Death Logs In

by E. J. Simon

  “No, it’s not about Michael. It’s about Alex.”

  Chapter 6

  New York City

  It was by accident that Michael had first seen her.

  About a year ago, the night before his speech and Applegarden’s murder, he passed her in the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills. He remembered her because of her striking good looks; she was exceptionally tall and fit.

  Was this the woman he now saw before him? She reached out to shake his hand.

  “Mr. Nicholas, Cynthia Scotto, I’m a financial reporter for the Financial Times. I heard your speech last year in L.A. and I’m doing a follow-up article.”

  Michael recalled his conversation with Karen, who said Scotto had called the day before and, due to an urgent deadline, pleaded for an appointment to interview him, promising a positive story.

  “Ms. Scotto. It’s so good to meet you.” Michael looked into her cold grey eyes.

  “Please, it’s Cynthia—actually Sindy with an S—and I’m delighted to finally meet you. I must say, your speech took a lot of guts.”

  “First, please call me Michael. I guess I did cause a lot of uproar. I’m just glad I had the opportunity to speak my mind about all the damage these hedge funds and some of these Wall Street types are doing to good companies and the people in them.”

  “Well, the press certainly loved it. You’ve become a celebrity at the Financial Times.”

  He motioned toward a chair around the coffee table. “Please, have a seat.”

  She sat down while he seated himself on the chair across the table, opposite her.

  “And then to have your chairman die in his sleep that night at the hotel. That must have been quite a shock.” She stared into Michael’s eyes; her smile had disappeared.

  “It was a tragedy, no question,” he said, now slightly troubled. Financial Times reporters didn’t typically venture into the more human or sensational topics.

  “Yet, as tragic as it was, it did open the door for you to move into his position.”

  “I hope this interview—and your story—will be about the substance of the business issue I spoke about and not the more unfortunate passing of our former chairman.”

  “Of course, anyway, we’re not even on the record yet, as they say. Believe me, we’ll move on soon.”

  He didn’t want to acknowledge that he may have remembered her from the hotel the night before his speech but he was still curious to find out if it was really her. “So I hope—besides my speech—that you had a chance to enjoy L.A. while you were out there.”

  “Oh, I did. I’ve spent a lot of time on the West Coast, before I was a reporter.”

  “I’m curious, where does the Financial Times put up a reporter in L.A. on a trip like that?”

  “Nowhere special, I can assure you. But I did get out to some of the hot spots and restaurants while I was there. I had a few really great dinners on that trip.”

  “I’m always interested in new restaurants. Where’d you eat?”

  “Well, neither of them is new, but they’re both excellent. I had sushi at Matsuhisa on La Cienega.”

  “I love Matsuhisa, actually there’s a little place in Westport called Matsu that, I think, is right up there.”

  “I’ll have to get out to Westport, it seems all you financial types live there… I also had a business dinner at the Belvedere, the night before your speech.”

  “Isn’t that the restaurant in the Peninsula?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact—and what a gorgeous hotel. I wish they’d put me up there. I’ll bet the rooms are beautiful.”

  He knew for sure now that she was the woman in the lobby, but something was wrong about her. Michael had been interviewed hundreds of times over the years; he’d learned to quickly read a reporter’s personality. She didn’t fit the Financial Times mold. She was much too social, too chatty. She was either trying to lull him into a false sense of security, or she was someone else. But Karen had checked out her credentials before confirming the appointment.

  “May I ask, how long have you been with FT?”

  She hesitated; he could see her thinking about her response.

  “I haven’t been honest with you. My name is Sindy Steele, and I’m not a reporter.

  “OK … who are you?”

  “I’m the woman who’s going to save your life.”

  “I didn’t know my life was in danger.”

  “Dick Applegarden didn’t die of sleep apnea, whiskey and Ambien.”

  This can’t be happening, Michael thought. He knew he needed to sound firm, confident, despite the feeling that his world was imploding.

  “I beg your pardon—”

  But now she appeared confident, sure of her ground.

  “He was murdered.”

  “What do you mean? How’s that possible? They did an autopsy; the coroner determined it was—”

  “I know what the authorities said. They’re overworked and not always the brightest crayons in the box.”

  “And how would you know this?” he asked.

  “My business is security. I’m a bodyguard, Michael. I’ve protected some very high-profile, very vulnerable people.”

  “But how do you know anything about Dick Applegarden’s death?”

  “I was on an unrelated assignment for someone whose name I can’t disclose. He was staying at the Peninsula for a week, including the night your chairman died—or, as I believe, was murdered—in his room.”

  She looked at her watch. Michael checked his, it was nearly six o’clock.

  “Listen, this is too sensitive to discuss here. How about if we continue this over a cocktail at Bemelmans at the Carlyle? I just need fifteen minutes or so here to take care of some things before I leave.”

  “Perfect. I’ll go ahead and get a table. You look like you need a drink.”

  Chapter 7

  Bronx, New York

  “I understand that you’re an undertaker, Morty?” Bishop Kevin McCarthy asked.

  “You mean besides my work for Mr. Sharkey? Yeah, I suppose you could say that, Father. Actually, I drive a hearse for the D’Amato Funeral Home in Brooklyn.”

  “That is God’s work too, my son.”

  “Yeah, I deliver them from evil.”

  Morty was starving. He looked at his two friends, Lump and Nicky Bats. They had just been released with him from Rikers Island, after seven months of pre-trial hearings for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Michael Nicholas.

  “I appreciate you getting us out of there. You must have some pretty powerful friends,” Morty said.

  “The Lord takes care of its flock. I’ve invited a good friend of the Church, Frank Cortese, tonight for dinner. He was instrumental in securing those unfortunate cassette tapes and in arranging for your release. You will find him interesting, I promise.”

  “Hey, Bishop, I love the guy already. He got us out of that hole,” Nicky Bats chimed in.

  “No worries, my son. Sister Mary Margaret blessed us with her superb lasagna,” the bishop said, gesturing toward the large well-worn pan covered with aluminum foil.

  Morty eyed the familiar setting of this typical church basement. He had been in many of them over the years. A small stage on the left and the hundred or so old metal and plastic-cushioned chairs served as the auditorium for the parochial school next door, St. Joseph’s Catholic. He could remember hearing the joyous sounds of children rising up throughout the building. There were the happy wedding receptions, immediately following the religious ceremony upstairs in the church, with bands or a simple boom box providing the music for the dancing and celebration festivities.

  He knew that this same room had likely been the site of thousands of Irish, Italian, and now, more typically, Puerto Rican or Colombian wakes following the funerals held in the church upstairs.

  A kitchen in the next room allowed for the preparation of whatever dishes the families and friends of the deceased wanted to feast on while the guest of honor, unable to at
tend, was either on his ascent to heaven or securely lying in a box in the cemetery, depending on the strength of one’s faith. Morty laughed at the thought.

  The rectangular white Formica table was set for five. Dishes of freshly grated Parmesan cheese, a small jar of crushed red peppers, bottles of oil and vinegar, and a large carafe of red wine sat next to the pan of lasagna. The five grey steel chairs were aligned near each plate setting.

  It felt good to be free.

  Bishop McCarthy stood by his seat in the middle of the table and began his prayer as his three guests were seated on either side of him.

  “Bless us, O Lord, and these gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord.”

  Morty, Lump, and Nicky Bats indulged the bishop and faithfully bowed their heads in apparent prayer. Morty inhaled the smell of the rich tomato sauce and still sizzling ground beef and sausage from the lasagna while, with one eye half open, gazing first at the platter on the table in front of him. He was anxious to dig in.

  As the bishop appeared to have finished his prayer, the three guests simultaneously but prematurely whispered, “Amen.” But the bishop continued:

  “And grant us,

  Lord Jesus,

  always to follow the example of Your holy family,

  that at the hour of our death

  Your glorious Virgin Mother

  with blessed Joseph

  may come to meet us,

  and so we may deserve to be received by You

  into Your everlasting dwelling place.

  Amen.”

  Morty looked up at Bishop McCarthy, who returned the glance with a benevolent smile as he passed around the tray of lasagna.” Morty looked around the room at the fifth place setting and the empty chair. “Aren’t we waiting for our guest?”

  “Frank often works late. I’m sure he’ll be here shortly. Let’s begin and enjoy Sister Mary Margaret’s hard work while it’s still warm. I know you three are hungry for a home-cooked meal.”

  The creamy, melting mozzarella cheese blended so sumptuously with the slick pasta, the rich tomato sauce, and the earthy taste of the crumbled sausage. It coursed through Morty’s body with that instant feel-good effect of comfort foods.

  After downing the first glass of dry Chianti, he began to relax. Until the basement door opened and Frank Cortese walked in.

  Morty saw the same vacant look he had seen before, on the faces and in the eyes of the psychopathic killers he so often associated with. The same look he’d seen in the open eyes of the dead before they were shut. He looked for the exits. There was only one, it was the door through which Cortese had just walked.

  He looked at Cortese’s buttoned, dark green sport coat and noticed the familiar bulge where a weapon would be concealed.

  “Have a seat, my friend.” the bishop said, motioning toward the empty chair. “Let me introduce you.”

  Good, Morty thought, introductions are good, and he’s going to eat.

  But before Morty could even finish his next thought, Cortese in one quick motion had unbuttoned his sport jacket, pulled out a gun with a long silencer attached and put a single bullet each into the foreheads of Lump and Nicky Bats; the force of the hot lead sent them backward, and they fell to the floor still in their chairs, like ducks in an amusement park shooting gallery.

  Morty knew that he was next, and in that split second, which seemed like an eternity, he stared at the strange, different-colored eyes of the man who was to kill him, and wondered, he knew for the last time, if there really was a God.

  Chapter 8

  New York City

  Michael knew Bemelmans Bar in the Carlyle Hotel well. The legendary hangout of Upper East Side Manhattan socialites, cheating politicians, and celebrities seeking privacy, was a short ten-block walk from his office. He was running about fifteen minutes late as he entered through the hotel’s side entrance on Madison Avenue and went into the dimly lit bar.

  He saw her at the bar getting a drink. She had changed her dress. Even from a distance, she was captivating, very tall—nearly six feet tall in her stilettos—a stunning woman dressed in the shortest, sheer black dress exposing miles of her perfectly tapered, white bare legs. Her long black hair hung straight down to the small of her exposed back. Although almost slim, she was powerfully built. Her bare shoulders and back were toned in a way only possible from hours spent working out.

  Michael was intrigued. But still, something about her was eerily off. He glanced again at those long, slender white legs, gently tapering calves, and thin ankles, and he knew someone—and something—ominous had entered his life.

  They were quickly seated in a red leather banquette along the wall.

  “So, what’s going on here?” Despite his uncertainty, his tone was friendly, almost warm. He wanted to break the tension. Looking at Steele, he was curious. He felt an odd attraction—to her beauty, her strength. He wasn’t sure, but he also sensed a certain vulnerability in her. On the other hand, he always thought he sensed vulnerability in people.

  “I understand you’re looking for a bodyguard. I’m one of the best in the world.”

  “So that’s what this is all about? A job?”

  “Only partly. I was attracted to you when I saw you pass by in the Peninsula. Then, when I attended your speech the next day, I couldn’t believe that was you. And when I heard your message, I knew I had to find you. It wasn’t hard, of course. But I admit I wasn’t sure how to actually get in to meet with you. That’s why I did the reporter thing. Turns out, there is an FT reporter whose name isn’t that far off from mine.”

  “And you flew out to New York to meet me?”

  She laughed, “No, I’m afraid not. I may be a bit obsessive but I’m not crazy. I’m here on other business. I spend several months of the year in New York.” She sipped her drink, closed her eyes, appearing to inhale the vodka’s effects. She finally looked back at Michael, and continued. “It just proves my point though.”

  “Which is?”

  “If I can get this close to you this easily, anyone who wishes you harm can do the same.”

  “And why do you think anyone would want to harm me?”

  “Come on, Michael. Your brother was murdered last year, your boss shortly after and you were kidnapped on Spring Street right after that. Need I go on?”

  “My company has provided me with extensive security since those events—and I still don’t understand why you believe Dick Applegarden was murdered.”

  “OK, first of all, your security stinks. I don’t see anyone around you or watching you.”

  “I mean my home security—”

  “Oh please, you’ve got to be kidding. You think some RadioShack system on steroids is going to deter anyone who wants to get into your house?”

  “OK, I get your point. But what about Applegarden? How are you so sure he was murdered?”

  “I was in the hotel bar the night he died. The power went off—just for a few minutes—but long enough to conveniently disrupt the security cameras and distract the staff. No one seemed to know why either.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No, of course not. I can’t disclose everything I know, but let’s put it this way, the protection world is a small one, particularly in L.A. I know the hotel security people very well. I was with them shortly after they discovered Applegarden’s body. They’re not convinced it was sleep apnea and drugs. They don’t have any real conclusive evidence and … well, the hotel isn’t interested in a scandal—especially after the coroner quickly ruled it an accidental death. Plus, they want to keep their job. That’s all I can say, but I know enough to know it was a well-planned hit.”

  She appeared to be watching Michael for a response. He was careful, not showing any expression. “You know these things are usually guys who, you know, are involved in some criminal stuff or looking to get rid of their business partner, wives or a pregnant lover. But Applegarden was clean. He looked like a typical suit, a corporate type, not eve
n close to anything that would involve being taken out. Same with you—until I read about your brother.”

  Michael felt a strange sensation pass through him as she looked into his eyes. Her probing stare and seemingly intuitive grasp of the new dichotomy of his life and, perhaps, personality, opened Michael’s own eyes to his attractive yet unwelcome visitor.

  “Alex and I never mixed much as adults. I stayed out of his affairs. Both his business and his wives for that matter.”

  “No one stays out of their family’s stuff completely. Particularly in Italian families.”

  “My family’s not Italian. They’re Greek,” Michael corrected.

  “Please. It’s the same thing.”

  “Keep going,” he said.

  “So then I was even more curious.”

  “So you decided to find out.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’m not sure what I decided.”

  “Sindy, what’s going on here? Is there something you want? I don’t know if I’m being threatened or courted. Are you a tabloid reporter wearing a wire?”

  “God, I never actually thought of that. Of course you might think I’m wearing a wire. I can assure you, I’m not. In fact,” her face brightened as though she had a great idea or was relieving herself of a heavy burden, “I’m willing to prove it to you.”

  Surprised by the turn of the conversation and unsure whether he was reading the situation correctly, he stayed noncommittal. “What do you mean?”

  “Listen, wires are now fitted into our most private parts. There’s only one way to know for sure that someone’s not wearing one.” She looked at Michael, paused, and said, “And I don’t think you want me to show you here.”

  Chapter 9

  New York City

  Suite 801 at the St. Regis Hotel was a perk for the chairman of Gibraltar Financial. It had originally been purchased with the approval of the Gibraltar board for corporate entertaining and the periodic use of senior executives traveling to New York City. An exhaustive, fifty-three-page study detailed how the investment was cost-justified by saving the company money that would otherwise be spent on the rapidly rising Manhattan hotel bills. As absurd as that premise was, it paled in comparison to the actual purpose that the suite served. It became the exclusive pied-à-terre of the chairman who proposed the purchase in the first place, the late Chairman Dick Applegarden.