by E. J. Simon
Sharkey jumped on the question. “Information? What kind of information? Who wants information?”
“Never mind who. I need for you to tell me again exactly how we reached this point regarding the need to take care of Michael Nicholas.”
“Monsignor, are your people having second thoughts? It’s a little late for that, you know. When you needed something fixed ten years ago in the Bronx, I didn’t come back and ask you for a report, did I?”
“No, you didn’t. But things here are more complicated. There is, as you say in America, a new sheriff in town. The Holy Father sees things a little differently than some of his predecessors. There are new pressures that have come to bear. You read the papers, don’t you? The Americans have been relentless for several years and now the Irish have allowed this whole sexual abuse business to escalate.”
“What does that have to do with me? I’m not one of your clergy and I never abused any kids, remember?” Sharkey’s temperature was rising. “I’m a saint compared to some of your guys.”
“Yes, of course. But your involvement with us, indeed the debt we owe to you, was a result of the indiscretions of our friend, Bishop McCarthy, who, of course, is no longer with us after his unfortunate accident in Connecticut.”
“Listen, Dominick, Monsignor, whatever, you guys needed a favor. A big favor, ten years ago. That bishop abused those kids and they were ready to blow the whistle. I took care of things for you. Now, your new guy with the big hat thinks maybe you guys need to stop protecting everyone. It’s about time. But, let me tell you something, Mister Monsignor, that doesn’t change anything about our situation. Do you understand? Because, it wouldn’t be so good for people to find out what I did for you. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”
There was a brief silence before Petrucceli spoke. “Joseph, calm down. Believe me, I understand. I understand better than you think. I just need to answer the questions, to retrace the steps, as to how Michael Nicholas is linked to all of this.”
“He’s not linked to this except that you owe me. Do you understand? You owe me. Michael’s brother, Alex, and I had a problem. It had to do with one of his wives. Anyway, I did her a favor, out of love, you know. So Alex had an unfortunate end last year. His brother, Michael, now enters the scene. He and I don’t get along. Some associates of mine—a Mr. Bats, Nicky Bats, Lump and a legitimate mortician, Morty—were caught trying to dump Michael in the bay in Queens. Before they did, the New York police caught them. Now, your guy takes care of them in the church basement in the Bronx. So, the only person left who can finger me is Michael Nicholas. Once your guy Speedy Gonzalez takes care of him, I’m home free and I’m on my way back to New York and out of your hair.”
“I see,” Petrucceli answered.
“You see? What do you mean, ‘I see?’ What is that supposed to mean?”
Sharkey could feel his temper gaining control over him. He thought about the sequence of events that made it so necessary that Michael Nicholas suffer and die. It was a little more complicated than the version he had just given Petrucceli. As with most crimes, he thought, there was a woman behind it.
It started with Michael’s brother, Alex, a tough guy, but not tough like the men from the “family” that Sharkey knew. Alex would never kill a guy. It wasn’t his type of thing. No, Alex was an outsider and he was smart. He wasn’t Italian, either. Greek, not really even that. He was born in the U.S. But he ran a good business. Always paid off, on time. Made good on everything. No, it was Greta Garbone, Alex’s ex, that started it all. Sharkey fell for her that night in the bar at Piccola Venezia. She was the one who convinced him to have Alex killed, to hire that kid from South Carolina to shoot him in his old restaurant that night. She figured she’d get a lot of his money. They surely knew the place would be filled with off-duty cops—many of them Alex’s friends—and that the kid would never make it out alive either. Then, when Michael took over Alex’s affairs and wouldn’t give Greta the money she needed from the estate, and secret cash everyone knew he had, she convinced Sharkey to go after Michael too. He didn’t mind that as much since Michael wasn’t like Alex. No, he was a punk. He didn’t grow up in the business. Too straight. Thought he was better than everyone. But Michael had escaped from the clutches of Sharkey’ guys as they were dumping him in Flushing Bay that night. Then, when Sharkey’s men were arrested, they fingered Sharkey. Hence, he had to flee the country and here he was, a secret guest of his old friends in the Vatican, his new protectors.
“Joseph, are you listening?”
Sharkey had tuned out. Back again, he looked up, “Yes, of course. But, Monsignor, you’re making me nervous. When will your man complete the job?”
“Soon, Joseph. Very soon. I assure you.”
“If your man can’t get it done, I may have to take matters into my own hands.”
The monsignor tilted his head slightly, his right eyebrow now raised, “Joseph, be careful, my friend. You are placing yourself in a precarious position. We are on top of this situation. Don’t do anything that could endanger our operation. I am your advocate within the Vatican. You must not jeopardize my own support with the powers above me.”
Knowing Petrucceli was looking for a sign of agreement, Sharkey looked away, his eyes following an attractive woman in a long formal gown crossing the room.
But Petrucceli persisted. “Joseph, you have already given me your word that you will take no action on your own toward Michael Nicholas. You must honor that. Do you understand me?”
Sharkey finally looked back at the monsignor but said nothing, while trying to weigh his options. He knew too well that he didn’t have any. “OK, you have my word. I already told you I will not touch him—”
Petrucceli interrupted. “Nor will you authorize or hire anyone else to do so.”
“Whatever. What are you, some kind of lawyer? You have my word. I won’t touch him.”
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you tonight. I have the information I need and I can make my report. There will be no problem. The cardinal needed to answer some questions, and I wanted to refresh my own memory on the facts.”
“There are no facts, Monsignor. Only debts and obligations.” Sharkey smiled. As they stood up to leave, Sharkey wondered if Samantha Nicholas was dead yet.
Chapter 51
Westport, Connecticut
Samantha looked out into her backyard. The trees were still. A ray of moonlight ever so slightly illuminated the shimmering swimming pool.
And then she heard him. He was right behind her. She bolted forward out onto the patio but, just as she did, she could feel his hand on the small of her back as he grabbed the elastic of her panties. She began to scream, “Help—” but his powerful arm took her around her neck, his hand covering her mouth. Her cell phone and the knife fell to the ground as he lifted her off her feet.
She couldn’t believe his strength. It overwhelmed her. His strong arms held her entire body in place. In a split second, she was overpowered and immobilized. Who was he? She could smell his cologne and liquor. He’d been drinking too, she thought. Then her eyes were nearly completely covered by the pressing flesh of his hands against her face. Any thoughts of a struggle or even a scream were a fantasy. She knew she could never shake his grip. He held her from behind but was forcing her to the left, toward the swimming pool. The water was just a few feet away. She knew his plan.
She was choking for air before she even hit the water, his grip still firm as she went under, her lungs convulsing, desperately seeking whatever air was in her body. Briefly, she was able to bring her head back up, above the water. “We’re almost through, you little bitch,” she heard him say as she felt her body being thrust again below the surface. She knew she had only seconds of consciousness left. She opened her eyes under the water. It was black except for what appeared to be a mass of tiny colored lights, twinkling. She had seen them before, she thought, when she was a little girl and had pressed her fingers against her closed eyes. It reminded her of Chr
istmas lights. Was this what dying was like? Visions of Michael and Sofia flashed before her. Where were they, she wondered? These thoughts had distracted her from her pain; she was no longer choking. No, now she was relaxed. Was it over? Was she waking up from a bad dream—or had she gone over to the other side, the place with the white light?
But as she opened her eyes again underwater, she saw his white pants and a glimmer of light miraculously reflecting onto the partially exposed steel zipper. Her mind was so oddly clear now. She remembered from somewhere about the best way to defend against a male attacker. They were there for the taking.
She reached over through the water and cupped her hand under Rizzo’s balls and squeezed. Hard. Then harder. He released his hold on her, and she shot up to the surface. He was bent over, clearly in pain. She was free.
But before she could even turn away, he pulled up, stood upright in the waist-deep water and pulled out the large kitchen knife tucked under his belt. “You fuckin’ bitch. Now we got to get the water all bloody.”
She tried to swim away, diving into the water away from him, but no sooner had she made her move, she felt his hand tightly grip her ankle, pulling her swiftly back to him. As soon as she reached him, he changed his grip from her ankle to her throat. As she choked and began to feel her life slipping away, she saw him raise the large variegated silver blade in his right hand. She hoped she’d die before she felt it in her.
And then everything turned black. There was nothing to see but she could feel the warm water taking her. For a second, she remembered the feeling of being put to sleep before a surgery; that ever-so-brief split second before the anesthesia made everything go away.
___________
She was on the surface again, her head above the water. He was gone. She waited for him to strike again.
She headed to the edge of the pool and then she felt something in the water brush up against her. She jumped back. A clap of thunder erupted and the sky lit up from a distant bolt of lightning. He was there … his lifeless body on its way to the bottom.
Chapter 52
New York City
CEOs are just like everyone else. They want to be liked by their boss. Richard Perkins was finally going to meet the one man he was in awe of, Jonathan Goldstein, the chairman and the largest stockholder of Cartan Holdings
As soon as Cartan’s takeover of Gibraltar Financial was closed, he would be working for Goldstein. Now, regardless of how tough Perkins was, he hoped Goldstein would also be his mentor.
As he and his chief of staff John Hightower entered Goldstein’s private office, he caught his first glimpse of the man he had thus far only spoken to on the phone and read about in the press.
There were troubling rumors though. Perkins had read the reports on how Goldstein had dumped his wife of almost forty years after approaching a thirty-something woman at the takeout counter of a Chinese restaurant, slipping her his business card and whispering in her ear, “Google me,” before walking out. On the other hand, how many people do you meet in the Hunan Delight who are worth a billion dollars? The young woman evidently fell in love with Goldstein, signed a pre-nup and married him as soon as his divorce papers were dry.
As Perkins and Hightower were led by Goldstein’s attractive young secretary toward chairs facing Goldstein’s desk, Perkins received the first indication that the meeting might be less than he’d hoped for. Ignoring the two visitors, she announced to Goldstein, “Hans Ulrich is on line three.”
“Tell him I’ll call him back in five minutes,” Goldstein said, still not having made eye contact with his visitors.
Perkins, a former military MP, walked confidently over to Goldstein’s large desk, held his hand out and, expecting a firm handshake, was surprised when Goldstein simply nodded, never offering his hand in return. Had he read somewhere that Goldstein was petrified of germs and rarely touched strangers?
“The deal will close on Monday. I want the new budgets on my desk first thing on Tuesday.” His eyes were deep set, seeming to be placed far back into the hollows of his skull. His stare was vacant and cold. Goldstein’s face looked even older than his seventy years. His skin was pulled back and his eyebrows unnaturally arched, a sure sign of a face-lift. Despite his riches, Goldstein couldn’t turn back the clock. Apparently, too, even the best plastic surgeon money could buy, could only do so much. To Perkins, Goldstein looked like a corpse, albeit a living one with a billion-dollar portfolio.
He remembered what the investment banker had told him about Goldstein, that he surrounded himself with those who spent their careers executing his formula. There would be no emotion, no vacillation, no doubt. Real power would go to those with financial and accounting skills, strictly numbers people, not those with operating knowledge or organizational pride. Visions had no place here. Those who hesitated would be gone. But, for those who could spend their days under the gaze of his cold, lifeless eyes, Jonathan Goldstein would make them rich, very rich.
Chapter 53
Westport, Connecticut
Michael and Fletcher had settled into their familiar table by the front window of Mario’s.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the security firm you arranged. It brings me some peace of mind knowing there are guards there. And, thank God Angie offered to stay in case Samantha woke up. I do hope those drugs Dr. Horn gave her help her get some sleep…she’s obviously still unsettled, we all are—to say the least.” Michael took a deep breath, “Fletcher, Thank God you showed up when you did.”
“As soon as I saw the message, I rushed over to your house. When I pulled into the driveway, I heard Samantha screaming from the backyard. He was holding her down in the pool and was about to stab her when I put a bullet in the side of his head. I doubt he ever knew what hit him.” Fletcher shook his head.
“That’s too bad.” Michael said.
“I didn’t realize it was Rizzo until later when he was dragged out of the water.”
“I was worried you wouldn’t get my voicemail.”
“What voicemail?” Fletcher looked puzzled.
“I tried your cell but when you didn’t answer, I left you a voicemail. Isn’t that the message you were talking about?”
“No, I never got it.”
Michael realized that Fletcher was right, he hadn’t left any message but had simply hung up and dialed 911. “Then how did you wind up at my house so quickly?”
“Listen, I don’t want you to think I’m going off the deep end or something, or that I’m suddenly clairvoyant. I was leaving the Black Duck, I’m off-duty and I’d probably just had one too many and don’t remember everything perfectly—”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, as I said, I’m just finishing up at the bar at the Duck when I get this instant message on my cell. It says something like, ‘Samantha’s in trouble. Go to her house asap.’ So I’m heading to your house when I got the call from police dispatch about a problem, which must have been as a result of your call. But this instant message had come to my cell several minutes beforehand. If I hadn’t gotten that, I’d have been too late.”
“Did you save the message? Can I see it?”
“That’s the first thing that was so strange. After it was all over, I went back to my messages—but it was gone. Nothing else had been deleted, but that message had just disappeared.”
“OK, but who sent it?”
Fletcher finished his drink. “That’s the other thing. The way it was worded, I could swear it said it was from Alex. Obviously it wasn’t Alex—but someone sent me that message. Unfortunately, in the rush of things, I must have deleted it.”
Both of them were silent. Michael knew who sent it, but he wasn’t ready to tell Fletcher that Alex—or some version of him—was still alive. Not yet, especially after watching Samantha’s reaction when he tried to show her. To break the spell, he looked around the restaurant. The bar was packed tonight and the restaurant’s tables were filling up as the dinner crowd was filing in.
Still lost in his thoughts, Michael glanced up at the television monitor above the bar. A familiar face caught his attention. He pointed to the monitor, directing Fletcher’s attention also to the newscaster’s report:
“And now, breaking news from Paris that the global financier, Bertrand Rosen, who committed suicide on Tuesday by jumping out of his tenth-story Paris apartment, was about to be indicted for what is allegedly a massive Ponzi scheme. It’s reported that the scale of this fraud may exceed seventy billion dollars. Investors from all over the world are in danger of losing all or most of the monies being held by Rosen’s firm, Rosen Securities.”
“How the hell did we miss that?” Michael said, shaking his head. “It was all a ‘Hail Mary.’ He was betting big to try and get some cash. The odds were against him. He figured it was his last shot to get some cash. If he won, he’d have enough to make it for a little longer. It would have bought him some time, although not much. If he lost, so what? We could get in line with everyone else he screwed. And now we have.”
“I suppose it now all makes sense. But it’s too late, you’ll still never get the money he owes you.” Fletcher said.
Michael thought about that for a moment. “The funny thing about this business is that, even though Rosen owes me the money, it’s not like I’m out of pocket in any way.”
“I guess you’re right. You just don’t get paid your winnings. It makes Sindy’s account of what happened a little more credible. Maybe she was the final straw that made him realize he’d reached the end of the line.”
“I hope so. She’s been very coy about the whole thing, playing with my head. But, in any case, I’ve got to do something about her. I’m in much too deep, and I’ve got to start somewhere to repair my marriage. We’ve built so much—what the hell has happened to me? The other night with Rizzo scared the hell out of me. … It’s all my fault … I just worry it may be more difficult to extricate myself from Sindy than I imagined.”