Death Logs In

by E. J. Simon

  The extravagance of the suite while the company was under financial pressure had always been a sore point with Michael. Now it was his, at least while he was still at Gibraltar. He had intended to sell it off but had not gotten around to it yet. As he entered it tonight, he wondered if he ever would.

  Steele had made herself at home on the sofa, her long, pale legs crossed. The top two buttons of her black silk blouse were unbuttoned. Michael recalled that only one had been so before she had gone to the bathroom shortly after they entered the suite. Her shoes were off, lying on their sides under the coffee table in front of her.

  Michael had fixed himself a dry martini with two green olives. She had just downed her first shot of ice-cold Grey Goose vodka and was about to do the same with the second one he was pouring.

  Questions still hung in the air, but at this particular moment, Michael didn’t care enough about the answers. It appeared that she didn’t either.

  He poured a third shot for her and began sipping his second martini. As she downed her drink, he reached over and kissed her. She finally broke away and, gripping her blouse from her waist with both hands, lifted it over her head and tossed it onto the adjacent chair. He reached behind her, undid the black lace bra and gently stroked her breasts. She unbuttoned her skirt, allowing it to drop straight down onto the floor as she stepped out of it. She then gripped the back of Michael’s head and moved it between her legs.

  “This is what they call a landing strip. I hope you’re not out of fuel.”

  Like a powerful drug moving through his body, he felt a rush of emotions, a swirl of the forbidden, exotic, and dangerous. So anxious to discover the magic that lay beneath those black panties—the look, the feel, the taste, and the scent he was already inhaling—Michael placed the twinge of guilt that had been speaking to him into a corner of his mind where, he hoped, it would leave him alone—at least for now.

  ___________

  It felt like an endless night. They finally wound up in the bedroom and, with little conversation afterward, fell asleep.

  Turning over in bed during the night, Michael wondered about Samantha, the state of their marriage, and the naked woman sound asleep next to him.

  Chapter 10

  New York City

  Michael didn’t want to talk about what he’d just done and with whom—but he needed to reconnect with Alex. Unable to sleep, he finally got out of bed and, after quietly closing the bedroom door behind him, took his Apple laptop out of his briefcase and sat down on the suite’s living room couch. His team of geeks had web-enabled Alex so that Michael could access him—literally virtually—on any computer. He clicked on the icon, typed in the password and, once again, was amazed to see his brother appear.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” he said.

  “It’s a bit of a change for me, too.” Alex smirked. “I’ve got to figure out what I’m going to do with my life now. Maybe I’ll start up an online gambling business.”

  “I just hired a bodyguard.” Michael could see that he got his brother’s attention.

  “I guess I should have had one myself. I wouldn’t be here right now if I did. What’s his name?”

  “It’s a she, Sindy.”

  There was a moment of silence as Alex appeared to be stymied, as though he couldn’t assimilate the thought.

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, that would be a she.”

  “Is she good-looking?”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “If she is, probably a lot.”

  Michael proceeded to fill Alex in on most of the circumstances surrounding his hiring of Sindy Steele, excluding the part that occurred at the hotel.

  “I’ll check her out more thoroughly for you.”

  “By the way, she spells Sindy with an ‘S.’”

  Alex started to smile, “No shit.”

  “Also, I’ve got a plan to deal with Sharkey and his friends at the Vatican. I’m still working on the details, but I’m going to need your help.”

  It was time to change the subject. He wasn’t prepared yet.

  “Alex, are there others—like you—who have been able to do this? To duplicate themselves on a computer?”

  Alex appeared to be annoyed; Michael wasn’t sure why. Was it the question, the implication that, perhaps, Alex was less than real? And was he?

  “Duplicate myself on a computer—I guess you could call it that. No, I’m not aware of anyone else who’s done it. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There are a lot of connections I’ve still got to figure out.”

  “And where does this all fit with religion and everything? Do you have a clue?” Michael couldn’t believe his own conversation. He also knew that Alex had always been quite critical of any organized religions.

  “What, are you kidding? How the hell would I know? Don’t forget, I didn’t even create this computer thing myself—I paid my friend Russell and then he hired a bunch of geeks from somewhere. This is all over my head but I do sense now that there’s something beyond what you can see. I never really believed that before. I thought the spiritual world was all bullshit, some fantasy. It’s hard to believe something you can’t see or touch or have any proof of. But the Internet and the cyber-world—and all this spiritual, religious stuff—are the same, you can’t see them but somehow all these things happen and people show up. They may be connected. It seems like somehow the two worlds—the spiritual and cyber-world—have come together or intersected. Maybe the Internet gave the spirit the mechanism for a physical presence. That’s the best I can see for now. But this is just the beginning.”

  “No one will believe this you know.”

  “Samantha didn’t believe it—even after I was so nice to her.” Alex said, his cynical nature coming through just as it always had.

  “Maybe that’s why she didn’t believe it.” Alex and Samantha never had the warmest relationship, just as Michael never appreciated Alex’s wives.

  “Well, we can’t let this get out, at least not yet. If you think Samantha had such a bad reaction, you can imagine how others would see this. It’ll be like when they tried those witches.”

  “You mean the Salem witch trials in the 1600s?”

  “Whenever it was. I can promise you it won’t be pretty. Whatever happened to those witches?”

  Michael was surprised his brother even remembered that much history.

  “They weren’t witches, but they were hung regardless.”

  “Oh. You won’t need to worry about that.”

  “Why not?” Michael asked.

  “America’s civilized now. They’ll just shoot you.”

  Despite the knot in his stomach, Michael broke up laughing.

  Chapter 11

  New York City

  “Nothing good ever happens in a conference room,” Michael whispered to himself as he sat at in the plush, tan leather chair across the long, rich mahogany table in the Gibraltar headquarters conference room.

  Now that he had, ironically, been promoted to the late Dick Applegarden’s position, he reported to the chairman of the board of the parent corporation. Richard Perkins was a Southern gentleman, a former military officer and Alabama highway patrolman. Michael often joked that when he met with Richard, he often felt the urge to offer his driver’s license and registration. Fifty-four years old, tall and fit, soft-spoken yet commanding, he was a natural leader. Although Michael often disagreed with Perkins’ business strategy, he respected him for his work ethic and his straightforward, no-nonsense approach.

  Perkins’ assistant—or “chief of staff”—was John Hightower. Michael’s blood pressure rose whenever Hightower appeared. Hightower, in his mid-thirties, was an accountant whom Perkins hired to do the numbers analysis, which usually led to short-sighted, short-term decisions with long-term problems. Hightower had no business-operating experience but knew how to run his numbers and was quick to push cost-cutting solutions that showed the benefits of eliminating salari
es—without any knowledge or appreciation of the long-term damage to the organization. He was British, with the haughty and superficial manner that underlined Michael’s innate distrust and dislike of him.

  Michael faced Perkins and Hightower across the table. He knew Richard had an agenda or, as he would say, a “mission” to communicate. Michael wasn’t sure what today’s news would be, but he suspected it wasn’t going to be good.

  Perkins was always serious, his eyes making searing contact when he spoke, echoing his inherent sincerity and determination in whatever he was discussing. He spoke in his gentle, velvet-gloved tone with a rich, mellow Southern accent.

  “Michael, we need to make more cuts. For you, I know this is like running fingernails on a blackboard, but we’re going to do this.”

  Michael looked over at a nodding Hightower who continued to bang away on his laptop keyboard. Hightower never made eye contact, even when speaking directly with him, or anyone.

  “But Richard, we just finished a round of cuts. Revenue’s on track. We’re right on budget. Our forecast seems solid for the remaining months. There are no indicators showing a slowdown. What’s happened now that you want to cut further? You know this’ll mean cutting further into the muscle of the company—any fat was eliminated long ago.”

  He glanced again at Hightower, who immediately looked back at his keyboard.

  “John,” Michael said, “you’ve been tracking the numbers. Our employees are also aware of them. What would you have me say to them when I make these cuts and they ask why we’d eliminate these talented people now when our results are turning around and we need to rebuild from the loss of the experienced people we just laid off?”

  Looking at Perkins instead of Michael, Hightower said, “I’d tell them to do their job and not try to sell us on their talent or experience, or their valuable industry knowledge. I’d tell them we don’t care about it. We’ll get new, cheaper, younger inexperienced people when we’re ready. That’s what I’d tell them.”

  Perkins, seemingly uncomfortable with the bluntness of his assistant’s comments, put his hand up, signaling he needed to interrupt.

  “Michael, here’s what driving this action now. What I’m about to tell you is extremely confidential; it can’t get out—to anyone. I’ll have your head on a stake if it does. We have two prospective suitors who are trying to purchase Gibraltar. It’s all very preliminary at this point, but now’s the time to show the very best returns we can—however fleeting they may be prove to be.”

  Michael was surprised, not only at the possibility of a sale of the company but also at Richard’s apparent willingness to allow such a takeover. Nevertheless, his first priority was to stop the elimination of more personnel from his organization.

  “Richard, you know we’ve already cut out over twenty percent of our workforce in the two or so years that I’ve been here. Revenues have stayed steady over the last eighteen months. We’ve given up some critical functions and lost experienced people that’ll be necessary long term to grow the company. Whoever buys this company is not going to want to find out that we stripped it to make the numbers look good.”

  Michael knew from Richard Perkins’ expression—or lack of—that his arguments were going nowhere. Nevertheless, he continued, “Who are the suitors?”

  “I can’t tell you that yet. One is more solid than the other.”

  “Well, I guess that’s encouraging.” Michael said.

  “But the other offer will be better for us, Michael.”

  “What do you mean?” Michael said.

  Richard paused; he was clearly reluctant to go further.

  “Richard, I know this is sensitive, but in view of what you’re asking me to do, it would help me to have some more information.”

  “OK, Michael, listen, the deal we need to move forward with is going to be coming from Cartan Holdings.”

  Michael knew the company, a multinational holding company based in the U.K. It had been close to bankruptcy a few short years ago but had seemingly bounced back after a series of well-timed acquisitions, which included private security companies benefitting from the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Cartan Holdings owned two of the major private contractors to both the U.K. and U.S. governments. They had most recently been in the news for the alleged free-wheeling murders of Iraqi civilians.

  “Jesus, Richard. That company will be a disaster for us. Why would we in any way favor them over the other potential buyer?”

  “Because the other firm is already in the same businesses as we are. With them, you and I would be kept on—at best at our current compensation and in the roles we’re in now. Even then, who knows for how long? They won’t need us after the deal closes. Cartan’s willing to put a huge package on the table for us if we favor them in this deal.”

  Michael began to speak, but Richard, his demeanor turning ice cold, cut him off. “Michael, don’t be short-sighted now. Either way, people are going to have to be let go. That’s going to happen and you’ll either get it done or I’ll get someone else to do it. The question is whether you and I survive this and how we will benefit. The Cartan deal can make us both richer than we can imagine.”

  Michael knew Perkins well enough to end the discussion. After some trivial pleasantries, Perkins gathered his papers, stood up to leave.

  “Michael. This is a good thing. Believe me.”

  As Perkins, with Hightower in tow, reached the door, he turned around.

  “Oh, Michael, one other thing. I’ve decided to add a new member to our board. It’ll be a good public relations move for us right now. I’d like you two to get to know each other before the next board meeting. He’ll also be able to help you with your plan to expand Gibraltar’s services in Italy, too. You’ll enjoy him; he’s a priest, a Jesuit. I’ll have John here set up a dinner for just the two of you sometime next week.”

  “Sure.” Michael said, still thinking about Cartan Holdings “Who is he?”

  “You may have heard of him. He’s highly respected and a terrific man, too. One of our people from the Vatican Bank contacted us and offered his services. In return, Gibraltar is going to make a sizeable contribution to St. Joseph’s Catholic School in the Bronx to help fund their program and build a decent auditorium for those little kids.”

  “What’s his name?

  Turning to leave, Richard said, “Bishop Kevin McCarthy.”

  Chapter 12

  Westport, Connecticut

  It was after midnight as Michael walked into their bedroom. He was sick with guilt. The word may as well have been written in neon graffiti all over the walls. So this is what it feels like to have an affair and then come home.

  After his previous evening’s activities at the St. Regis, he was relieved to see that Samantha was sound asleep. He quietly hung up his suit and slipped into his robe. For a moment, he stopped and looked around at their beautifully decorated room; it seemed distant now, slightly off, as though he was looking at it from afar. The sense of serenity that he always felt here was somehow gone. Things had changed.

  He left the bedroom and walked down the two flights of stairs to the wine cellar where, once the computer was powered on and the passwords entered, the large screen rolled down from the ceiling. After several seconds, Alex appeared, a virtual but life-size image.

  Michael watched as Alex looked around the room at the dark wood shelves, filled with wine bottles. “It’s a shame to be down here with all this expensive wine of yours and not be able to drink it. Maybe I’d acquire a taste for it now.”

  “Feel free to help yourself anytime. I can leave a corkscrew for you.”

  “By the way, what does this Bluetooth shit you mentioned last time mean?” Alex asked.

  “I can only imagine what it could allow you to do. It might mean that you can now reach out and actually call me. If that’s true, then you won’t have to wait for me to turn on the computer and log onto you. I think so anyway.”

  “I’ve been trying to figure out anythin
g I can about this guy Frank who’s been sent to kill you, but I can’t find anything. I’ve tried all the taps and emails I can get to—but nothing. Nothing. But, you know, I’m not sure what I’m capable of either.”

  “Well, there’ve been some new developments. Remember I mentioned that Sharkey’s guys were out on bail?”

  “Yeah, and I told you that once the Vatican got behind him, things would get dicey. They can’t afford to be exposed and they need to be sure things get fixed quietly. These guys are worse than any organized crime. It’s a joke. They’ve got the best racket. I should have incorporated as a religion. I could have run my betting business and been fully protected. I wouldn’t have even had to worry about paying taxes. They make the Swiss bankers look like saints. You know, I’m not big on guys who wear robes outside.”

  “Well,” Michael said, “It gets even more interesting. Sharkey’s men were murdered the day after they were released. Supposedly some priest at a church in the Bronx fed them a big dinner the other night in the church basement. The priest claims he put them in a taxi after dinner to take them back to the home of some parishioner where they were to stay. The cab never showed up. Their bodies were found wrapped in plastic in the trunk of an abandoned car near the Bruckner Expressway. All three had been shot in the head, execution style.

  Alex looked straight ahead. “Big surprise.”

  “And guess who the priest was?” Michael said.

  “No … don’t tell me … that Irish guy?”

  “Yes, Bishop Kevin McCarthy, the original altar boy molester, the one whose problem Sharkey took care of.”