Death Logs In

by E. J. Simon

  As she approached the set of four garage doors in front of her, she pressed a series of buttons on a calculator-like device, disarming the alarm system. Then, a stream of tiny red lights flashed until the garage doors all began to open. Three of the stalls were occupied with luxury cars, a black Mercedes, a silver BMW and a dark green Jaguar XKE. The fourth stall was empty.

  She pulled the small truck into the garage and pressed the buttons again to close the doors behind her. She knew that she had plenty of time before Hightower returned home from his usual night of Manhattan barhopping.

  She laughed to herself as she proceeded to unwrap her package. This will sober you up fast, Johnny boy, she thought. And don’t worry, there’s no signature necessary, but first, some assembly is required.

  ___________

  John Hightower tightly gripped the leather steering wheel. He checked the orange glowing dashboard. It was 10:45 PM. He always hated driving at night, particularly in the rain. He knew he’d had too much to drink.

  He exited the Merritt Parkway at the North Street ramp and, trying to stay focused on the road despite imperfect vision, an unusually dark, moonless night and a driving rain, he steered his navy blue Range Rover the two miles down North Avenue and, as he did so routinely now, turned right at his royal blue mailbox. As the rain came down harder, in sheets, thunder erupted and bolts of lightning streaked through the sky above. Hightower loosened his grip on the steering wheel. He was home and safe. He drove the last lap up his driveway and, as he approached the four garage doors, he pressed the clicker button above his windshield.

  He was anxious to get inside, out of the storm and, as soon as possible, go to the bathroom. He knew he should have gone before he left the city. He wondered what had become of the attractive blonde who, he thought, had been so drawn to him at the Carlyle bar. They had spent three hours together drinking and laughing, when she suddenly checked her watch, excused herself, went to the ladies room and never returned. After sending someone in to look for her, he finally concluded that she had had second thoughts and simply left him. Hightower had chalked it up to the capriciousness of American women. It had been a long drive this evening.

  The garage door didn’t budge. When rushed, he often pressed the button prematurely, before he was within range of the remote-controlled sensor. He pressed it again, pushing down hard and holding it until he saw the door begin to rise, revealing a still-dark interior. As the door lifted, disappearing into the garage ceiling, the interior light attached to the ceiling brightly illuminated the space immediately in front of his Range Rover. Hightower stared mindlessly into the void in front of him. Once the garage door had completely disappeared from view, he placed his foot on the accelerator pedal. But, despite his scotch-induced grogginess, something he saw caused him to stop; something was out of place, terribly wrong. At first, it simply didn’t register; as though his brain was unable to interpret what his eyes were seeing.

  The interior of the garage was now like a theatre stage—flooded with the glare from the Rover’s powerful headlights and the lights attached to the garage door opener in the ceiling.

  With the car idling, he opened his eyes wider, hoping, perhaps, that the vision in front of him would recalibrate, reshuffle and then make better sense. But, as he sat staring ahead, it only became clearer.

  First, he saw the dangling legs, attached to black shoes and socks, black trousers, hanging, as though suspended like a mobile in midair. He raised his eyes, following the legs to a torso, and a full body, hanging, and, finally, a head and face, unnaturally red and grotesquely twisted to the side and downward. It was moving—the motion of the rising garage door mechanism had apparently caused the body to swing, as though it was trying to escape.

  Hightower couldn’t move his eyes away from what he hoped he was imagining. Although lifeless, this dangling body was bizarrely familiar in its black jacket and white cleric’s collar. Time froze as he continued to stare ahead at what appeared to be a perfectly staged panorama, until he was sure that what he was seeing was really there.

  Finally, he looked down at his cell phone on the console near his seat and, with a shaking hand and trembling fingers, punched in 911.

  The strong voice came through the Range Rover’s speaker system, “Greenwich police, what is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I’ve just pulled up to my garage. There’s a man hanging from the ceiling.”

  Chapter 19

  Flushing, New York

  Fat Lester knew that his life was falling apart. He felt like he’d jumped off a skyscraper and was in a rapidly accelerating free fall. He knew he’d be meeting the pavement soon. His conversation with Rizzo made him wish it was now.

  “OK, Lester. I’m coming off some bad weeks, so today I gotta hit it big. Then, we’ll tone it down a bit, maybe even some small losses tomorrow so it all looks kosher, you know?”

  Rizzo had kept his word and delivered the relief that Lester so badly craved. As he sat at his desk at Tartarus, speaking with Rizzo on the phone, Fat Lester knew it was payback time. Today there would be thirty-six major league baseball games. By late tonight, eighteen teams would be winners. Joe Rizzo would begin a winning streak by placing bets on seven of them while losing two others. The losing bets would simply lend credibility to the winning ones. Lester would record the bets, known in the trade as “past posting,” only after the results of each game were decided.

  “Lester, I don’t care how the fuck we do it, but I need to collect two-hundred grand over the next two weeks.”

  “Jesus, Joe, how the hell am I going to pull that off? I can’t do that much right away.”

  “You should have thought of that before, you know, when you were desperate for a fix. The way you’re gonna be again in a few days when what I gave you runs out. Or haven’t you thought about that?”

  Fat Lester knew his torment had only just begun. For in return for his fixes, he knew that he was about to betray Michael Nicholas and, worse, the memory of Alex Nicholas and all he had done for Lester during the forty years of their friendship.

  After today, he knew he would be stepping into the abyss. Rizzo would own him, forever.

  As he sat at his desk staring at the list of today’s games and the betting confirmation sheet he was about to prepare to ensure Rizzo’s winning day, he knew he was about to lose the last shred of dignity he had left.

  Chapter 20

  New York City

  Michael knew it would be a special evening. He couldn’t wait to see the legendary French actress, Catherine Saint-Laurent and her young American lover, Jennifer Walsh. They were another part of Alex’s life that he had inherited.

  Jennifer had been Alex’s mistress. A beautiful blonde in her early thirties, she was a downtown Manhattan beautician known as the “hairdresser to the stars.” It appeared to Michael that Alex loved Jennifer as much as he loved any other woman. Michael soon discovered that Alex’s liaisons with Jennifer often included Catherine Saint-Laurent.

  He was even more surprised when he later learned that Catherine and Jennifer were lovers.

  Michael had never met Jennifer until she contacted him after Alex’s murder. It was over lunch and cocktails that she had revealed the existence of his secret Apple laptop and the passwords necessary to enter into the world of artificial intelligence and computer imagery that Alex had created. Jennifer was the only person Alex had trusted with his secret. Without her help, Alex would have truly died the night he was murdered.

  Michael was impressed with Alex’s mistresses. He often wondered why Alex married bimbos but had affairs with smart, impressive and accomplished women.

  Few women were more successful than Catherine Saint-Laurent. In her mid-sixties, alluring and classically beautiful, she was a French Hollywood legend. Alex had agreed to help finance the movie she hoped would launch her revival. He died before the funds were ever paid out. Once Michael decided to take over his brother’s enterprise, he immediately backed Alex’s commitment, in
vesting three-quarters of a million dollars in Mirror Image, the film now being shot in Cannes, starring Catherine Saint-Laurent.

  He was already seated in Le Bernardin’s main dining room enjoying a glass of rosé champagne and watching the parade of the glamorous—and sometimes gaudy, when he observed a buzz around him. The attention of the other diners turned toward the two women approaching his table. All eyes appeared to be focused on Catherine Saint-Laurent and Jennifer Walsh as they made their entrance.

  Catherine was stunning in her simple, long, white sundress. Her smile, so familiar from the screen, endless magazine covers, and classic movie posters caused Michael to reflect on how incredible it was it was that this famous star was about to sit at his dinner table.

  She began their conversation while she was still yards away. “Michael darling, Jennifer and I just saw a fabulous exhibit at your favorite gallery, Staley-Wise. I simply adored a Harry Benson photograph of JFK and De Gaulle in a Paris motorcade. It’s such a classic image and, of course—being a French classic myself—I couldn’t help but buy it.”

  As soon as Catherine sat down, she appeared to admire the mural of the tempestuous sea that dominated the room as though it were the ocean itself. Jennifer Walsh’s face had never appeared in print, but she looked as beautiful as any movie star. As she moved to embrace him, Michael could smell her familiar Chanel No. 5 and felt the stirring and titillation that must have captivated his brother. The heat from Dr. Simonetti’s perfectly sculptured breasts pressed through Michael’s fine cotton shirt.

  “You look terrific,” Jennifer said. Sometimes I feel like I’m just looking at a younger version of your brother. He was so good-looking, when he wanted to be.”

  Michael turned to Catherine, whose gaze finally turned away from the ocean, “I’m looking forward to this movie.”

  “I hope you will be impressed and that you will see that your money has been well-invested. I am very pleased with what we have shot.” Catherine’s mood seemed to lighten. “And how did you know that I loved Le Bernardin? You know your brother would not like it here. The portions are too small and the people—let’s just say perhaps too polite for Alex.” Catherine appeared at ease, her thoughts of Alex creating a slight smile and a twinkle in her eyes.

  Jennifer burst out laughing. “I really couldn’t see Alex here. He’d be out of this place in five minutes. First of all, he only likes steak, lobster or spaghetti.” Michael noticed her use of the present tense. “Alex has to have what he called ‘a real lobster’—at least three pounds and of course, he only eats the tails.”

  “Also,” Catherine added, “he would never have been comfortable in a French restaurant. The French and Alex would not be good together.”

  “Except, of course, for you.” Jennifer said as she looked at Catherine. “Catherine was Alex’s French exception.”

  As Catherine looked around at the other diners, who were trying to discreetly look at her, her expression changed.

  “What’s wrong, Catherine? What did you see?” Jennifer asked.

  Michael began to turn around, but Catherine put her hand on his arm, “Don’t turn around. It’s someone I know socially from Paris.”

  Jennifer looked around at the other tables. “Oh, not him.” Turning to Michael, she explained, “There’s this guy, Bertrand Rosen, at the table just inside. He’s been staring over here but I didn’t notice who he was until now. Catherine can’t stand him. He talked about financing Mirror Image. We went to dinner with him three times in Paris and then, at the last minute, he backed out of the deal.”

  His name was vaguely familiar to Michael but he couldn’t place it.

  “Sometimes I wish I could have more privacy or at least not be so visible,” Catherine said, clearly annoyed by Rosen’s presence.

  Jennifer gently touched Catherine’s arm. “Oh, Catherine, just a few months ago, you were upset. You said you felt invisible. Now, you’re looking for privacy again.”

  “I know, dear,” Catherine said, “but you are young and American—and I am French. The French are filled with contradictions. French women even more and French actresses even worse. It is impossible to be happy. Perhaps it is not possible to be a woman growing old—and to be happy.”

  “Catherine, you look absolutely stunning. But your beauty transcends your looks.” Michael was struggling to find the perfect compliment.

  Catherine frowned. “You are sweet, Michael. Just like your brother—although so different—but I can assure you, no woman over thirty wants to hear that her beauty transcends her looks. We spend our youth wanting men to desire us for our minds or personality or whatever. But, we spend much of our mature years longing for the time when men just wanted us for our beauty, our face, our breasts, our legs or,” her face broke out in a wide smile as she laughed, “perhaps just for our ass.” They all broke out laughing.

  ___________

  The waiter poured the last of the Veuve Clicquot rosé champagne into Jennifer’s glass. Michael signaled for another bottle and, just as the waiter departed, Bertrand Rosen approached their table.

  Rosen appeared to be in his sixties, balding with grey hair and rimless glasses and a slight paunch. He was dressed in white trousers and a snappy blue sport coat with shiny gold buttons and what appeared to be a family crest embroidered on the breast pocket.

  “Bonsoir, Madame,” he said, looking right at Catherine with his arms spread wide as though waiting for a warm embrace, which, Michael knew, was not about to happen. Then, turning to Jennifer, “Jennifer, my dear, you also look stunning this evening.”

  Catherine looked at Rosen and nodded, leaving it to Jennifer to respond. “Good evening, Mr. Rosen.”

  Rosen, obviously hoping for more but sensing that any conversation with the two ladies was going to be limited, then turned to Michael. Holding his hand out, he said, “Mr. Nicholas. We met in Paris last year—at Ralph Lauren’s new restaurant. You were having lunch.”

  Now Michael remembered. It was an unusual meeting. Rosen had come up to him and Samantha while they were dining at Ralph’s Lauren’s bistro on the Left Bank. Rosen had acted as though they knew each other, yet Michael couldn’t really recall when or where. He was apparently the founder and head of the highly successful French investment firm, Rosen & Sons. His clientele included some of the most distinguished members of French society.

  “Yes, it is good to see you again, Monsieur Rosen. You look well and healthy.” Michael hated these types of meaningless encounters and the small talk that they required. He felt sure that Rosen had only come to their table in order to be seen with Catherine Saint- Laurent who, nevertheless, clearly had no desire to engage Rosen any further.

  He was saved from further conversation by the waiters who were now circling their table with plates of barely cooked scallops in a brown butter sauce and baked snapper surrounded by charred green tomatoes.

  “Perhaps, Monsieur Nicholas, we could meet here in New York or the next time you are in Paris?” Rosen surprised Michael with his interest, let alone the meeting request.

  “Of course. I’ll actually be leaving for Paris in several days. That would be the most convenient for me schedulewise.” Michael was suspicious but curious. He saw the disapproving expressions from Catherine and Jennifer.

  “Perfect. Let me know when you’ll be there. Where will you be staying? I will call you.”

  “I’ll be at the Park Hyatt, at Place Vendome.”

  “Very well. I will be in touch. Bonsoir.” And with a polite nod to no one in particular at the table, Rosen returned to his table. Michael sensed an increased chill in the air conditioning. Catherine and Jennifer were vying to be the first to speak. Jennifer won.

  “Michael, besides being an asshole, that guy is trouble. I know he’s wildly successful but I can tell you, he’s a creep.”

  Michael looked at Catherine who said nothing but tilted her head to one side, smirked and pointed her eyes upward, indicating a discreet but total agreement.

  “
I admit there’s something about him that seems off, but I don’t know him. He’s certainly connected in Paris. I’ll be cautious, but I need to see what he’s about. He may be able to refer some people to me as potential clients for Gibraltar—or, for that matter, for Tartarus. Maybe he has rich friends who like to bet on sports. Not that I suppose he’s even aware of Tartarus.”

  After tasting Le Bernardin’s yellowfin tuna and foie gras on the toasted baguette, Catherine gazed again at the mural. “This fish is so fresh, I feel like I am swimming in that ocean.” Her gaze then turned into a laser focus. “Be careful with that man, Michael. He is what I would call, rough seas. Be sure you’re a good swimmer.”

  Michael looked back over to Rosen’s table and saw him staring back.

  ___________

  Two hours, another bottle of champagne and a fabulous chocolate mille-feuille later, Jennifer insisted that Michael join them in their suite at the Standard Hotel downtown for a “nightcap.” We have the room stocked with all of Alex’s favorite…”

  Michael felt a stirring—and a sense that he’d already ventured too far out to sea.

  “You must come, Michael.”

  “I’d love to, but … as appealing as it is … I just can’t.”

  Catherine leaned closer, “Please, only to watch. I promise.”

  Chapter 21

  Paris, France

  As Michael walked down the rue St. Honoré, he glanced at the stylish Parisian women as they passed by, many in high heels and bare legs, showing off their tans gained from weekends in Saint Tropez, a live version of French Vogue. The summer heat kept the skirts short and the blouses tight.