” Samantha appeared to be seeking insights into her husband’s thinking, as though it was a question she had wanted to ask but never had.

  Michael stopped for a moment, seemingly bringing his thoughts to a concise conclusion. “I didn’t want to kill her—or even discharge the pistol—because I knew it would change everything. It would change how the police looked at me and the whole situation. It would open up a whole Pandora’s box of issues. Even if I had to acknowledge that I had a gun, it would have looked a lot different. And how could I prove that I had fired in self-defense instead of just wanting her out of the way? Before I opened the door, I placed the gun back in the desk drawer.”

  Angie watched her friend intently. “Leaving all that aside, could you have shot and killed her?”

  Michael did not hesitate. “Absolutely.” As soon as he said it, he saw Samantha flinch.

  “Did the police ask a lot of questions?” Fletcher asked.

  “They did. Listen, they’re not interested in the gambling part or anything about Alex’s business. After all, some of the big guys in that precinct and some other top cops in the city are customers. All they cared about was ensuring they covered themselves on shooting Greta—that they correctly assessed the situation that led up to firing on her.

  “It was actually pretty straightforward. They got my 9-1-1 call and had overheard my conversation with Greta while I left the phone on. I was trapped in my—Alex’s—office. She had cut out the power from the breaker box inside the front door, and when they walked in, she was holding a gun and had obviously been firing into my office trying to kill me. When they ordered her to drop her gun, she just turned toward them with the gun and, intentionally or not, pointed at the cops. That’s all they needed to shoot her, eight times.”

  “Did they ask about why she was trying to kill you?” Fletcher asked, clearly knowing how the police would have to approach the situation.

  “Yeah,” Michael went on. “But it really wasn’t that hard to explain. Greta was a jilted wife with a whole set of her own problems. She was pissed at me as the executor of Alex’s estate; she wanted to receive money herself instead of it going to George. She was heavily in debt. Her former live-in boyfriend was found in the Hudson River, and on top of that, she was living with Sharkey, who’s already a fugitive from justice. It all actually fit together very cleanly for the cops. Plus, it’s the missing piece of the puzzle of who was behind Alex and Russell’s murders. It was all logical and believable—and had the added benefit of being the truth. She had motive and, with Sharkey, the means to pull it all off.

  “This was like a bonanza for the cops. Now, all they need to do is find Sharkey and it’s all wrapped up. Greta was a killing waiting to happen. No one is going to challenge the cops on either how they reacted to the situation they walked in on or the character of the person they shot. It’s open and shut.”

  “You know,” Fletcher added, “it conveniently rescued you from a lot of potential problems. If she’d just been arrested instead of killed, she could have exposed a lot of difficult issues—from the cash to Alex’s business.”

  Just as everyone, including Michael, was digesting his account, Michael’s cell phone rang. It was Karen, calling from New York. Michael excused himself and walked out to the courtyard. “Hi, Karen.”

  “Hi, Boss. I just wanted to check in before the day got going here. I thought you might like to know that late yesterday I received a call from a writer at the Economist. They want to interview you for a story about how you keep a company going during a major downturn. They said they wanted your ideas on things like how to avoid destroying a company through layoffs and things despite the demands of Wall Street for financial performance even during hard times.”

  “They should talk to that Brit asshole from Richard’s office—John Hightower—and ask him,” Michael said while gazing at the parade of beautiful Parisian women filing past him in the courtyard.

  “I think they want you. It’s all a result of that LA speech. I’ll set up a meeting in your office and put it on your calendar. I’ll keep it under wraps again from marketing so you won’t have to have them involved.”

  “No, not this time, Karen. Let’s go through the proper channels. Let marketing know. If they want to send a communications person over to be there for the interview, it’s okay with me.”

  “Michael, is the alcohol content greater there in Paris than at home? Or did I just reach the wrong number?”

  “No, Karen. I’m fine. Listen, I’m not looking to be a total cowboy. Plus, I can only get away with so many things, and I gave Richard my word that I wouldn’t give unauthorized speeches. This isn’t a speech, but the Economist is too high profile to potentially have pushed in his face if I say something the board doesn’t like. Right now, I’ve got enough going on, so I don’t need to rock the boat any further. We’ll play this one straight.”

  “I hear you, Boss. It certainly makes my life easier, not to
mention my own job security.”

  “All the client meetings went reasonably well. I’ve e-mailed our account reps with a summary of each one. Tonight Samantha and I are having dinner with Catherine Saint-Laurent.”

  “You do live quite a life, Boss. I don’t know how you do it or how you manage to know some of these people. Don’t forget you also have a conference call with the Financial Times the day after tomorrow, and your driver will be at your hotel tomorrow morning at eight for the trip to Orly Airport. Be sure they don’t take you to de Gaulle.”

  “I’ve got it. I’m all set. I’ll speak with you when I get to Saint-Tropez.” Michael turned off his cell phone and resumed his lunch inside.

  * * *

  It was a festive celebration evening at Chez Dumonet. This time, however, Michael achieved celebrity status at the bistro when he and Samantha were accompanied in the door by the stunning—even by Paris standards—Jennifer and the legendary Catherine Saint-Laurent.

  After their hectic entrance, the greetings by Nono and Guillaume, and the now-familiar stares of the other diners, Michael and his party settled into his favorite table directly in front of the bar.

  Michael quickly changed the tone when he sat down and exclaimed, “I was sitting right here, Catherine, when I received a call from Alex to say hello. During that call, he was shot dead.”

  “God, that seems like it was a lifetime ago. So much has happened in the last several months,” Samantha said. “It’s amazing how something you don’t ever think about can happen and then change your life in a way you never could have dreamed possible.”

  Michael looked at his wife, and after reflecting on her words, said, “Life isn’t always destined to go on the way it seems like it will. Events can change it in a split second, or we can will ourselves a different life—or both can combine to change our course. Yet, at times, it seems like nothing can change the path we’re on. You realize how silly that concept is.”