by E. J. Simon
Copyright © 2014 E. J. Simon
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Hardcover 978-0-9912564-2-6
Trade Paperback 978-0-9912564-3-3
E-book 978-0-9912564-4-0
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Book interior by Catherine Leonardo
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
For Danielle, who every day shows me the special love that only a daughter can bring to her father.
Chapter 1
Westport, Connecticut
Alone inside his wine cellar, Michael Nicholas pecked away at his computer keyboard, clicking the gold Byzantine Orthodox cross icon and then typing in the password his brother had set up … just before he “died.”
It was a year ago, but, for Michael, it seemed like an eternity. And for Alex Nicholas, it was.
Alex had been gunned down while enjoying a plate of sizzling veal parmigiana in a Queens restaurant. The shooter had been hired by Joseph Sharkey, an aging former Mafia hit man and certifiable psychopath.
Alex had been a bookie, a very successful one. He had owned one of the largest sports bookmaking and loan sharking operations in New York City.
Thinking back upon the wake when Donna, his brother’s widow, asked him to briefly help settle Alex’s affairs, Michael never could have dreamed that Alex’s shadowy world would have drawn him in. But none of that compared to what he was about to do tonight—just as he had been doing all along—since his brother’s death.
No matter how often Michael typed in the password, he always expected the screen to turn blank. And the moment Alex appeared on the screen, as he always did, Michael made a mental leap into an abyss, stretching any remaining sense of reason and rationality that he still retained.
Alex’s image appeared, his powerful presence concealing his fifty-five years, just as it had in life—and, now, the fact that he was dead; his facial expressions, body movements and mannerisms were just as real as his gruff, deep voice which gave Michael the warning.
“You don’t have much time,” Alex said. “They’ve sent someone over from Rome just to kill you. I don’t know too many details yet except that his first name is Frank.”
Michael could feel his stomach tighten; he was falling, dropping quickly, and there was no net to break the fall.
“How soon?”
“Just days,” Alex said.
“How do I find this guy?”
“Michael, I’m afraid he’s going to find you.”
Chapter 2
New York City
Michael recognized the voice. It was a call he’d hoped would never come.
“Michael, congratulations on your promotion.”
He placed his hand over the receiver and called out to his secretary, “Karen, please close my door.”
“You know, I don’t know many CEOs or, what are you now, chairman? … Michael?… Are you there? It’s Johnny, Johnny Feathers.”
Johnny had been one of his late brother’s closest friends, a Queens bartender with a notoriously unsteady hand. Tall, fit and recognizable from a distance by his full mane of perfectly groomed white hair, he exuded a calm exterior except for that most recognizable characteristic: his trembling hands.
“Johnny, of course, I’m sorry. We haven’t spoken since—”
“Yeah, since that time just before you took off for L.A. What, last July?” Michael remembered his annoying habit of interrupting people in mid-sentence.
“Oh, sure, I remember.”
Michael felt sick. He looked out through the glass wall separating his large private office from the reception area and the desk of his trusted assistant, Karen DiNardo. For a moment, as he listened, he wondered whether she had any inkling of his double life, until Johnny Feathers’ voice brought Michael back to the one he was hiding.
“Yeah, I don’t think you forget things like that. I wanted to check in case you needed me to handle anything else for you.”
“When you say, ‘anything else,’ what do you—”
“Jesus, there you go again, Michael. You know I loved your brother and I would have done anything for him. God rest his soul. Occasionally, he’d ask me to do some small favors. I’d always tell him, ‘Alex, I can do a lot more for you.’ But, he never liked to ask. You know what I’m saying?”
As Michael listened, his mind flashed back to scenes from years ago, Alex and Johnny hanging out together in Queens.
“Michael, you know what I’m saying?”
“What exactly are you saying?”
“Just that I know he’d want me to take good care of his little brother.”
“Yes, I understand that part. It’s the part about what else I might want that I don’t understand.”
“So, I’m hoping you’re kidding here. You know, people are funny. I’m sure you’re under a lot of fucking pressure, I guess they call it stress these days.”
“I’m not trying to be cute, I just don’t—”
“OK, you do remember your old friend, Apple Blossom?”
“You mean my old boss, Dick Applegarden?” Michael’s anxiety level skyrocketed as he thought back to his dead boss. “Of course I remember but—”
“Hey, I’m sure you do. You got his job after we finished with him, right? My people did a good job, don’t you think? I mean, weren’t you fucking happy?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? What do I mean? Listen, my good friend, I don’t like to discuss things over the phone. You never know who’s listening, you know what I’m saying?”
Michael now remembered Johnny’s other annoying habit, frequently ending his comments with, ‘you know what I’m saying?’ “Absolutely, I understand. It’s—”
“But don’t tell me you believed that sleep apnea shit, Michael? I had my best team take care of this for you. And here I’m thinking you knew what the hell went on and you’re probably gonna call and thank me, you know what I’m saying? I thought I’d have heard from you a while ago, to be honest.”
“No, no—” Now Michael was hoping Johnny would interrupt because he wasn’t sure what to say.
But Michael knew.
Although “Chairman Dick” Applegarden had hired him, Michael despised him and everything he stood for. For taking the company into the subprime mortgage business and gloating over the profits while everyone knew it wasn’t a good business. For directing the egotistical but disastrous acquisition of numerous companies, resulting in the loss of millions of dollars and hundreds of jobs—and then hiring Michael to just “fix” it all—and attacking him when he couldn’t do it quickly enough.
But he would never think of having him murdered.
“You told me that son of a bitch was getting ready to fire you, remember?”
“Yes—”
“You said you hated the guy. You said, ‘I wish you could fix this for me’ and I told you, ‘Don’t worry, Michael, consider it done.’”
“But, we were drinking—and joking around.”
“Michael, you know that saying, ‘there’s no such thing as a joke. It was either Freud or Woody Allen. One of them said it.”
Michael remembered the conversation perfectly. Of course, that alone told him something. It was over drinks—too many drinks—at the Black Rose bar in Queens Village late one night just before Michael was to go to L.A. to deliver the speech on top-level management greed that he was sure would give Applegarden the excuse he needed to fire him.
Michael also recalled feeling a nagging doubt that seemed to build in his mind on his drive home that night. He wondered whether he had gone too far. At that point, however, he had no idea that his brother’s good friend engaged in arranging professional hits. He’d thought about calling John and making sure there had been no misunderstanding. But he never did.
“Listen, Michael, murder, like every other vice, you don’t need no motive, just opportunity. You know what I’m saying?” The word murder seared through Michael’s insides. “It’s just that most people don’t have the opportunity.”
And now that he had entered the business of his murdered brother, Michael had easy access to people who could “fix” anything. It was also, however, a culture of subtleties, where things unspoken were somehow clear, a world to which he was unaccustomed and a language still foreign.
Michael knew now that he had made an inconceivable mistake.
Applegarden’s sudden death in his suite at the Peninsula Beverly Hills after a night at the bar had been attributed by the coroner to sleep apnea complicated by scotch and Ambien. But Michael always had a dark, uncomfortable suspicion that it was otherwise.
“Would these people—the ones who did this thing for you—”
“For you, you mean.”
“OK, whatever, would they have any idea that … you and I spoke … or suspect who I am?”
“They’re professionals; they don’t want to know nothing from nothing.”
“Did my brother ever have anyone … you know—” Michael didn’t want to say the word, as though by verbalizing it he would be taking another step closer to where he didn’t want to go.
“Taken out? Ha, you mean ‘eliminated,’ or whatever they call it now?”
“Yes, I guess that’s what I mean. Did he?”
“Not really.”
“Not really? What the hell does that mean? Either he did or he didn’t.”
There was silence, then finally, “No, he didn’t.”
Michael felt at least a small token of relief. Not enough to wash away his angst over what had occurred. But at least he had a confirmation that his brother had not crossed a line that Michael would have found impossible to reconcile, the same one he himself had apparently, although mistakenly, crossed.
At least he hoped it was purely a mistake. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t find that part of his soul that could shout at him for certain that it wasn’t the outcome that he secretly desired.
“Michael, let me say this—he never had anyone iced, but …”
“But, what?”
“He should have.”
“What do you mean, ‘he should have’?” Michael asked.
“He’d be alive today.”
Chapter 3
Westport, Connecticut
It all started right after Alex was murdered.
Michael knew that he and Samantha had drifted apart. Maybe it was his decision to take over Alex’s business and the fact that he was home even less than ever now.
Or, maybe it was the elephant in the room: Michael had found his brother again and, although Samantha was aware of some communication with “Alex’s computer software,” as she liked to describe it, she clearly didn’t want to hear any more about it. Whenever Michael tried to open up the issue, she would turn away, accusing him of losing his sense of critical judgment, or something worse.
“Michael, how did this all come about?” Samantha said softly as she turned her attention away from her novel, looking up from her bed, snugly surrounded by her down comforter and soft Frette sheets. Blonde, tan, and fit, she looked a decade younger than her forty-five years.
“Remember right after Alex was murdered, beginning at his funeral, I began getting these strange emails?” Michael said as he sat in his favorite chaise lounge, dressed in his soft, black cashmere sweater, tan although he was slightly chilly despite the evening’s summer heat outside. Their bedroom thermostat was set at sixty-six degrees. They both loved a chilled—if not refrigerated—sleeping temperature; it was a quirk they shared.
“Yes, how could I forget? Someone sent you a picture of Alex on your BlackBerry while the priest was giving his eulogy, for God’s sake. I was hoping you would have dropped this whole artificial intelligence thing by now. Not to mention that your brother wasn’t exactly a computer genius.”
“You’re right, Samantha, but he had the smarts to find odd but incredibly smart techies to figure it out. You’ve got to listen to me. You know Alex was obsessed with his own mortality and he must have read about artificial int
elligence somewhere—”
“And he wasn’t much of a reader.”
“No, you’re right again—but he did read when he was on the toilet. But then—maybe from working with these geeks he hired—they came up with the idea of combining the artificial intelligence software with other advances like computer imaging and voice replication and recognition and, somehow, made a breakthrough.”
“Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that simple.”
“It wasn’t. I told you, they spent hundreds of hours feeding Alex’s history, his reactions to different questions, his voice, his images and his gestures, facial expressions, all kinds of things, into this system and then onto his secret laptop.”
Samantha rolled her eyes. “And who told you about this laptop?”
“Alex had a mistress.”
“What a surprise.” Samantha said. “Was this the supposed ‘hairdresser to the stars’?
“Yes, Jennifer Walsh.”
“She does blow jobs—”
“Blowouts,” Michael corrected.
“Oh, sorry, I remember her now. You told me about some of this with her but you never gave me the whole story.”
“In the beginning, I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. Jennifer never really understood what it was; she was thinking it was more of a record of his life. Then, as I realized what Alex had actually created, I knew you’d think I was crazy or obsessed or something, so I have avoided bringing it up. But it’s part of what’s separating us now. You have to listen, with an open mind.”
“Michael, I love you but I do think you’re either obsessed or maybe still grieving for your brother in such a way that you just can’t let go, and I’m sorry but I just can’t believe this … fantasy of yours—and neither would you … normally.”
“OK, hear me out. Jennifer contacts me right after the funeral and explains that Alex had this hidden, secret Apple laptop with all this customized software that he’d spent millions of dollars on and that he’d created a ‘virtual Alex Nicholas,‘ a duplicate of himself, on his laptop, which he’d hidden from everyone. She then told me where to find it—he’d had a secret compartment built into his closet where he stored it—and she gave me Alex’s password.”