Death Logs In

by E. J. Simon

  Rosen had obviously answered this question many times before. “We take positions in blue-chip stocks and then we also take a split-strike conversion, or what’s called a ‘collar’ on them. So, typically, our position might consist of say thirty-five S&P 100 stocks with option contracts on them. Then we have the sale of out-of-the- money ‘calls’ on the index and the purchase of out-of-the-money ‘puts’ on the index. The sale of the ‘calls’ increases our rate of return while the ‘puts’ limit the downside.”

  Michael nodded but had long since checked out. “Well, this is beyond my expertise. That’s why I don’t manage my own money.”

  Rosen’s face brightened. He looked pleased with himself. “Michael, you aren’t alone. Even the most sophisticated investors—not to mention some of the idiots our respective governments call regulators—have been unable to follow or understand our strategy. It’s complex. By the way, I rarely actually meet with investors because it’s too frustrating. They try—but can’t—understand the strategy. If everyone could understand it, other people would replicate it. So, it gets too frustrating for them and then too annoying for me to try to continually explain it to people who simply do not have either the brainpower or technical background to follow it. It is simply, and beneficially, a complex formula that can’t be duplicated.”

  Michael was bored with trying to follow the investment strategy but intrigued with Rosen’s ability to successfully solicit sophisticated investors who were, nevertheless, unable to understand how he invested their money.

  “I’m curious, Bertrand. Why are people so willing to give you their money when they can’t follow your strategy? Or, better yet, how do the government investigators do their job if they can’t comprehend your strategy?”

  “You would be amazed at how insecure some of the most intelligent people are. When confronted with something that is beyond them mentally—especially coming from an expert with my track record, reputation and connections—they don’t want to acknowledge their shortcomings. I believe it actually frightens them to realize that, within their very area of specialization, they are actually inadequate. They don’t confront because they realize they can’t keep up intellectually.”

  Michael noticed that Samantha appeared to have shifted her piercing glare away from Sindy—and onto Rosen. He knew what she was thinking. Nevertheless, if Rosen wanted to bet, Michael had no intention of turning away his euros.

  “I see that I brought our conversation back to your funds—instead of your interest in Tartarus.”

  “Yes, I hope you will allow me to indulge my hobby—my true passion—with you.” As he spoke, Rosen pulled a sheet of paper out of the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. Without even unfolding it, he handed across the table to Michael.

  Michael quickly looked it over. It was a neatly typewritten document with several columns detailing a series of sports wagers to be placed over the next several days.

  “Bertrand, you know these are significant bets, huge gambles. If you are successful, this will mean millions for you. I’ll actually lay off some of this action to others just so that I’m not that heavily exposed. But, if you lose big, say you lost on each bet, you’ll owe me over a million euros. Of course, that’s not likely but, you know, anything is possible. Usually, I’d require some cash or security up front to just go ahead with something on this scale.”

  Rosen was polite but firm, “Michael, I came to you because I was told that I could trust you and, with my high profile here in Paris, I cannot place these bets with local bookmakers. Surely the bigger risk here is mine. As you said yourself, if I win, it’ll be tens of millions, in which case I’m trusting that you’ll be able to make good on it. Your worst-case loss, which would only be if I disappeared suddenly from the face of the earth, is a million. And, I don’t need to remind you of who I am, my credentials and reputation here in France—and in America, for that matter.” He looked straight into Michael’s eyes, “I mean, please remember, Michael, I’m not your typical client. I have been investigated and have been cleared by the financial regulators on both continents, our French AMF and your own country’s SEC.”

  Michael thought of hesitating, and then he thought of the upside of having a client like Bertrand Rosen to jump-start Tartarus in Paris.

  “OK. I’m good with this. I trust you, Bertrand, and I look forward to a long working relationship here.” Michael didn’t trust him but his actual risk was minimal.

  Rosen was clearly pleased. “Michael, I also hope that you will also become a client of mine. I do not generally even take on new investors to my firm, but, since you have been kind enough to trust me, it’s only fair that I reciprocate. Also, there are other connections, very valuable ones, that I can make for you.”

  “Really?” Michael was curious. He was certainly interested in growing his Paris operation’s client list, particularly with well-heeled investors or friends of Rosen.”

  “To start, Michael, I have a close friend who is a banker at IBS, the International Bank of Switzerland. His name is Hans Ulrich. I want to set up a meeting for you.”

  “Does he want to place bets?” Michael asked.

  “No, no, not at all. He is a banker; a Swiss banker. Very discreet. He can arrange for your money to be safely held and invested—but without it being reported to your American Internal Revenue Service. Therefore, no one asks any questions, you aren’t taxed and it is all safe and legal. It’s all done through the bank’s offshore private banking services. The Swiss are beautiful, you know. They are experts at working the system.”

  “Bertrand, I don’t believe that it’s legal for me, a U.S. citizen. I’ve got to report that income, at least in some way.”

  “Michael, very rich and sophisticated Americans have been doing this for decades. It’s still legal here and it is legal in the U.S. because there simply is no paper trail.”

  “Unlike most people in this business, my preference is to show the income so that the extent of my legal risk is simply the nature of the business. The authorities frequently don’t enforce the gambling laws, or at least fail to prosecute anyone. Evading taxes, however, is a far more serious issue in the U.S. I see taxes as simply a necessary cost of doing business.”

  Rosen was not convinced. “Michael, listen to me. Speak with Hans. He will guide you. As one of your famous Americans, Leona Helmsley, I believe, said, ‘Taxes are for the little people.’ ”

  “Bertrand, in that case, I’m going to remain a ‘little person.’ Leona Helmsley went to prison for tax evasion.” And the more Michael listened to Rosen, the more determined he became to limit his involvement with him—only allowing him to bet through Tartarus. He knew it was the one area where the odds would always be in his favor.

  The ringing of Michael’s cell phone attracted everyone’s attention.

  As he reached to identify the caller on his BlackBerry screen, Michael remembered that it was here a year ago while dining with Samantha that his brother called him from a restaurant in Queens. Michael had sat at this same table joking with Alex when he heard the shots at the other end that would silence his brother forever. Or so he thought then.

  But tonight the caller was Karen DiNardo, the only person at the firm who knew of Michael’s parallel career as head of Tartarus. Michael enjoyed her straight talk and sharp sarcasm, he sensed she would not disappoint this evening.

  “Karen, I see you’re working late?” Michael answered, seeing her name light up on his BlackBerry and also noting the time in New York had to be three in the afternoon.

  “Very funny, boss. I hate to interrupt your dinner but you’re not going to believe what’s happened here. I just received a call from Richard Perkins’ office asking me to get a message to you.”

  Michael paused for a second, “What is it?”

  “A man was found dead, hanging inside John Hightower’s garage.”

  “You’re kidding? What happened? Christ, who was it?”

  “Actually, that’s close. It was Bishop Mc
Carthy.”

  “No … when did this happen?”

  “I was just told but it sounds like it happened last night. In any case, Richard wants you back home as soon as possible.”

  “But what about the meeting his people were going to set up with Cardinal Lovallo and the monsignor?”

  “Michael—really? Don’t you think your timing might be off on this one?”

  In that split second, he realized how ridiculous the thought of a meeting with them right now would be. He had let his plan get in the way of his common sense. He was surprised at his own brief mental lapse.

  “Yes, of course. You’re right.” Michael continued, standing now near the restaurant’s front door, a short distance from his table but far enough not to be overheard. He watched Sindy Steele as he spoke. “Listen, I’m just curious, exactly what time was he murdered?”

  Chapter 23

  New York City

  “Lester, do you think Rizzo is capable of murder?” Fat Lester asked his cousin as he devoured another of Locanda Verde’s famous meatball sliders, more out of nerves than simply his usual hearty appetite.

  Skinny Lester put down his fork and looked closely at his cousin.

  “Yes, he’s definitely capable of murder.”

  For a few minutes, neither spoke but instead exchanged quick glances at each other while they continued to eat.

  “Isn’t this place owned by De Niro?” Fat Lester asked.

  “Yeah, just look around you, Lester. The place is filled with the slick hedge fund crowd trying to look hip and then these artsy, young downtown types. The artsy ones are all in black and the hedge fund guys are all wearing jeans and three-hundred-dollar shirts with fancy cuff links.”

  Fat Lester felt confused and impatient. “So where does that leave us?”

  Skinny Lester looked up at his cousin, a wry smile on his face, and said, “We’re in no man’s land, Lester. We’re here to eat. More precisely, I’m here for these meatball sliders, the charred octopus and the simple but perfectly prepared al dente spaghetti with the rich red tomato sauce.”

  “You sound like the freakin’ restaurant reviewer at the Post. Anyway, that’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “No, you’re right. I’m also here for the Chianti. Sorry, I almost forgot that.”

  Fat Lester, abruptly put down his fork. “Aren’t you going to ask my why?”

  “Why, what?”

  “Why I asked you if Rizzo could kill a guy. I mean, would he kill a man who backed out on a deal with him? You know, after the guy had given him his word.”

  “Well, you know he could kill, he’s a former cop to start. And, on top of that, he looks to me to be a guy who may even enjoy blowing someone’s brains out. So, why did you ask?”

  “What if someone asked Rizzo to supply him with some drugs and then decided he couldn’t do what Rizzo wanted in order to pay him back?” Fat Lester squirmed in his chair.

  “Then, I don’t think Rizzo would actually blow the guy’s brains out.”

  “Really?” Fat Lester felt what he sensed was going to be a very brief sense of relief.

  “Yes, because that would be too quick. For that, Rizzo would want the guy to suffer first. Real pain, you know like a slowly penetrating ice pick in your ear for starters. But, why exactly are you asking?”

  Fat Lester felt sick to his stomach. “No reason. Just curious.”

  ___________

  It was after the sliders but before the spaghetti that Fat Lester confessed to the reemergence of his old drug problem and the desperate deal he made with Rizzo.

  “I gotta tell you, Lester,” he said, “just telling you this—getting it off my chest—makes me feel better. But now we gotta figure out what the fuck to do.”

  “Les, what was it, ten years ago, when you fell off the wagon, Alex took care of you. He got you help and he protected you. He fixed everything.”

  “Yeah, but Alex’s gone now.”

  “Les, now you’ve got to get to Michael and let him know what’s happening. We’ve also got to let Rizzo know the deal’s off.”

  Fat Lester already knew this, but hearing his cousin verbalize it gave him strength and filled him with trepidation.

  “I know, but what’s Michael going to say? He’s never seen this side of me. Alex did, but I doubt Michael ever knew about it. Then what the fuck happens with Rizzo? I’ve taken his drugs already.”

  “Don’t worry, Lester, we’ve known Michael since he was a baby. He knows you better than you think. Listen, Alex was his brother. First we’ve got to let him know what’s going on. He’ll get you help; you know, rehab to start. Then, we’ve got to hope he’s as good at dealing with Rizzo as Alex was.” Skinny Lester paused, took another sip of his wine, and added, “Maybe more than that, we’ve got to hope that, underneath the suit, Michael’s got a heart like Alex had.”

  “Alex’d be pissed if he heard you talking about his damned heart. He didn’t talk about that stuff.”

  Fat Lester twirled a forkful of sweet, tomato-coated spaghetti and, savoring its flavor on his tongue, drew comfort from its familiar taste. He wished he could just keep eating it forever and never have to put the fork down or get up from the table. He watched as, with each deliberate twirl of his fork, the portion of spaghetti remaining in the bowl dwindled, bringing him closer to the two calls he dreaded and feared.

  He wasn’t sure which one he feared more, the one to Michael or to Rizzo.

  Chapter 24

  New York City

  Rizzo knew that his Museum Tower neighbors wondered how a retired New York City cop could afford to live in their exclusive building. He suspected that only the building’s maintenance staff knew the truth. He had once overheard the doorman joking to the handyman that “Mr. Rizzo” had been known as “The Nose” by those on his beat, for his ability to sniff out the vulnerable ones he then extorted during his thirty years on the force.

  Riding down the elevator, he laughed when he remembered the faces of undocumented immigrants, landlords with illegal apartments in their basement, bookies, loan sharks and small-time drug dealers who had provided him with the riches a straight street cop could only dream about. As he saw it, he provided a service: protection from arrest in return for cash. Protection led to greater opportunities as he branched out into dealing the cocaine and heroin he regularly confiscated.

  Rizzo silently thanked those faces that had allowed him to build up enough cash to retire after twenty-five years on the force, along with a full pension as an added bonus. It wasn’t long after his retirement that he moved into his $1.4 million condominium in the tony Museum Tower, adjacent to the Museum of Modern Art on Fifty-Third Street. As he waited for the elevator to reach the lobby, he felt content for the first time in his life.

  Rizzo looked forward to meeting Fat Lester and collecting the first installment on what promised to be a new and substantial annuity. He had arranged to meet him right outside his building and he expected to be riding back up to his apartment a few minutes later with thirty-eight thousand dollars in cash.

  When the elevator doors opened, immediately, Rizzo saw something was wrong.

  The lobby was empty. No one was manning the concierge desk and, even more unusual, the doorman was absent from his post.

  As he exited the building through the revolving door to meet Fat Lester, he was startled instead to see Michael Nicholas and a stocky, well-built stranger, who introduced himself simply as Fletcher. Fat Lester was nowhere in sight.

  His instinct for danger set off the old familiar alarms, the defensive safeguards he had not felt since his years on the force. He knew he was caught off-guard and unprepared. He knew right then that his ride back up the elevator would not go as he planned.

  Chapter 25

  Michael, I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were over in France,” Rizzo said, keeping a slight distance away and looking Fletcher over. “I was just expecting Lester.” Getting no reaction or response from Fletcher, he turned bac
k toward Michael. “You didn’t have to come yourself.”

  Michael and Fletcher both quickly advanced closer to Rizzo. Michael spoke, “Let’s go back inside where we can have some privacy.” Fletcher started the revolving door with his hand and guided Rizzo in as he and Michael followed close behind. As they all entered the still-abandoned lobby, Rizzo looked around, his eyes rapidly scanning the entire area, looking for any sign of the staff.

  Once inside, Rizzo looked again at Fletcher, trying to access his role in this encounter. Fletcher returned his gaze and slowly opened his sport coat revealing a black Glock 19 pistol securely tucked into his waistband.

  Rizzo straightened up as he further sized up Fanelli. He then turned to Michael. “What the hell’s going on, Michael?” Then looking back at Fletcher, “And who are you?”

  Fletcher didn’t utter a word, but Michael jumped in, “Fat Lester couldn’t make it tonight, Johnny. But we wanted to settle accounts.”

  “Michael, what is this? I could have waited for the gift. And you didn’t need to bring your girlfriend.” Rizzo smirked, staring again at Fletcher.

  “Listen, you asshole,” Michael said in a hushed tone, “You’re lucky my friend here doesn’t have you pulled in right now for procuring smack for Lester.”

  Trying to keep his temper and his fears in check, Rizzo kept up an aggressive show. “What the hell—you’re going to have me arrested? You gotta be freakin’ kidding. I think you’ve got things a little confused.” He turned again to Fletcher. “Are you a cop?”

  Fletcher took a step closer, now nearly in Rizzo’s face. “Don’t worry about who I am.” He then put his hand on his gun and motioned Rizzo toward the elevator.