Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  I called the front desk and did my best impression of a frantic honeymooner. It didn’t take long for sirens and uniforms to come bursting into the room. Medics, docs, and police officers all paced around the room. Some looked at me with empathy, others with suspicion.

  They called an interpreter because I don’t speak Arabic and they barely spoke English, and since a dead chick is floating around like a terrible game of bobbing for apples, they needed the story to be communicated clearly and correctly.

  “I-I-I-I was just with her, and when I came back from the shower, she was like this. I-I-I-I tried to give her CPR, but I couldn’t get… (moan with a hint of a sob) I couldn’t get her back!” I said with more academy-award crying.

  The smell of alcohol was strong on her breath as the medics pumped on her dead, naked chest. The bartender corroborated my story, telling them that we’d been drinking like fish since we arrived. He told them we seemed happy. No fighting, just lots of fucking. The hotel staff heard our cries of glee throughout the villa gardens.

  I hoped that would work. For days I’d been moaning so loud my windpipes were sore. In another effort to make us appear to be innocently love stricken, I scattered love notes around the room, but none of the cops even saw them. Or maybe none of them wanted to do the paperwork for more evidence. Either way, someone must have told them it looked good enough to be ruled an accidental drowning of a drunk broad. In the States, this would have been investigated for months, but not here. Her “riches” didn’t raise a single eyebrow. Over here, her many millions were nothing compared to the oil baron billions with a “b.”

  “I didn’t know she was that drunk! My… (sob) my wife!”

  Accented apologies from everyone who walked by me. I sat on the bed. Crying sometimes, drinking the rest. More medics. A coroner. More cops, some in suits instead of the unitard. They also ruled it accidental. I was stunned. How ridiculous was this? I was so sure I would spend a few days in their weird, Middle Eastern jail before they realized there just wasn’t enough evidence to put me away.

  They had me sign a bunch of forms: a coroner’s report, a letter of investigation, extradition releases, certificate of death, and a few other things I barely read. My eyes were too puffy to keep reading. The tack I’d placed on my ass cheek was working. Maybe too well. That sucker hurt. Every time I moved it poked into the same, tortured hole in my bum skin. It didn’t hurt nearly enough to cry, but it sure made it easier to remember how to do it.

  One of the detectives told me how sorry he was this happened to me on my honeymoon. He then hummed something in Arabic and shook my hand. He told me it was a prayer to help me through my loss. I thanked him and told him it was beautiful.

  Finally, after six long, exhausting hours, after all the photos were taken, forms signed, statements made and quiet conversations had been had, they wheeled her body out of the room and left me alone.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Setting up a return flight to the States was simple. People answer your call at any hour when you have money to burn. I waited at the airport in a private lounge. I watched them load the plane with my bags and the casket. The casket wasn’t fancy either, just a cedar box with a few Arabic symbols on the top. I hadn’t had lunch yet, so I tried the tagine, a cocktail of beef and rice and other submerged mysteries of the East. Not bad really. Tasted like an oddly spiced Asian dish.

  The machine they used to load her body into the plane drove away and I got twinges of regret. Okay, maybe not regret — guilt? Did I need to kill her? Remember, she tried to kill Kraya or at least made her want to die. She tore my family apart. I couldn’t give her a pass — right? I had to do something — I needed to. It was required to keep them safe from future Alex freak-outs. It also didn’t hurt that I finagled this thing in my financial favor. She was vulnerable and I had an edge — so sue me.

  I boarded the jet and was alone in the cabin except for a couple of appealing flight attendants. Just the crew and me for this flight. The pilots were nice, too. A bunch of apologies for my loss followed by one of those gentle, heartwarming, double-handed handshakes. I chose to sit near the TV. I’ve seen my share of clouds, no need to gawk at them like a fat kid’s first day at the amusement park.

  I had a glass of what I assumed to be expensive red wine before takeoff. Even though I’m not a wine guy, it was delicious. I think it’s against the rules to drink wine quickly, but I did it anyway. The busty Asian gal in the flight attendant romper was quick to pour another.

  At thirty thousand feet, the pilot addressed me by name, telling me a few facts about the flight and asked if I needed anything, I can ask the ladies or walk up and open the door to talk with them. Security isn’t an issue with private planes. These guys know that you spent five or six digits to fly for a few hours and there are cheaper, less terrifying ways a rich guy can meet his maker.

  I pulled a small, folded piece of paper from my wallet. I started at number one on the list and picked up the phone from the wooden desk next to my seat. I called Rob. He answered professionally because he didn’t recognize my number.

  “Vick? Holy shit! It’s been what, a few months? What is going on?”

  “Hey, buddy. We can catch up when I get back; I need you to do a few things for me. First thing, did it work?”

  “It worked. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. The judge did some digging and released her. He didn’t believe the recording of Alexa at first, so he had a detective sniff around her apartment. Dude found a bunch of the stuff you guys were talking about in the recording. Oh, Alexa is fucked all right. He issued a warrant right away,” Rob said.

  “Uh, yeah… That’s great. So Kraya’s well? No lingering criminal charges?” I replied. The thumb drive with my recorded conversations with Alex did the trick. I was always so nervous she would figure out I was recording her confessions. If she did figure it out, who knows what she’d do or what she’d be capable of.

  “No charges, pal. She is doing fine. It took her a few weeks to get back to her old self. Docs wanted her to take a few medications for the stress, but she’s been flying cold turkey. She doesn’t trust anything that even looks like a pill!”

  “I don’t blame her. Tell her I’ll be home soon.”

  “She can’t wait for this to be over.”

  “Me, too. Just a few things first. I need you to clear the P.O.A. at the bank. I’m sending it… now.” I attached the power of attorney to an email and clicked send.

  “Annnnd…” He paused for a few seconds. “Got it.”

  “File that as soon as possible. I need access before I land,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s great and all, but Alexa will void this once she figures out you’re trying to convert her accounts,” Rob said, concern in his voice.

  “Alex passed away, Rob. Tragic hot tub accident.”

  The line was quiet. I couldn’t hear his gears turning, but I’m sure they were. “You still there?” Although my flight was more expensive than some small homes, the connection was, at times, echoey and untrustworthy.

  “Yeah, man. I’m here. Just taking it all in.”

  “Good. Don’t think too hard, Rob. We have work to do.”

  “All right. I’ll submit these. Anything else?”

  I’m glad he asked. In addition to the power of attorney, I needed several of her account beneficiary tags activated, some life insurance paperwork submitted, and estate cash accounts transferred. I sent him a few more emails and he received them. His emails and conversation were more reserved once I’d told him of the untimely death of my second wife. I think it scared him. Can’t blame ’em — sounds spooky. I’ll make time to smooth it over with him, and he will know whatever he wants to know soon enough. But not now. No time to worry about Rob. I have a long list and only a few business hours to get things done because of the time change. It was still breakfast time here, but it was edging up on early afternoon stateside.

  Farther down the list I found the scribbled number of Routine Mov
ers, LLC, a company I’d prepped before I left. I called and spoke with Mike again. He sounded like a middle-aged smoker from Boston who’d been eating pizza rolls for thirty years. Nice enough guy though. He told me they can move my appointment up, but it would add an extra “Four grand, for you know, overnight work…” I gave him the approval he needed and the codes to my new apartment in Livingston Tower. Alex’s old apartment. I also reminded Mike to trash all the shit in room six. No questions. No answers. Just throw everything away. I’m sure he’ll keep the computers and maybe the watch, but I don’t care. Hell, this guy might even keep a few of the dildos if he’s into that sort of thing. All I care is that it is gone. Forever gone.

  I set the delivery address to Luxury Estate Sales and Auctions. Another one I found from a quick Google search. I called Morty, a quirky auctioneer with the sniffles, and told him I had an apartment full of luxury stuff to sift through. He confirmed the delivery address, payment instructions, and bid me adieu.

  Next, I called my bank and about ten other offices and financial institutions. Everyone was surprisingly indifferent about Alex’s death. Was just another day at the office for these bankers, attorneys, and insurance agents. What a pleasant bunch. My fingers were lightning on the keyboard, emailing docs and filling out forms. Everyone got the information they needed before 5 p.m., Central Standard Time. For me it’s probably still 8 a.m., MFA, otherwise known as 8 a.m. — Middle of the Fucking Atlantic ocean time zone.

  For the first time in months, I leaned back in my chair, closed my eyes, and fell asleep without a head full of anxiety. Yeah, sure. I killed Alex, but she fucked with my wife. She fucked with my son. She fucked with me. She was begging for it. Besides, I bet she is more relaxed now, too. Cramped, but relaxed.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  It was still dark when we touched down. It was so smooth I barely noticed we landed. I like flying private. Good food, great wine, pleasant staff — what a treat. It also helped that there weren’t any annoying, bouncing teenagers from Ohio on the flight. Local police met me on the tarmac holding rifles and frowns. Surprise!

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They know. I knew I shouldn’t have submitted the life insurance that fast. Fuck! As the plane came to a soft stop, they surrounded the plane. A few SUVs and a bunch of black and whites; their red and blue lights flickered brightly against the night.

  I asked for another shooter of that fancy wine and Asia was happy to fill my glass. Damn that’s good wine. May be my last taste of freedom and wine for a good while. The crew opened the door, letting in the strange smells of engines and fresh air. The stairs dropped to the concrete tarmac and up came the platoon of uniformed, American police officers. These guys were so much different than the Moroccan police. I bet the stubble on the first officer’s face could beat up one of the Moroccan sergeants.

  “Mr. Victor Miller?” Officer Boose asked.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “Victor…”

  Oh fuck, here it comes!

  “Miller, we have an arrest warrant…”

  Shit!

  “…for Alexa Lee Livingston, a.k.a. Alexa Lee Miller. Is she on board this plane? We were told she would be.”

  Holy hell, are you kidding me, fellas? “Yeah, umm. Yes…” I needed a bit of ham for this one. Not as in, cops and pork joke ham, as in hamming it up. (Sniffle) “She is in the cargo hold, Officer.” I let out a wheeze and another sniffle. “She died.” I lost it. Almost a laugh, but I caught myself and started crying. I’d like to thank God, my wife, and my son for this award for outstanding theatrical performance.

  “Sir. I’m sorry to hear that, but we’re going to need to search the plane anyway.”

  Ass. He put me in handcuffs. Hell, they put everyone on the plane in handcuffs. They went as far as opening the casket and matching the picture from the DMV. Had this been a woman I loved, I would have been pissed. My theatrics continued. I sobbed, contained myself, cried, and then just sat there, stone faced and exhausted. Again, some serious trophy material.

  They apologized, reviewed my death certificates, and popped off the handcuffs with a click. They told me I’d need to send the death certificate to a judge by Monday or they will probably keep showing up looking for her. I told him I would. They told me about her warrant, and that she was being charged with fraud, poisoning with intent, burglary, grand theft, stalking, kidnapping, and a bunch of other good stuff. Rob, buddy, you done good. The recording of Alex was enough to wipe Kray’s slate clean and curse Alex’s. The cops gave me some business cards and left. They didn’t know I was the one behind it all. They were just the chubby chumps in charge of bagging the crook.

  What a week. I have faced, and evaded, two sets of police departments on different continents. Is it really that easy? In their defense, these last dudes weren’t looking for a murder suspect, they were looking to serve a warrant. And the Moroccan guys didn’t give a shit about another snotty American tourist. I should be careful though. I may not be as lucky if there is a third strike.

  After the adrenaline wore off, I dragged my luggage across the runway to my waiting car, a black sedan with a bodyguard-sized driver. The reservation was another one of the calls I made in the air. He was leaning against the black Lincoln in a well-fitting suit. His shoes were scuffed and he had a five-o’clock shadow, but you could tell he meant business.

  I greeted him with a handshake and asked, “Nick Kage, with a K?” It was going to be fun to say that I had Nick Kage driving me around, even if he wasn’t the guy from Face Off.

  “That’s, me. You Vick? Victor Livingston?”

  “You’re half right. I’m Victor Miller, and we’re going to Livingston Tower.”

  “Yeah, crap. I get my notes mixed up sometimes,” he said, hitting himself on the side of the head with a wide palm.

  Nice enough guy. Good driver, too. Maybe a smidge on the slow side though. Not the Floridian old lady behind the wheel slow, the other kind of slow. But how smart do you have to be to pick me up from the airport and wait for me outside Livingston Tower? He closed the door behind me with a hushed thud. No jet engines. No police. No conversation — just the back of the quiet town car. I pulled out my phone and called Rob.

  “Good morning, Rob!”

  “Dude. Do you know what time it is?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  “Oh shit. (Yawn) I must have forgotten the alarm…” I could hear him fumbling to get out of bed, his wife grumbling in the background. “I’ll meet you there in about an hour. Does that still work?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. Kray and Little Man going to be there?” Friggen’ Rob. Guy could sleep through a trainado (What, you’ve never heard of a tornado full of trains?)

  “Of course. They’re so excited to see you.”

  “Good. Me, too. See you soon.”

  I hung up and slipped my phone into my jacket pocket. Just a few more stops. First, we parked in front of Manhattan Mutual and Trust. I’d requested a banker to open early, just for me, to finalize the fund transfers. I walked into the echoing, marble-filled bank and met the only person there. All of the offices were dark, except for one — his. It was chilly in the bank, too.

  Mr. Peterstorf guided me to his office with a pleasant gesture and greeting. I made a joke about the bank being empty and he looked at me with lifeless eyes and laughed. He responded with a comment about coffee, and how there is never enough. We made a few more attempts at small talk, but failed miserably because of his sense of humor (or lack thereof). It was hard to be funny or awake this early in the morning. Or does it still qualify as late at night? This guy was running on fumes.

  He verified my transfer requests and scanned copies of my ID and other certificates. It was part of my deal with Alex that I would have access to everything. All of her computers, documents, and of course, all of her money. She’s a smart girl though. She gave me access to a few of her accounts when we were married. Armed with a death certificate, a will, a power of attorney, and a few other compli
cated-looking documents, I’m now the sole owner of her fortune. All of it, not just the accounts she wanted me to know about.

  I transferred just over eight million to my savings account. I also created two, ten million dollar CDs, with almost all of the interest funneling into two checking accounts. I transferred the remainder to a separate, new account. On the flight, I’d finalized a trust, ensuring my family would always have this money, with limited taxes, as long as the trust entity existed. The principal amount in the trust would never be touched. The interest, however, could be collected by my future heirs.

  I signed a stack of paper while Mr. Peterstorf hid a yawn and drank his coffee.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  Livingston Tower was the last stop before I finally meet Kraya and my son again. This was a place I hoped to never see again. I’m sure Alex’s pop is going to be quite upset when he finds out I drained all of her accounts. But what can he do now? I don’t own most of the money anymore anyway, my trust does. He can sue me, take me to court, harass me, and steal the pennies from my change jar, but it won’t change the fact that he will never get her money back. Besides, it’s her money, not his. And now it’s mine — her grieving widower’s dowry.

  Livingston Tower was quite dark at this hour. A few offices were aglow, but most were waiting until normal business hours to flip on the bulbs. I’m sure her father and mother are up there somewhere, too, sobbing into their huge pillows. Heck, I would, too, if it were my kid.

  I recognized the cluster of faces behind the lobby counter. They said pleasant hellos and let me walk by. No one is rushing to get into a conversation with her widower. Not tonight anyway.