by Nele Neuhaus
“Room 16 is the only one that’s allegedly empty,” he said.
Both men walked along the hallway until they reached room 16. They didn’t waste time knocking, but entered immediately.
“Best regards from Sergio,” Luca said. From a distance of about six feet, he aimed at a patient lying beneath white hospital bed linens and fired four times.
“That’s it,” he said, putting the weapon in his jacket pocket. Both men left the ward unseen and took the elevator to the ground floor.
Nick Kostidis and Frank Cohen entered the foyer of Goldwater Memorial Hospital accompanied by the US marshals Spooner and Khazaeli.
“Fucking idiot!” Deputy Spooner grumbled. “That guy almost hit my brand-new Dodge.”
Khazaeli tried to calm his colleague down. A dark Lincoln had suddenly pulled out of a parking spot and almost hit Spooner’s car in the hospital parking lot. The driver—a fat paramedic—didn’t apologize and simply drove away.
“He’s still an idiot!” Spooner shook his head. At that moment, the beeper on his belt went off.
“It’s the head office,” he announced after a quick glance at the device. “Shit. My cell phone doesn’t work in the hospital.”
He turned away and walked to the desk to make a phone call. Nick, Frank, and Khazaeli waited in the hall until he was done. When he saw Spooner’s face, Nick was overcome by a strange feeling—a kind of dark premonition. He felt like someone had punched him in the stomach.
“What’s the matter?” he asked the US marshal, struggling to control his voice.
“Something’s wrong,” Spooner responded with a grim face. “Boyd and Roscoe are unreachable. They’re not at their post.”
“Who are they?” Nick asked impatiently. Spooner didn’t answer, but he disengaged his Glock’s safety catch and rushed to the staircase.
“The marshals guarding Sontheim,” Deputy Khazaeli said. He also pulled out his gun and pressed the elevator call button. Nick turned ice cold. All the color vanished from his face.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank asked as they got into the elevator with two nurses, who were staring aghast at Khazaeli’s pistol.
“I don’t know,” the US marshal replied. “Both of you wait in the elevator until we figure this out.”
Nick’s whole body began to shake. The elevator stopped on the third floor with a quiet ring.
“Stay here!” Khazaeli repeated, but Nick shook his head.
“I certainly won’t,” he replied.
“Damn it!” Tension was etched into the US marshal’s face. “I don’t want to argue with you! Do what you want!”
Frank objected, but Nick wasn’t listening. “Nick, maybe we really should—”
Nick’s dark eyes were black with fear. He felt like charging past the officers. At that moment, the private ward’s glass door was flung open, and a young nurse came out screaming.
“Dr. Walters!” she screamed. “Dr. Walters is dead!”
Spooner and Khazaeli ran past her, with Nick and Frank following. In front of the nurses’ station a collapsible stretcher held a man whose eyes were wide open. Blood dripped from his half-closed mouth onto the light-gray linoleum floor. Terrified doctors and nurses were shouting hysterically and some were crying. Frank, who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, fought his nausea and turned away.
“Which room is Sontheim in?” Deputy Spooner yelled at Nick.
“Sixteen,” Nick whispered. His heart was racing: his mind refused to accept what seemed obvious after seeing the murdered doctor. Vitali had heard that Alex was still alive and didn’t hesitate. His killers had already finished their bloody job. Ginnie Summer was suddenly standing in front of him. Her usually friendly face looked shocked, terrified.
“Nick!” she shouted in a shrill voice, grabbing his arm. “What’s going on here?” Who did this?”
“I…I don’t know.” His watched as the two marshals as they ran down the hallway, then returned his gaze to the dead doctor. He didn’t want to know what had just happened in room 16. He didn’t want to see Alex’s body riddled with bullets. He had failed once again. Hadn’t he promised that he would protect her?
“Nick…” Frank touched his arm, and the mayor flinched.
“Mr. Kostidis!” Deputy Spooner shouted at the same moment and waved to him.
“No,” Nick whispered, “please, please don’t…”
The few steps to the door of Alex’s room felt like miles to Nick. But he registered that Spooner looked relieved; soon he was staring uncomprehendingly at a bed riddled with bullets.
“Someone stuffed blankets and pillows beneath the bedding,” Deputy Khazaeli explained. “The killers probably thought it was a human body and blazed away at it.”
“But where is she?” Nick whispered.
“Here,” Spooner said, “she seems to be okay.”
Alex cowered on the floor of the adjoining small bathroom, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. When she realized it was Nick, she silently extended her arms, and he fell on his knees in front of her. His relief was overwhelming as Alex flung her arms around his neck and pressed her face against his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” Nick whispered in a tearful voice. “I’m so sorry. I promised that you would be safe here.”
“Please get me out of here.”
“I will,” Nick said as he stroked her hair. “Don’t cry—everything will be all right.”
Gordon Engels accompanied them out to the hallway with five US marshals.
“Is she all right?” he inquired.
“Yes,” Nick replied, “but what about your people who were supposed to guard her?”
“They’re both dead,” Engels said, his expression frozen. “I don’t know yet how it happened, but they were both shot in the neck just like the doctor. We found their bodies in the laundry room.”
Nick felt Alex shudder in his arms.
“I know who shot them,” she whispered. “I was just about to leave the room. I don’t know why, but I had a really strange feeling. Then I saw the doctor standing in the hallway with two paramedics. One of them suddenly pulled out a gun, and from behind, he shot the doctor in the head. I knew they were here for me because I recognized them.”
She started sobbing.
“Who were they?” Nick asked in soft voice.
“Sergio’s closest men. Luca di Varese. Silvio Bacchiocchi.”
The bloody murders at Goldwater Memorial Hospital dominated news broadcasts that day. Camera teams from all over the country besieged the hospital building. Gordon Engels decided to disseminate false information in order to protect Alex. He announced to the waiting television reporters and journalists that unidentified perpetrators who fled the scene had shot two police officers, a doctor, and a hospital patient for no apparent reason. Engels assumed that both perpetrators wouldn’t go into hiding because they believed they were unidentified; he knew they’d be arrested the following evening. Nick took Alex to the St. Ignatius monastery. She’d be safe behind the Jesuit monastery’s fortresslike walls.
Alex wore a gray hooded sweatshirt and jeans. Her hair was tied in a simple ponytail. Traces of terrible abuse were still clearly visible on her face. For the questioning by the US attorneys, the Jesuit fathers provided a large room, empty save for a table and chairs. Punctually at seven in the morning, Lloyd Connors and Royce Shepard from the US Attorney’s Office arrived at the monastery accompanied by Gordon Engels and Truman McDeere. Nick and Frank Cohen were there of course, and Nick felt a sting in his heart as Alex entered the room accompanied by Oliver Skerritt. He had his arm protectively around her shoulders and only reluctantly let go of her when the questioning commenced. The deputy US attorney introduced himself and his colleagues and then asked Alex if she had any objections to them recording the conversation on tape.
“Ms. Sontheim,” Lloyd Connors began, “because of the urgency of this situation, we’ve decided to postpone the questioning by t
he SEC. Mr. Kostidis told me that you waive your right to legal representation. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Alex’s voice sounded firm. She sat upright, her hands placed on the table in front of her, looking at the deputy US attorney attentively.
Connors cleared his throat. “The sole purpose of today’s questioning is to compile evidence of Mr. Sergio Vitali’s involvement in this bribery affair. You could potentially serve as the prosecution’s key witness should there be a court trial. At this point, you may be the only person testifying. Please tell us briefly about your job at LMI.”
Alex nodded and gave them the information they needed. She recounted Levy’s propositions. She recalled all of the deals she had closed for LMI, and identified those from which Levy and Vitali illegally profited, with the help of St. John. She told them about the first time that she suspected someone was conducting secret deals with her information behind her back, and she described the trap that she’d set for St. John with Syncrotron. She made no secret of her relationship with Vitali. Then she told them about the birthday party at his house in Mount Kisco, where she accidentally overheard the conversation between Sergio and the man with the yellow eyes. Truman McDeere frowned, but he remained silent. Alex spoke in an emotionless voice, never averting her eyes from Connors.
“What can you tell us about the night Mr. Vitali was shot?”
“Everything,” she said. “I was there.”
Alex told them how Nick had warned her that afternoon about Sergio’s conflict with the Colombian drug cartel. She gave a detailed description of the assassination attempt and described the warehouse in Brooklyn where she’d been taken. Gordon Engels had been silent until then, but he asked a few questions.
Finally, Connors asked her to tell them how she became aware of the corruption conspiracy. Alex drank a sip of water and then recounted her inquiries and how they all led to dubious stock purchases through an investment firm called MPM. She told them about her trip to MIT, where she learned about the secret accounts on Grand Cayman and Vitali’s involvement in MPM. The deputy US attorney appeared to be satisfied with her statement.
“Let’s go back to the events of the night that Mr. St. John was shot dead,” Connors said. “What really happened?”
Alex related all the significant details.
“Why didn’t you inform the police?” Royce Shepard asked.
“I knew that Vitali had paid off the police commissioner and also the US attorney. I was afraid of him.”
“Where did the money go?”
“I changed the transactions to my name,” Alex said. “I knew who the money belonged to, and I thought that it might come in handy as protection. It was clear to me as I read the e-mails on his computer that St. John didn’t commit suicide. Vitali had him killed because he feared that he’d blow everything up. He planned to disguise his death as a suicide, but then he had a better idea. He could kill two birds with one stone by pinning the murder on me. St. John was dead, and I’d be discredited as a witness.”
“Where’s the money now?”
“I placed it in foreign accounts.”
“Why did you leave the country even though St. John’s statements proved you were innocent?” Engels asked.
“Who could I have proved it to?” Alex frowned, shrugging her shoulders. “No one would have believed me because Vitali had the right men on his side. I would have been arrested, and Vitali’s people would probably have killed me while I was in custody. Think about what he did to his own son.”
“What happened the day you disappeared from the Portland Square Hotel?” Connors inquired, and Alex lowered her gaze. Nick felt horrible. In the past, when he’d asked questions like this, he had no idea how painful they were. Each answer forced the person to relive the dread and horror.
“Mr. Vitali barged into my room with four of his men.” She spoke in an expressionless voice. “He beat me and had them tie me up. He left no doubt that he would kill me as soon as he heard everything that he wanted to know.”
All of the men in the room were silent.
“Vitali tried to force me to tell him everything that I’m telling you now. Then he beat me again and had his men beat and rape me. When he thought I was dead, they dumped me in the East River.”
Nick couldn’t take it anymore. For the first time since Alex had entered the room, she looked at him and saw that he seemed almost as tormented as she did.
“It’s okay, Nick,” she said quietly. “I want this guy prosecuted.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t spare you this, Ms. Sontheim.” Connors’s voice sounded apologetic. “But with your testimony, we’ll be able to charge Mr. Vitali with multiple crimes. I don’t want to risk letting him slip through our fingers again.”
Alex nodded.
“Are you willing to testify against him in court?”
Alex nodded again.
There was complete silence in the large room.
“Are you aware how dangerous such a testimony could be for you?”
“Yes,” Alex replied calmly, “I am. But I’m not afraid anymore. I won’t hide, and I don’t want a new identity. He will find me wherever I go. I’ll testify against him.”
The interrogation ended at twelve thirty. Nick and Frank drove to city hall, and the US attorneys started to prepare the arrest warrants. Alex not only identified David Zuckerman’s killer in photographs, but also the men who had raped her. She also identified Luca di Varese and Silvio Bacchiocchi as the murderers of the US marshals and the doctor at Goldwater Memorial. After that, twenty-three attorneys worked nonstop on the indictments and the arrest warrants until evening. They would drop the bomb in a few hours. Vitali had no clue that many of his “friends” had come to the St. Regis that evening because the US Attorney’s Office had forced them to. Very soon, the handcuffs would click around his wrists. Connors was determined to make sure that Sergio Vitali would never ever get out of prison.
Nick left his office at city hall in the late afternoon accompanied by two bodyguards. Connors asked Nick to come with him to the St. Regis to witness Vitali’s arrest, but Nick declined. He was tired, burned out. It suddenly seemed that he’d been robbed of all perspective, and he lost his ability to make even the simplest decisions. The past weeks and days had drained him, and now—with the goal that he’d doggedly pursued for so many years finally within his grasp—he realized that it no longer mattered to him. The price he had paid was too high. There was no one left with whom he could share the triumph of Vitali’s arrest.
And then there was Alex. Nick had a feeling that she would leave the city when this nightmare was over; he could understand why she wouldn’t want to live in this place anymore. She was still young and could start a new life somewhere else, allowing these ghastly events to become a dark shadow of the past. Maybe she had a chance with Oliver Skerritt, who apparently loved her and wasn’t leaving her side.
As his limousine crawled across the Brooklyn Bridge, Nick contemplated his own future. He still had one more year ahead of him as the mayor of this city that he both loved and hated. He would get through this year, because he owed it to the people who had elected him. Then he would be fifty-five years old. He could join a law firm, or even turn his back on New York and start a new life somewhere else.
His thoughts involuntarily drifted back to Alex. How strange life is! He ultimately had Vitali to thank, of all people, for having met her. Dusk was falling as the limousine passed through the entrance gate of the St. Ignatius monastery. Before Nick went to Father Kevin, he turned into the cloistered courtyard to visit the cemetery. There was no one left for him to talk to, but he felt that Mary listened to him when he visited her grave.
As the door to the cloister opened, he caught sight of Alex and Oliver Skerritt sitting on a bench beneath the bare branches of a mighty chestnut tree. The courtyard they sat in was illuminated by the last rays of the setting December sun. He felt a painful sting in his heart when he saw Oliver putting his arm around Alex’s sh
oulders. He stared at them for a moment; then he closed the door silently and took a different path to the cemetery.
On that bench in the courtyard, Oliver silently held Alex’s hand. Too many horrible things had happened, and the memories were too fresh to talk about.
“Why didn’t I listen to you?” Alex said in a quiet voice. “All of the things that happened to you were my fault. Mark and Justin might not even be alive.”
Oliver turned his head and looked at her. Everything that had happened between them seemed like a different life.
“Mark knew what he was getting himself into,” he replied. “Justin did too, and so did I. You never left any doubt that things could get dangerous.”
She didn’t react to his words; it was almost as if she hadn’t heard them. There was a lost expression on her pale face. Oliver put his arm around her shoulders again. She leaned slightly against him and closed her eyes.
“What will you do once all of this is over?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Alex replied tiredly. “I don’t know anything anymore. How about you?”
“I’m finished with New York,” Oliver said. “I’ll sell my loft and go back home to my parents. My dad’s getting old, so maybe I’ll take over his fishing fleet. And write a book. I definitely have enough material now.”
Alex smiled softly and opened her eyes again.
“Come with me to Maine,” Oliver suggested, “at least for a while.”
“To Maine,” Alex said and sighed. “That sounds far away enough from all of this.”
They were silent for a while. The pale December sun vanished behind the monastery’s church tower. It grew cold.
“I know that this probably isn’t the right moment,” Oliver whispered, “but I want you to know how much I care for you.”
Alex bit her lip and swallowed. Then she looked at him.
“I really like you, Oliver. But…” She fell silent searching for the right words.
“Alex, I don’t mean to put you under pressure in any way. You don’t owe me anything, but you should know that you’re the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met. I could live with it if you told me you didn’t love me, but I wouldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try.”