Murder in the North Tower

by Greg Smith

  One large bedroom was obviously his brother’s. The closet and bureaus were immaculate, uncluttered, tidy. Clothing was folded, shoes arranged. The bed was made, unwrinkled. Everything was spotless. Precise.

  The other large bedroom, clearly Connie’s, was a mess. Clothes were strewn about haphazardly. Shoes had been kicked aside, abandoned like neglected lawn tools scattered about a slovenly yard. Drawers were open. The bed was unmade. The room was unkempt. A sharp contrast to the rest of the apartment.

  Aleks tsked at the sight. He wasn’t impressed one way or the other at the realization that Step and his wife hadn’t shared a bedroom.

  The smaller third bedroom had apparently served as Step’s office. It was inhabited by a desk instead of a bed. A computer instead of a television. Aleks had no trouble logging onto his brother’s iMac, which was waiting patiently on the uncluttered desk.

  He instinctively typed in their go-to user name and password, wasn’t surprised to hear the familiar Apple chime.

  Huh, we musta shared log-in info, he thought. Or…

  Again the notion that he could have been leading two lives crept into his mind.

  Step’s files were organized neatly on the computer desktop. As orderly as the rest of his life. Aleks spent some time reviewing them. Spreadsheets tracking his brother’s investments. Others documenting his A/S/B Financial clients. He knew it would take a few days to sort through the information. He abandoned the computer to explore the room, discovered a combination safe in the closet. He had no problem running through the correct sequence of numbers to open the door. 11-20-66. Their birthday.

  Hearing the click as he spun the dial clockwise, stopped on sixty-six and tipped the handle down, he uttered a contented and knowing “Ah.”

  Inside, he found folders with documentation supporting the information Griggor had presented. A birth certificate. Step’s. He’d still need his duplicate from Griggor. Social security card. Again, Step’s. Step’s and Connie’s marriage license. Their parent’s death certificates. Miscellaneous stock certificates. Apartment lease. Bank account info. Other records.

  Pieces of Step’s life. Pieces of Aleks’s lost past. Promises of his future.

  The documents didn’t allay thoughts that he could have been leading a double life. That Step and Aleks could be one and the same. Documents could easily be falsified. As Griggor could attest.

  The safe also contained fifty thousand dollars. Neatly arranged in packs of one thousand. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills in each. He wondered if the safe the Russians had stolen from his own apartment had contained cash.

  He gathered up the folders, along with two packets of the money, closed the door, spun the dial. As he turned to leave, a couple of folders slipped out, fell to the floor. He reached to pick them up, noticed a business card stapled to the front of one, saw that the folder had been tabbed “Life Insurance.”

  He sat in a leather recliner that had been left idling in the living room. Inside the Life Insurance folder were policies for Step, himself and Connie, along with business insurance papers for A/S/B Financial. Aleks flipped through the policies. Apparently, he and Step had taken out partnership life insurance on each other in the amount of one million dollars each. As Step’s beneficiary, Aleks stood to receive the million-dollar death benefit. Two-million if it was an accident.

  But it wasn’t an accident, a voice inside his head said. You killed him. You can’t kill someone, then collect their life insurance.

  Unless you get away with it, a second voice chimed in. No body, no crime. There’s no proof of any foul play.

  The image of him struggling with his twin flashed through his mind. Then the image of the A/S/B Financial logo on the wall of their office. Followed by the image of the North Tower collapsing. Erasing all evidence of wrong-doing.

  No blood, no foul, the second voice concluded.

  Aleks stared at the policy.

  It’s two million dollars, Aleks.

  It was the second voice again.

  He felt like a cartoon character with a devil sitting on one shoulder, an angel on the other. Each whispering in his ear, stating his case.

  He allowed himself to fantasize about filing the claim, collecting the insurance money. With two million dollars, he could pay the Russian off, clear his brother’s name. And still walk away a wealthy man.

  First and foremost, however, he’d need a death certificate.

  A certificate of Morty (moarte), as Griggor would say.

  He thought the “no body, no crime” angle could prove to be a dual-edged sword, however. There was no proof Step was dead. No cause of death.

  He was momentarily dejected. Until he realized he couldn’t possibly be the only person in New York City with that challenge. Hundreds of people had been killed when the Towers collapsed. Very few had been recovered. Most had been vaporized. The authorities must have established some sort of protocol for issuing death certificates to the families of missing victims. He’d just need to prove Step had been in one of the Towers on 9/11. Maybe it was enough that the brothers had had an office in the North Tower and that Step was now missing.

  A whole chain of dominos toppled in his mind. Reasons things couldn’t possibly work out. The premiums hadn’t been paid. Phoenix Insurance was no longer in business. They wouldn’t accept his claims. Or they’d simply refuse to pay. One by one the dominos tumbled.

  And the biggest domino of all. The guilt of benefitting financially from Step’s death. A death for which he was certain he was responsible.

  He wondered, again, why he would have killed Step and Connie. Had he, not Step, actually been Ilya’s Bagman after all? Had he killed his brother and sister-in-law for the insurance money? So he could pay the Russian off? Had that been the plan all along? Could he have been that desperate? That diabolical?

  Or could he possibly be one person living two lives. One person who had fabricated a “twin” brother, taken out life insurance on that brother so he could kill him off, collect the money? Could he have been pulling some elaborate scam? Had 9/11 just been a convenient catastrophe. Providing an opportune situation for disposing of a body that never existed.

  But what about Connie? He hadn’t invented her. Had she been in on it? Had she threatened to expose him? Had he had to silence her?

  He leaned back, closed his eyes, wished he could remember. At the same time wishing he could make it all go away.

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  Laughter echoed off the walls of the apartment. He glanced about, attempted to locate where it was coming from. Her bedroom. He walked slowly toward the door. It was open just enough for him to see inside. Connie was straddling someone, pumping rhythmically up and down. He strained to see the face of the man, was relieved to see it was his brother, Step. He placed his hand on the doorknob to close it, noticed the wedding ring on his finger.

  Why am I wearing a wedding ring? I’m not married, he thought. Step’s the one who’s married.

  And Step was on the other side of the door with his wife. With Connie.

  He looked up. Into a mirror at the end of the hallway.

  Wrongo, dumbass. You’re Step, he told the image in the mirror.

  If I’m Step, who’s my wife fucking? he wondered, feeling an intense sense of panic.

  Two thoughts ran through his mind simultaneously. Coinciding thoughts that each had the same conclusion.

  It could only be…

  But I’m…

  Aleks!

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  His eyes snapped open, surveyed the room. He was alone.

  He felt his finger for a wedding band, grateful he didn’t find one. Until he remembered Step had had to have his ring cut off after dislocating his finger while playing basketball shortly after marrying Connie.

  He felt the knuckle of the ring finger on his left hand, then the same knuckle on his right. He wondered if the left knuckle actually felt larger than the right one. Or if he was just imagining it. Griggor’s words echoed in his head.r />
  “Resemblance, it is uncanny, hey? You could be either one.”

  Griggor was waiting patiently in the lobby when Aleks got off the elevator. The tall man held the folders up for the old Romanian to see. As though the former member of the Securitate would not have noticed them.

  “You said the Roosha wants his money back?” Aleks said quietly, glancing about to make certain no one was around to overhear. “I have it! It’s all right here.”

  He waved the folders at Griggor.

  “What do you find? Bank accounts? Certificates for stocks maybe, hey?”

  “Certificates for life insurance,” Aleks replied. “Enough to pay the Roosha. With enough left over to help you and Nadia out. Enough after that for me to start my life over.”

  They walked out of the building, into the street, headed south.

  “Partnership life insurance, Griggor,” Aleks elaborated. “As Bin–…as Step’s beneficiary, I stand to collect a million dollars. Two million if double indemnity applies. For accidental death. And don’t try and tell me someone flying a plane into a building isn’t an accident. Even if that someone is a terrorist.”

  Griggor was mildly surprised at this new turn of events.

  “With this…” Aleks thumped the folders with the back of his hand, “I can pay that Butcher maniac. I can clear my brother’s name. I need you to set up a meeting with Ilya.”

  Griggor mulled the request over.

  “Nu. I do not like that. It is very dangerous. Ilya Klymenko, he is satana. Demon, hey? He has no spirit.”

  Aleks hadn’t anticipated Griggor’s non-compliance. He’d been counting on the Romanian’s help. Was already thinking ahead to the next step. Contacting the agent for Phoenix Life Insurance listed on the business card. The old man was throwing a monkey wrench into his plan.

  “I don’t understand, Griggor. Where’s the danger? We give the Roosha his money back. And everything is copacetic.”

  “I do not know this word, hey? Copa…celtic?”

  “Copacetic. Peachy keen,” Aleks enunciated “A-Okay. Everything is cool.”

  “So, you will pay Ilya one half millions of dollars? That is multe monies.”

  “It’s found money, Griggor. Anyway, I’d still have a million and a half left over. Enough to help Nadia out. Enough to help you. I wasn’t just blowing smoke about that earlier. It’s the least I can do. You’ve both been very generous to me.”

  Griggor winced as though he was offended.

  “You do not pay me, Aleks. Has nothing to do with monies, hey? I tell you, I do not trust any Roosh. Ilya Klymenko for sure.”

  Aleks wondered if the old man would be taking on some personal risk by helping him. Perhaps his reputation would be on the line. Or his relationship with the Russians. Or maybe it was an ethnic thing and he just hated Roosh because they were Roosh and he was Romanian. Without Griggor, Aleks had no connection to Ilya. No means of setting up a pay-off. His only other option would be to go back to the apartment. Wait. Hope Vinnie actually was in cahoots with the Russians. Hope they came for him.

  “If you’re not willing to help me, I…I guess I’ll go back to my apartment. Wait for the Russians to show up,” he mumbled.

  Griggor scowled.

  “I do not let you do that.”

  The old man wasn’t happy about the dilemma Aleks presented. He couldn’t allow the tall man to deal with the Russians on his own. He wasn’t comfortable dealing with them himself.

  “I contact Roosha. Fondle Ilya out, hey?”

  If the situation weren’t so grim, Aleks would have found the old Romanian’s misuse of words humorous.

  Griggor sighed quietly. He didn’t feel so optimistic about dealing with the Russian. He’d understated his distrust of Ilya Klymenko. He felt a sense of dread creep into the pit of his stomach. A feeling he hadn’t experienced since his days in Gherla Prison. It was a feeling that would prove to be well-founded. Because, in the end, things worked out all right for Ilya’s Bagman. Not so copacetic for Grigore Alexandru.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 55

 

  Aleks’s third attempt to reach Tony Kowalski of the Phoenix Home Life Mutual Life Insurance Company was successful.

  “Phoenix Mutual. This is Tony,” a booming voice answered. “Our insurance is your assurance. How can you help me?”

  “This is Aleks Bagdasarian. I’m a client. I was hoping you could help me. I need to file a claim.”

  “Alpo? That really you?” the voice on the other end roared. “What the fuck’s with all the formality, man?” He mimicked Aleks’s words. “‘This is Aleks Bagdasarian. I’m a client.’ What the fuck? This is Oak Kowalski. I bang your sister like a screen door in a summer storm every Monday, Wednesday and Friday night. Twice on Sundays!”

  Aleks didn’t know how to respond.

  “I…I don’t have a sister,” he muttered softly.

  “I’d disown that slut, too, I was you!” Oak continued the banter.

  Puzzled by the insurance agent’s lack of professionalism, Aleks took a sterner approach.

  “Look, this is a serious call. I’m a policy holder and I’d like to make a claim.”

  “What the fuck’s with you, Alpo? And, by the way, it’s nice to finally hear from you. I’ve been trying to reach you ever since 9/11. Where you been?”

  “Why are you calling me ‘Alpo?’”

  “What? What the fuck, man?”

  Oak assumed Aleks was putting him on, wondered how far his best friend was going to run with the bit.

  “Okay. Okay. I’ll play along. How can I be of assistance, Mr. Bagdasarian?”

  Remembering the large insurance agent was a family friend, Aleks hesitated before breaking the news to him.

  “I, uh…I have some bad news, Mr., uh…Oak, is it?” He paused before blurting out, “Step is dead.”

  Oak was beginning to wonder what his friend was up to.

  “Not funny, Alpo. Not fucking funny. I call bullshit!”

  Aleks continued, in a serious tone.

  “Listen to me…Oak. I know you probably don’t want to hear this. It’s no joke, believe me. I wouldn’t joke about this. I’m calling to tell you my brother Stepan is dead. He died on 9/11. He…he was in the office when…when the North Tower collapsed.”

  Oak deflated. The man he considered to be his best friend had just told him his twin brother had died in the attack on the World Trade Center. Oak knew how tight Aleks and Step had been. He felt a strong sense of compassion for his banter buddy.

  “Alpo. I…I’m sorry, man. If there’s anything I can do. Anything. Consider it done, buddy.”

  “I need to file a claim on the partner insurance,” Aleks maintained. “The partnership life insurance.”

  Oak was surprised at his friend’s lack of emotion. Aleks sounded as though he was ordering food at McDonald’s.

  Must still be in shock, the large man thought. It’s only been a few weeks.

  “Yeah. Sure. We, uh…we can talk about that,” he stammered. “How’d you get out, Aleks?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been suffering from amnesia. Things are slowly coming back to me.”

  Oak now understood why Aleks hadn’t responded to his calls. Also, why he’d waited so long to file a claim. The amnesia explained a lot, frankly.

  “Dude, meet me at Keens. One hour. You remember Keens, don’t ya?”

  “Keens Steakhouse?” Aleks asked hesitantly.

  “One hour,” Oak repeated.

  Aleks arrived at Keens Steakhouse, assessed the assortment of businessmen at the bar, hoping to recognize the face from the insurance card. An exceptionally large man spun slowly on his barstool, made eye contact. The large man said nothing, stood, embraced Aleks. Who disappeared inside the manbear’s hug. Aleks reluctantly returned the clinch. He was amazed at the large man’s size. Aleks was a very tall man. Tony Kowalski was enormous.

  Oak pulled away, inspected his friend.
r />   “Aleks, man, words cannot express how terrible I feel for you.”

  Aleks thought the large man seemed overly affected by Step’s death. Could he and Step have been that close?

  “It’s been… I miss him. I miss the hell out of him,” he told the large man.

  Under the circumstance, Oak could excuse his friend’s somber attitude, his lack of banter.

  “How you holding up, Alpo, buddy? What’s this about amnesia?”

  The large man sat down, ordered a round for both of them.

  Aleks briefly touched the wound area on his head. His hair had grown in. He barely felt the indentation.

  “I suffered a head wound. Couldn’t remember anything for nearly three weeks. Then things slowly started coming back.”

  “Where you at the office that day? Were you in the Tower? How’d you manage to get out, man?”

  “Nadia and Griggor say no. She found me before the planes hit.”

  “Nadia? Griggor?”

  “The Romanians. They took me in. Cared for me. At first, Griggor thought I might be a terrorist.”

  The large insurance agent regarded him with bemused wonder.

  “Dude, we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  It took Aleks nearly an hour to bring Oak up to speed on his life post-9/11.

  “So you don’t remember me? Us? Our friendship? Any of it?” the large man asked incredulously.

  He wanted to believe his friend was telling the truth, but he couldn’t help feeling Aleks was pulling some kind of elaborate scam, would drop the charade at any moment, deliver the punchline.

  “I thought maybe you and Step were friends.”

  “No way, Alpo! C’mon, man! It’s you and me. Always has been. Step…I mean, he’s all right. But, he’s no Albanian Barbarian!”

  Albanian Barbarian?

  Aleks wondered what he’d done to deserve that reputation.

  Albanian Barbarian. Ilya’s Bagman. Seems my past life was pretty inter–

  He’d reached his hand out for his drink when Oak abruptly grasped his wrist. The large man stared at Aleks’s left forearm with open-mouth alarm, horrorstruck not by what he saw, but by what he didn’t see. He grabbed Aleks’s right wrist, pushed his shirt sleeve up to reveal the tattoo of the two-headed eagle.