by E. J. Simon
Rizzo turned toward Michael. “So what the fuck do you want? What about my money?”
“Get in the elevator,” Michael said, motioning toward the open teak-walled elevator.
Rizzo was unsure; he tried to analyze the risk in going up to his apartment. On one hand, he’d no longer have the safety of a public place. But he didn’t really believe Michael Nicholas was capable of hurting him. Fletcher was the wild card. On the other hand, he knew his own pistol was loaded and accessible in his nightstand drawer. If he could shift the scene up to his apartment, he might be able to get to his weapon.
Rizzo led the way to the elevator, entering and then pressing the number for his floor. But before he could even turn around, Fletcher slammed him violently against the back wall of the car. He then felt a crushing blow to the back of his knees, causing him to collapse in a heap onto the elevator floor. Rizzo knew the drill. He had done it himself countless times to those who resisted his shakedowns or whose looks he simply didn’t like.
“Are you guys freakin’ nuts? You’re out of your freakin’ minds.” In a matter of seconds, Rizzo’s face was pushed into the floor and he felt Fletcher’s knee pressing hard into his back. He suspected Fletcher was a current or former cop as he found himself handcuffed to the waist-high steel railing with his hands behind his back.
He watched as Michael waited for the elevator door to close and then inserted the key that closed the doors but held the elevator on the lobby floor.
“Where’d you get that key?” Rizzo grunted.
He could feel Fletcher’s knee pinning him even harder now into the floor.
“People in this building hate your guts, Rizzo. It wasn’t hard.” Fletcher said.
Michael’s face was emotionless, his demeanor calm and his voice low. He looked at Rizzo and instructed Fletcher, “Let’s get his clothes off.”
Rizzo laughed and, as Fletcher finally released his knee-hold, he looked up at the car’s floor indicator lights, hoping for a rescue. But he knew the elevator was going nowhere. “You’re crazy.”
With that, Fletcher punched him, hard and low, doubling Rizzo over. “Shit,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.
Fletcher then secured Rizzo’s ankles together using a plastic cord.
Michael said, “What do you think, John? You were a dirty cop. You’re still dirty. You knew Lester was trying to stay clean. You didn’t give a damn. You didn’t mind maybe killing him with your drugs for a little money?”
“He asked me for help. He asked me to score the stuff for him. I was doing fatty a freakin’ favor.”
“Yeah, sure, at my expense. You think we’re as dumb as you are?” Michael said.
Rizzo was breathing hard. Secured to the railing with both hands cuffed behind his back and his feet bound at the ankles, his eyes bulged out as he saw Fletcher pull out a hunting knife from his back pocket. He didn’t expect this.
In three short, swift strokes of the blade, most of Rizzo’s clothes had been slashed open. Fletcher and Michael easily pulled off the remaining shards and rolled up the ripped garments, including the remains of his underwear. Rizzo was standing, bound and naked in his own elevator but relieved when he saw Fletcher return the blade to his pocket.
A voice came over the elevator intercom, “Is everything OK, Mr. Rizzo? We’ve got some folks here waiting to go up.”
Before Rizzo could respond, Fletcher spoke, “Yes, Harry, we’re done. Be out in a second. Thanks.” Michael turned the key and pressed the button to take them to the basement where, Rizzo surmised, Michael and Fletcher could exit through the service door.
The elevator door opened and Michael and Fletcher walked out, carrying Rizzo’s shredded clothing and leaving him secured to the railing, standing naked facing the door.
On his way out, Michael turned around, holding the elevator door with his arm as the buzzer went off. “Just remember, I’ve got enough on you to get you arrested for dealing and maybe even eliminate that cop’s pension you somehow have held onto. Next time you’ll know better, Rizzo. You don’t cheat your bookie.” Rizzo watched as Michael then pressed the lobby button and exited the elevator.
As the door closed, Rizzo shouted out to him, “No, next time, Michael, you’re going to die.” Even before the doors reopened into the lobby, Rizzo began planning his trip to Westport, Connecticut.
Chapter 26
New York City
Just before he climaxed, Michael looked hard into Sindy Steele’s dark, half-opened eyes.
Had she really murdered the bishop and hung him inside John Hightower’s garage? Although he knew it was a little sick, the very thought of it was like an intravenous injection of Viagra.
Michael rolled over to Sindy’s side. His next thoughts were near panic. The St. Regis suite, he realized, had become his second home and his lover was possibly a murderer.
The lights were off, but the blue light from the digital alarm clock illuminated the tiny beads of perspiration that glistened on her body. One long, slender, pale white leg dangled outside the covers over the side of the bed. She stared up at the ceiling, spent and satisfied, Michael hoped. Or, perhaps she was somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t go, somewhere he was afraid to go. Somewhere dark.
“Sindy, where are you?” he asked, whispering into her ear.
Her eyes darted back to life. “What do you mean?”
“You seemed to be far away, somewhere else.”
“I have something to tell you. It’s a strange thing. It frightens me.” She looked vulnerable.
“Is it about McCarthy’s suicide?” Michael knew the answer even though she had already denied having anything to do with his death.
“Michael, do I frighten you?”
He hesitated. “Sometimes. To be honest, right now my whole life frightens me.”
He tried not to think about Samantha. He knew Alex was right, that Samantha knew he was sleeping with Sindy. After the dinner in Paris, the chill between them had almost become a deep freeze. Oddly though, Samantha had yet to confront him over his relationship with Sindy. Worse, Samantha had no way of knowing that he didn’t see this arrangement—or relationship, or whatever it was—lasting too long. To him, it was—almost—just business and, perhaps, something he needed at the time. And, speaking of business, he realized that, in view of his plan, he was not yet ready to part ways with Sindy.
Sindy was now an integral part of the second life that Michael had come to inhabit. Just as much, he thought, as Samantha was an integral part of the first one. Michael knew he had taken his ability to “compartmentalize” to a new—and very troubling—level.
But what really panicked him was that he knew he couldn’t envision how it could possibly end, or end well. Now he wanted to change the subject.
“You mentioned once in passing that you’d gone to medical school. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it? What happened?”
“I did—Stanford—and I did well there, academically, at least. I only attended for two years.
“Why’d you leave?”
“I was young, immature. I was in love with this guy, another medical student. It didn’t work out. I was heartbroken. That’ll never happen again.”
“Did he—”
She cut him off firmly. “Michael, in time I’ll tell you everything.” She stopped, catching herself and softening, she continued. “But, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about that time in my life anymore right now.”
“I understand.” He had to ask her one more thing that couldn’t wait. “One last question, not related to that period.”
“One,” she said, totally expressionless.
“What do you think—what are your feelings—about the bishop being dead?”
“It was poetic justice. Hightower is your enemy. He knows you don’t like him. He’s the one with some connection at the Vatican that resulted in McCarthy being presented to Gibraltar as a board member. Believe me, Hightower is scared shitless. You’ve neutralized him. He’s n
ot about to mess around with you again. Now he’s afraid for his own life. He believes you had something to do with this. He doesn’t know how you pulled it off, or even what exactly happened. But the image of seeing that pervert hanging from his garage ceiling, all lit up, as he was about to drive in—that’s one he’s never going to forget.”
“And how did I pull it off?” He was watching her closely now.
“Well, the police actually believe it may have been a suicide and they’re privately acknowledging that it looks like the good bishop may have been a jilted lover. They’re speculating that Hightower may have rejected McCarthy’s advances or affection and so he hung himself in a place where Hightower was sure to be the one to find him.”
“How clever of him,” he said.
“You don’t get to be a bishop without being clever.”
After a long silence, she spoke again. “I looked up ‘tartarus.’ I wondered what it meant and why you decided on that name for Alex’s business.”
“It’s a prison, where the Greeks sent the defeated gods. A dank, gloomy pit surrounded by a wall of bronze,” Michael said softly. “It’s the lowest region of the universe, the abyss, even farther away than Hades or hell.”
“Is that where we are, Michael? I forget that you’re Greek. This sounds so mystical, so old European.”
He listened, then continued. “My parents were Greek. I was born here. But, it’s in my blood, how I was raised. It never leaves you, good or bad. Tartarus is the abyss I feel like I’ve jumped into with Alex’s world.” He paused, gently redirecting her. “You never answered my question about the bishop.”
“Which question was that, exactly?”
“The one about—let me phrase it this way—did you kill him?”
“Of course I killed him. You knew that. It was probably the nicest thing I’ve ever done for anyone.”
Chapter 27
New York City
Michael realized how little he really knew about Sindy Steele.
The concept of a single bodyguard made sense but, in practice, it was appearing to be impractical. Michael enjoyed some level of privacy. Leaving his office after a day of wall-to-wall meetings, he headed alone down Madison Avenue toward the St. Regis.
His thoughts alternated between visions of Sindy between the covers and trying to imagine how she could possibly have arranged to kidnap and then murder the bishop—and still catch her flight to Paris. The timing seemed almost impossible. Was she really capable of murder—or was she simply playing mind games with him? When he had tried to probe further with her on her comment regarding the bishop, she remained elusive, then seductive. “Stop thinking so much and just bury your face between my legs,” she said. It was a line he knew he’d never forget.
His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his BlackBerry. It was his assistant, Karen DiNardo. Her voice brought him back to the moment. “I meant to tell you—before you rushed out—that your schedule of employees to be terminated was delivered on time to both Hightower and Mr. Perkins, so they should be happy.”
“Thanks, Karen but, believe me, there’s more trouble coming. They’re not through with us. Wait until the details of the merger unfold.”
“Are you in trouble?” she asked.
“I don’t think so. They can’t afford to lose me right now. I’m still newsworthy after all the publicity around my speech last year attacking Wall Street. Plus, you know how these things work. Senior management makes out like bandits. We’ll all get bigger jobs, more money and big-time golden parachutes. In the meantime, the shareholders pay for it and the line-level employees lose their jobs.”
“Boss, you know the game. Please, whatever they come up with—just take a deep breath before you react. Those two would love to find an excuse to push you out.”
Michael knew that Karen was right as always. He had been brought on three years ago to turn around the company that was collapsing under the weight of several ill-advised acquisitions. Now, after stabilizing and rebuilding the organization, it just wasn’t possible to deliver the unrealistic profits that his former boss, Dick Applegarden, and his current boss, Richard Perkins, were demanding.
“And speaking of your speech last year, that meeting is coming up again in L.A. in two weeks. Fortunately, you’re not speaking this time, but Mr. Perkins wanted to confirm that you’ll be there. He’s going—along with Hightower. Do you want me to book you into the Peninsula?”
Michael thought about last year’s meeting. His big speech, how a furious, red-faced Applegarden went up to him after he left the podium, cursing and threatening.
“No, book me into the Chateau Marmont. I’ve always wanted to stay there.”
“Perkins’ secretary wanted to know where you were staying.”
“Tell her nicely to mind her own business. I like my privacy.”
He continued his walk to the St. Regis but had only gone one block when he felt his BlackBerry vibrating. After fumbling around, he pulled it out of his suit coat pocket and, while continuing to walk, stole a glance at the notification on the screen: “Alex Nicholas changed his Facebook cover photo.”
His mind took off in a million directions. What was going on? He was anxious to get to his laptop in the hotel. He and Sindy were going to order room service in the suite for dinner tonight. He knew he only had a short time before she returned for the night.
___________
He sat on the couch in the living room, facing the front door of the suite so he couldn’t be surprised by her arrival. Michael logged into his computer and then signed onto Facebook. He then typed in “Alex Nicholas” in the box for finding friends. He hadn’t checked Alex’s Facebook page since his murder. Why would he, of course? How many dead people change their Facebook cover picture? Only Alex, he thought.
Sure enough, the picture on his page had changed. It was no longer the one of Alex and his son at his seats at Yankee Stadium, the one that had been his Facebook cover photo at least a year before his death and, as far as Michael knew, right up until a few minutes ago. In its place was the interior of a church, facing the altar with a large gold cross just above it. Michael leaned in closer to the screen; as soon as he did, he knew for sure. It was the Greek Orthodox Church in Whitestone, Queens—the one where Alex’s funeral had been held.
Michael immediately signed out of Facebook and clicked onto the icon for Alex.
“I figured that would get your attention,” Alex said as soon as he appeared.
“What was that about? Are you trying to bring attention to yourself?” Michael was annoyed. The last thing he needed now was questions regarding Alex. After all, Samantha was the only one he had shown the virtual Alex to—and even she didn’t believe it.
“You probably didn’t realize it but that would have been the view from my casket—if it had been open. Actually, I just got bored. Maybe I don’t want my friends to …” he hesitated. Michael noticed a brief and rare look of vulnerability on his brother’s face. “… to forget me.”
Michael softened. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Not yet, anyway.”
Alex appeared to regain his normal, tougher composure. “I have some news that you’re not going to like,” he said, his expression turning unusually solemn, although Michael detected the slightest hint of a mischievous smirk. “It’s about your mistress.”
“I didn’t expect you were going to do a Google search on her.”
“Michael, I’m discovering that I can access things here that you wouldn’t believe. I don’t know how this has happened but it’s like I can go anywhere and get inside anyone’s email and even a lot of corporate internal email systems. My power seems to be growing. Anyway, I found out some interesting things about Sindy Steele that I picked up from some confidential documents that a dean at Stanford had saved in his email files.”
“Don’t tell me—she dropped out of Stanford medical school after two years,” Michael said, hoping he’d beaten Alex to the punch. He’d seen it in the online background c
heck he’d done—right after he hired her. “She fell in love with another medical student and I guess got her heart broken and never recovered.”
“You’re right—but I don’t think that would be the headline if I was a reporter or something.”
“OK, what would be the headline?” Michael could see that Alex was enjoying the intrigue and maybe some attention.
“You mean if I was writing an article in like the New York Post?”
“Exactly. Or the National Enquirer, take your pick.”
“Try this one: ‘Jilted female medical student murders her ex.’ ”
“OK, what’s this all about?” Michael felt as though his Alex was toying with him, enjoying teasing his little brother like they were kids again.
“Is this your first affair?”
“Well, yes, it’s the first time—and it’ll be the last affair for me. This one won’t last too long, either. I don’t know, maybe it’s the element of danger that I seem to suddenly like—but this whole affair thing is too complicated and I’m not very good at keeping stuff from Samantha. We’re too close. Or we were. Damn it, what did you find out?”
“How soon do you plan on ending it?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I have to admit, right now she’s very useful to me. Not just for the sex. What is it?”
“Good. If I were you, I’d take my time and think very carefully before cutting things off with her.”
Michael was exasperated. “What the hell are you talking about?
“It appears that a few weeks after her boyfriend—a William McGee—dumps her, he’s found dead in his new apartment. No cause of death was immediately apparent.” Alex appeared to be reading from some document or other computer screen out of Michael’s range of sight. “The coroner initially ruled that the healthy twenty-six-year-old student had died of ‘natural causes.’ The press reports the next day stated that ‘no foul play was detected or suspected.’ ”
“So—where does murder come in?” Michael said.