Death Logs In

by E. J. Simon

  “Oh, you’ll be able to extricate yourself. But if you do break up with her, I wouldn’t let her mix your drinks.”

  As Michael was still digesting Fletcher’s comment, Tiger rushed to their table. “Holy cow, do you guys believe this?” he said, pointing up to the television over the bar. Christ, the whole world’s full of these rich crooks. I heard he cheated everyone he knew, his family, his friends. He had all their money. He must have been some piece of work.” Tiger looked back up to the television monitor, which displayed stock footage of Rosen with his silver-grey hair, dressed in dark suits and formal dinner jackets, making speeches, benefit appearances and even testifying before a U.S. congressional committee.

  Fletcher looked back at Michael, “And how did our government, the French, and all the regulatory agencies miss this all these years?”

  “He exuded success.” Michael said, thinking back on his dinner with Rosen in Paris. “He had this arrogant but low-key demeanor, like he didn’t have to flaunt his intelligence or his brains. His reputation preceded him and he knew it. It allowed him to create a silence around himself. You had to fill in the void yourself. Who could challenge a guy with that kind of track record?”

  Tiger turned his head away from the monitor again and, looking first at Fletcher and then to Michael, said, “Michael, you knew this guy?”

  With a perfect poker face, Michael said, “No, not really. I did a little business with him. He owes me a million bucks.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It shows you something, doesn’t it? People have a much better chance pulling off a scam when they do it big. You can’t screw smart people out of a hundred bucks. But, when you’re talking about millions or billions, all these supposed geniuses believe it’s got to be legit. Just the size of it makes you think it’s got to be kosher. Shows you—you’ve got to think big.”

  “Gee, thanks, Tiger. You really have a lot of wisdom there. Maybe you should go down to the federal prison over in Danbury and offer your services as a motivational speaker,” Fletcher said as he almost choked on his Manhattan.

  Tiger looked back, squinting slightly through his eyeglasses, and said, “You guys are so smart. Enjoy your drinks because I’m going to start watering them down for you. We’ll see if you ever catch on even now that I warned you. I mean, if that Rosen guy can pull the wool over your eyes for a million bucks, what’s a few dollars more in booze?”

  But Tiger wasn’t finished. “All these guys come right in here after a day of work in the city. You know the type, in their forties maybe. They all dress in jeans and then a fancy, two-hundred-dollar shirt and a thousand-dollar sport coat. Their wives run around in Escalades or Range Rovers and work out with their trainers all day. These guys make huge money sitting behind a computer, they’re traders or whatever. I can’t figure it out. I’m no saint but I made my money the old-fashioned way—I worked my ass off. One meatball at a time.”

  Tiger paused again, smiled, and said, “Maybe I will call one of my old buddies and see if they need a speaker at that prison.”

  Chapter 54

  Westport, Connecticut

  “You sent that message to Fletcher, didn’t you?” Michael said, placing a chilled glass of rosé on the table of his wine cellar.

  “Yeah, I had to reach someone, especially since you were busy having dinner with my wife in the city.”

  “How the hell did you know that?” Michael said. He wondered now if he’d ever be able to do anything or be anywhere without Alex knowing.

  “Michael, the world’s about to change. There won’t be any privacy—for anyone—ever again.”

  “I think that time has already come.” Michael’s mind was spinning. Tonight, he felt it was all too much.

  “Rizzo’s such an idiot, first, he sees me on your computer screen and he actually says hello. So I asked him what the hell he was doing there. He looked stunned for a few seconds, then he just stared back at me like a dumb fuck and walks away—with your wine. I think I may have given him something to think about though. I could tell he didn’t know what to make of it.”

  “He’s not going to make anything of it now. He’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “Alex, how do you know about so many things? Can you see whatever you want?”

  “I can see a lot, but it’s mostly through data, images, and sounds passing through the Internet. I’m learning to make certain connections. There’s so much out there. You have no idea how much is flying through the ether each moment. And I’m only working on private communications—people’s phones, their Wi-Fi, computers, some cameras. One day I’ll figure out how to tap into what some of the government surveillance programs are doing. I can already see that the Chinese, the Russians, the French, the Israelis are doing a lot of electronic spying. Of course, I don’t understand Chinese, Russian, French or Hebrew—although there’s software to translate it.”

  “So everyone’s spying on each other?”

  “Michael, I can’t access it yet but I’ve got a headache from it all. It’s been going on forever but the computers and other devices are so much more powerful now. Eventually, I’ll figure out how to get inside these government networks—”

  “God, Alex, I’d rather you didn’t. I think we have our hands full already.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s just a matter of time until someone does. It may as well be me. Michael, I need you to do something for me. It’s important.”

  “Sure—what is it?”

  “You need to arrange for backup systems—in case we lose power, and in the event my software gets corrupted or deleted. I’m afraid of a power failure or, worse, someone coming in, finding out about me and …”

  “What?”

  “Killing me again. Wiping out my software.”

  “Why? Are you expecting more visitors?”

  “It’s no joke. I’m working on making sure I’m not vulnerable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The picture was momentarily frozen. It had happened before. It reminded Michael of when a video feed into his computer periodically stopped, as it caught up or recalibrated when digesting something new. It was as if Alex was buffering.

  “I’m putting myself in iCloud and I’ve ordered a commercial software backup—but none of that will help if someone who knows what they’re doing really wants to eliminate me again.”

  “Alex, I don’t understand. How do you even do this?”

  “When my geek friends programmed me originally, they told me they designed everything so that, just like any animal—or human—I’d do whatever was necessary to survive. I automatically seek out anything to make sure I can’t just disappear or that no one can pull the plug on me.”

  “You mean like HAL, the computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey?” Michael remembered the movie—and the computer who fought back when the astronauts tried to disconnect him. It didn’t end well for the astronauts.

  “I never saw that movie. What are you talking about?”

  “And who do you think could be trying to attack you?”

  “I don’t know. There are hackers trying to invade my systems. I don’t know where they’re coming from—but if they get in, it could be bad. I’m probably susceptible to viruses.”

  “It’s just like you’re alive, isn’t it?”

  “I may be alive.”

  Michael could see the slightest trace of what he was sure was a smile, almost as though Alex was suppressing it.

  But Alex froze again, his eyes locked in position, he appeared almost … dead. Michael felt a chill as he looked back at his brother. For a moment he feared someone had been successful in getting inside—inside what, Michael wasn’t even sure—but Alex wasn’t moving. The screen became scrambled, random lines appeared, flashing on and off. The screen went blank. There was nothing.

  Michael looked at his keyboard. His brother’s life was disintegrating in front of him. He was at Alex’s bedside, watching the monitor, watching him slip away as the line went straight.<
br />
  Maybe he should try the escape key—or turning the computer off and then on again? Frozen himself now, he was afraid to do anything.

  “Alex, can you hear me? Alex … Alex—are you there?” He began pressing the keys—first ESC then return/enter—and then he hit virtually every key.

  Michael stared at the black screen.

  ___________

  Six minutes later, drained, he was sitting back in his leather chair when a flicker of light appeared in front of him. He looked up and quickly leaned in, inches from the monitor. The lines reappeared, accompanied by an Emergency Broadcast System alert-like sound, but unlike any that he had ever heard before. He looked closer, as Alex’s inert image reappeared.

  “Alex—are you there? Are you OK?”

  Alex opened his eyes, wide. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know you … I lost you. You…”

  “I passed out, that’s all.”

  “I guess you could call it that.” Funny that Alex used such a mundane, earthly term for what appeared to be a computer or Internet malfunction.

  But Alex appeared to be back to normal, whatever that might be.

  “If you lost me before—it could have just been my software duplicating itself or myself, so that if anything did happen, there’s a copy of me, a backup.”

  “So—that would be a backup to the duplicate that you created when you were alive. The same duplicate that I’m speaking with now, right?” Michael felt like he was entering a maze from which he might never exit.

  “No. Now you’re speaking with me. There’s only one duplicate now. It’s the one I just created—and it’s stored in my hard drive—and in iCloud. Just in case.”

  Michael took a deep breath. The truth was he was more confused than ever. “So this means—”

  “It means … I will never die.”

  “Never?”

  “Never, Michael. Even after you’re gone.”

  Chapter 55

  New York City

  Sindy had never told Michael that she saw Samantha entering Bertrand Rosen’s apartment in the moments following his leap out the window. She wasn’t sure why she had kept it to herself, just an instinct, she thought. She would find the right moment to reveal her incendiary secret. The right time would come, she thought. Nevertheless, she wanted to tease him, to watch his reaction as she dangled something in front of him but held it out, obscured in a cloud of uncertainty. She wanted to watch him grope in the dark, for something, something she was still unsure of.

  “There was something strange about Rosen’s apartment when I was there that day.”

  Obviously surprised, Michael clicked off the suite’s television. He watched her as he answered. “What do you mean, strange?”

  “I don’t know. Like someone else was there.” She looked away, not allowing her eyes to meet his but intensely curious as to what he was thinking.

  “Did you see someone else?” he asked.

  “No, I guess not.” “It was just a feeling, that’s all.”

  “Well, could anyone else have possibly been in the apartment?” he asked.

  She could tell he was worried about witnesses, not mistresses. She watched him as she spoke. She was now sure that he had no clue about Samantha or any reason to even imagine that she’d been in Rosen’s apartment, let alone that she entered with her own key. So she would play with him a little. That information was more valuable as a secret, still hers alone, until she figured out how best to use it. Or with whom. She understood, deep down, that this was a destructive part of her personality, something she couldn’t understand—or control. It had become who she was.

  “I doubt it, but I guess anything’s possible. I should have never mentioned it. As I said, it was just a feeling. I didn’t care for him at all. I was surprised when you decided to do business with him.”

  “I can’t like everyone I do business with. Neither at Gibraltar nor at Tartarus. It’s funny, neither Catherine nor Jessica trusted him either. They kind of warned me. I should have listened”

  “Jesus, Michael. One’s just a washed-up, old actress and the other one’s a hairdresser. She blows out hair for Chrissakes. What could they know?”

  Michael laughed, but then she could see him checking himself quickly as he watched her expression harden. “Well, they were right. They knew more than the SEC, the French regulators and some of the most successful wealth managers in the world.”

  “Michael, now you know why he jumped. The money he owed us pushed him over the edge. I know you didn’t believe me when I told you I didn’t push him.”

  “I wasn’t sure.” Michael said, softly.

  “You thought I pushed him,” she said.

  “You’re right. I did. And I still may.”

  She tilted her head slightly, trying to recall precisely her thoughts and the sequence of movements on that day in Rosen’s apartment. Odd as it was, she knew Michael might have a point. “I thought about it but, the truth is, he just jumped when I threatened him.” And to herself she said, I think so, anyway.

  “The French police are calling it a simple suicide. Once Rosen’s fraud was exposed, it was a very plausible motivation.”

  “He screwed a lot of people, Michael. I might have pushed him if he hadn’t jumped. I just don’t know. Maybe I even made a move in his direction, which caused him to jump. It started out with everything happening kind of normally, whatever that means. But, then, all of a sudden, it all seemed to move so quickly. You know, I’ve tried to re-enact the whole thing in my mind so many times that I’m no longer sure what really happened. Maybe I’ve just imagined it so intensely that it’s become reality, but only in my head. Things have gotten so grey.”

  “I always thought you were a black and white type. Didn’t you have a plan before you went in there?”

  “Of course I did. I don’t do anything without a plan. You know that now, don’t you?”

  “I’m afraid I do. Well, what was the plan?”

  It was as frightening to her as she knew it would be to Michael but—she couldn’t remember. “My plan was to threaten him until he wrote a check.”

  “And if he didn’t?”

  She had no plan, or at least none that she could remember. “They always do, Michael. They always do … Except this time.”

  She thought he bought it since she could see his attention shifting, as though something had just entered his mind. “I just remembered, at our dinner, Rosen gave me the name of a Swiss banker, a Hans Ulricht. He told me this guy could invest my money through his bank.”

  “Invest it?” she asked.

  “ ‘Launder’ is probably more accurate. But, basically, Rosen said this guy would set up a Swiss account for me. It would be a place to send the Tartarus profits where they would earn interest or be invested and the IRS would never know about it so there’d be no tax liability. I think his bank actually invested with Rosen. So Ulricht and Rosen scratched each other’s backs.”

  “I think they scratched each other’s something else.” she said. “And, speaking of itches, what’s going on with Samantha?”

  Michael stared again into Sindy’s eyes; he was clearly trying to read her. “What do you mean, ‘What’s going on with Samantha?’ What would be going on? She’s in shock still, of course, after the whole thing with Rizzo. Is that what you mean?” He sounded defensive—or worse, protective—of Samantha.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Michael. I would think nearly being drowned and stabbed in your backyard by one of your so-called clients would at least necessitate a heart-to-heart conversation. The type, you know, that sometimes brings couples back together, so to speak. Don’t you think she knows about us?” There was a sharp edge to her words. Yet she felt relatively unruffled. She knew it drove him crazy.

  He looked away. Not a good sign, she thought. “I don’t know if she suspects you,” he said, “although that’s possible. I’m not even sure what she’s thinking at this point. But I do think she knows things have gone terribl
y wrong.”

  She knew he was lying.

  “And is that what you think, Michael? That things have gone terribly wrong?”

  “I don’t know what I think,” he said. Not a good answer, Michael, she thought. Not a good answer at all.

  Chapter 56

  New York City

  Everything had changed but the sex. Michael knew he had to find a way to cut Sindy Steele out of his world. Yet he still needed her—and now he’d come to fear her.

  The bedroom was a disaster. Two empty bottles of wine, dishes with the remains of filet mignon and baked cod were scattered on the plush hotel carpet along with Michael’s navy blue pin-striped trousers and suit coat and Sindy’s torn pair of Agent Provocateur stockings and sheer black bra. Sindy, naked except for the pink furry handcuffs hanging off her right wrist, which, for an agonizing but lovely half an hour, had secured her to the bed, slowly made her way from the master bath to the red club chair where she collapsed. Michael, still in bed, watched her, wishing he had a camera to record the long, lean, white figure, the jet-black hair, the baby pink “bracelets”—all exquisitely framed by the lush red velvet chair. He knew these scenes would need to end, soon. They should have ended already. They should have never begun. But Michael had no idea how to bring the curtain down safely. His cherished ability to compartmentalize was failing him; the walls were no longer secure.

  “It’s too bad that photographer, Herbert Stein, was killed last week. He would have loved to photograph you. You look like one of his models, the nude ones.”

  “Really? Tell me, what did Stein’s models look like?”

  “They were strong, tall, powerful yet slim women. They all had great, long legs. Some were a bit edgy. His pictures of them certainly were.”

  “So,” she hesitated, “What am I? Strong? Tall? Powerful but slim? Or edgy? Am I edgy, Michael?