by E. J. Simon
“Did you read this?” Donna held up the front page of the Hollywood Reporter.
“Ah, I don’t think so,” Skinny Lester said. “We don’t exactly subscribe to that…particular newspaper. We read the Post and the racing form. Real news.”
“I should have known. Anyway, listen to this, it’s right on the front page, for God’s sake.” Donna proceeded to read the story out loud:
French legend Catherine Saint-Laurent is reportedly seeking financing for her newest pet project, a story about an underworld figure who fakes his murder in a New York restaurant and runs away to Las Vegas, where he starts a new gambling empire, surrounded by strippers and show girls, and leaving his silicone-enhanced, bitchy wife millions in hidden cash and a huge life insurance payout. The story revolves around their separate lives and her revenge-fueled search to find him.
“Wow,” Fat Lester said, “That sounds like a great movie.”
His cousin gave him a look, discreetly shaking his head, as though to say, “Don’t go there.”
“This is just one more piece of proof that Alex is alive somewhere. I know he was screwing around with that French actress and, by the way, her girlfriend, separately and together. Two lesbians…that’s the only heaven Alex is in.”
“Yeah,” Fat Lester said, “he was cheating on them, with each other, together.” He gave a little chuckle. “You know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t. And, really, is that who he was cheating on? What about his fucking wife? Me? That’s who he was cheating on.”
“Yeah, that too, I guess.” Fat Lester picked up the article and whispered while he read portions of it. He looked up at Donna. “And, by the way, I happen to like silicone-enhanced and bitchy—”
She cut him off. “Only the part about being a bitch is real. The rest is fake.”
“Exactly,” said Fat Lester.
Skinny Lester tried to suppress a smile.
“Oh my God,” Donna said, “I’m going to blow my brains out here.” She shook her head, “Anyway, boys, I’m going to find your old friend.”
“Find him? He’s…dead,” Skinny Lester said.
“Maybe, maybe not. I think, probably not. Either way, but if and when I find him, he’ll wish he was dead.”
“Well, if he is alive, how do you plan on finding him?” Skinny Lester said.
“I’ve just hired Sherlock Holmes.”
“Is he still alive, too?” Fat Lester asked.
“No, you idiot. Don’t take everything so literally. Holmes is dead.”
“And fictional, by the way,” Skinny Lester said.
“Really?” Donna said.
“Yeah, he never existed. He’s a character in a book…or a movie. Maybe both.”
“Columbo?” Fat Lester said, excitedly. “I love him.”
“Now, he’s dead.” Skinny Lester said. “That was Peter Falk, the actor.”
Fat Lester stopped eating his tagliatelle. “I’m so confused on who’s dead and who’s still alive.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Skinny Lester said with a straight face.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Donna said, “it’s impossible to carry on a conversation with you two. No wonder you and Alex got along so well. Am I the only intelligent person at this table? Please, just shut up and listen: I’ve hired one of the biggest-name private detectives in the country.”
“Inspector Clouseau?” Fat Lester asked. “He was funny. You need someone with a sense of humor to find Alex, especially if he’s dead.”
“Jesus,” Donna moaned. “This is what I’m talking about. No, I hired Vito Colucci.”
“Colucci,” Skinny Lenny said. “I know he’s alive, I just saw him on CNN.”
Chapter 55
Kure Beach, North Carolina
Michael and Samantha finished dinner at Freddie’s and drove back to their house down a quiet two-lane beach road, less than a mile away.
During the short ride, Michael kept on eye on his rearview mirror, searching for headlights that might be following, but he saw none. In front of him were two cars, one in front of the other, two sets of red taillights. Despite the lack of any signs of danger, his anxiety only deepened.
After a few minutes, in the rearview mirror, he noticed the first headlights approach, a car steadily gaining on him. He sped up slightly but the car continued to close in from behind until it was a car length away. The cars ahead had moved on. There was no one else visible on the road except the vehicle behind him.
It was late, the homes were dark, no street lights, no moon, just the road ahead, the dark ocean on the right—and the set of headlights on his tail casting a glare inside their car. He looked back and forth from the side mirror to the rearview, trying to get a peek at the driver, but the glare of the headlights made seeing anything behind them impossible.
He glanced over at Samantha.
“Is something wrong?” she said.
“No, it’s just dark and this car is following a bit too close behind us.”
She began to turn around to look out the rear window.
“Don’t,” he said.
She did anyway. “He is close. Is he following us?”
Just then the car closed in even tighter. Michael tapped the brakes lightly, watching through the mirror for a reaction. But instead of staying close behind, the car pulled into the oncoming lane and passed, speeding ahead of them.
There was nothing he could put his finger on to substantiate his growing certainty that something bad was about to happen; if it weren’t here on the dark beach road, it would be later, at home, during the long night ahead of them. He was sure of it.
Once inside the house, Michael walked out through the French doors onto the deck, watching and listening to the waves crashing onto the darkened beach. He felt a…presence…someone or something watching him. He felt a restlessness, an unease. Was he being paranoid? Perhaps, but he knew something was out there, maybe in the sea, or closer, on the beach, the sand, nearer to him, but invisible in the dark. His imagination was running wild as he visualized an enemy submarine, its periscope rising up, the captain peering at him from the depths.
The only light came from the lighthouse out at sea, its beam illuminating the water and the beach for several seconds as it rotated, like a searchlight sweeping the prison grounds, a scene Michael had, of course, only witnessed in a movie. He was uncomfortable, agitated, feeling as though he were in a dream he couldn’t wake up from.
Was that a shadow? Yes, it was. Likely someone taking an evening walk on the beach.
He went inside, leaving the evening’s Southern humidity behind him, feeling a momentary relief as he entered the large modern family room with its crisp, cool air conditioning. With exposed beams and a large stone fireplace, it was Michael’s favorite room. Even with the doors shut behind him, he could hear the sound of the waves on the beach, this night more threatening than soothing.
He turned the brass lock on the door, checked, then rechecked it to be sure the series of glass doors were all locked tight. He looked out onto the black beach beyond, searching for the shadow from before, but saw only the dark unknown.
Still uneasy, he turned back into the room, realizing that with the lights on he would be visible to anyone outside, while they remained invisible to him. He pressed in the password on the security keypad, the flashing red light indicating the system was activated, giving him some measure of security, quickly tempered by the knowledge that any experienced criminal could disarm even the best system in seconds. Not to mention, a special type of criminal.
Gently touching a master switch, he turned off the lights in the rest of the house, except for the bedroom, and joined Samantha, leaving their bedroom door open, as was their custom. She was already in bed, listening to an audiobook on her Kindle through her noise-canceling headphones. He could tell she’d be asleep
soon.
Michael put on his pajamas, brushed his teeth and got into bed alongside her. Samantha appeared oblivious to his presence. Outside, a lone dog was barking. He picked up a book and, as he began to read, heard the dog barking again, louder now, then more canine voices joining in. The foghorn from the lighthouse began its muted blast. He looked over to the security pad on the wall near his bed. The red light was on, no longer flashing, indicating that it was armed, but the light only further unsettled him.
He tried again to read his book, an Agatha Christie novel, Death in the Clouds, but instead found himself staring at the page, not the words, unfocused, listening to the sounds, the foghorn, the barking, and the ocean.
He looked over at Samantha, who had drifted off to sleep, gently removed the headphones, and switched off her Kindle. He checked the alarm pad again, the light still red. Finally, he gave up, put the book down, turned off his reading lamp, and closed his eyes, hoping to sleep.
He was unsure how long he’d been asleep when he was awakened by music.
It started so low he wasn’t sure he even heard it, or that it wasn’t part of a dream he was awakening from, dream and reality blending together. But it gradually became louder, although not so loud it awakened Samantha, who still slept soundly, until he was sure that it was neither a dream nor his imagination.
He recognized it, in fact. He knew it well. It was Wagner’s opera Tristan and Isolde. Wagner’s opera on the nature of existence itself, life and death, the whole fate of the material world hanging on nothing more than the interior movements of the human soul. It was a favorite of Adolph Hitler.
He looked at the clock on the night table. 12:02. Where was the music coming from? And at this time of night? And, of all operas…
He would not be sleeping again any time soon.
Trying to make sense of what he was hearing, he stared at the ceiling, the sweeping light from the lighthouse, faintly shining through the bedroom shutters, now the only illumination in the room. He heard a clap of thunder in the distance, then a series of them, each appearing closer. The wind picked up, the thunderstorm approaching and the music persisting in the background, strangely complementing the sounds of the approaching storm.
He picked up his iPhone, checking the master app controlling the house’s security system and appliances. He checked the outdoor infrared security cameras. Front, back, and both sides. No one was visible as he flipped through the starkly illuminated pictures. He heard a clicking sound, coming from outside the bedroom. He checked the cameras and the security app again. Everything appeared normal…except…the wireless, digital locks. The back French doors he’d so carefully secured before going to bed were showing unlocked. He stared closer…no, they were locked.
He had an idea: “Alexa, turn off the music.”
The music stopped instantly.
Who had instructed her to turn it on in the first place? And Wagner’s opera?
He got up, iPhone in hand, walked out of the bedroom, through the hall, turning on the dimmed hall lighting, and out to the family room. He scanned the room: all was still, nothing out of place. As he approached the rear glass doors, the bolt moved on its own, clicking shut and locking.
He turned around, facing the family room once again, and heard, behind him now, the bolt clicking open.
Michael whirled around, fearing that someone—an intruder, or worse—would be standing on the other side. The beam from the lighthouse beacon passed over the beach.
No one.
He relocked the door and waited, staring at it to see if it would unlock again. He turned around to face the room, sure that someone was looking over his shoulder or…standing behind him. He saw no one but he felt their presence.
The opera began playing again.
“Alexa,” he says, “is there an intruder in the house?”
After a few seconds, she responded, “I don’t understand that question.”
“Alexa, is someone listening in on our conversation?”
Not expecting a valid response, he took a step toward the bedroom but stopped dead when he heard her response.
“Yes, someone is listening to our conversation.”
Standing outside the bedroom, he saw that Samantha remained asleep. He moved back toward the family room. “Alexa, who is listening to our conversation?”
“Monsignor Kurt Schlegelberger and at least one other person are listening to our conversation.”
“Alexa, where is Kurt Schlegelberger?”
“He is here.”
“Alexa, is Kurt Schlegelberger here, in this house?”
“Yes, Kurt Schlegelberger is here, in this house.”
“Alexa, where in this house is Kurt Schlegelberger?”
“Kurt Schlegelberger is right behind you.”
Feeling a wave of shivers run through his body, anticipating the presence behind him, Michael turned quickly and…saw no one. It stands to reason, he thought: Schlegelberger is dead, there can be no physical presence. He scanned the room again, analyzing every detail until he saw…it, the only possible explanation: the tiny security surveillance camera high above him, discreetly embedded in an exposed beam.
“Alexa, turn off the security cameras.”
“I am unable to turn off the security cameras,” she said, her calm in stark contrast to Michael’s rising panic. “Please check your Internet connection.”
Berlin, Germany
Forty-five-hundred miles and an ocean away, Claus Dietrich made himself an early morning cup of coffee, sat at the antique desk in his library, opened his laptop computer, looked out at the sun rising over his beloved Berlin, and watched Michael Nicholas as he stood motionless with his back to the French doors in his family room.
Dietrich zoomed in on Michael’s face, taking voyeuristic pleasure in the torment of his prey.
“Alexa,” he said, “play Tristan and Isolde again.”
Still unable to eliminate Michael or Alex Nicholas, he and Schlegelberger would nevertheless proceed with their plan. It would be highly unlikely that either would be able to interfere in time to stop them.
Dietrich tapped a series of commands into his computer. The two documents he was looking for appeared: the first, entitled, Vladimir Putin, a Detailed Psychological Profile; the second, Harry O’Brien, A Detailed Psychological Profile. He had already read them both numerous times but he scanned through them again. Then, he switched to his eBook library, Mr. Putin, Operative in the Kremlin, a respected, in-depth study of Putin by the Brookings Institution’s Fiona Hill and Clifford Gaddy.
Alex Nicholas watched Dietrich’s computer screen move from one document to the next, knowing that this would be the closest he’d come to uncovering Dietrich and Schlegelbereger’s plan. His interest in Dietrich’s activities ended, however, when he received an alert that Jennifer Walsh’s computer had come online.
Chapter 56
Paris, France
Alex missed Catherine Saint Laurent and Jennifer Walsh or, more accurately, he missed being in bed with them, especially the two of them together. Alex knew very little French, but Catherine had taught him to fluently pronounce—and practice—a ménage à trois.
Catherine and Alex had made an unlikely pair, the tough, gruff American and the refined, idolized but aging French movie legend. Alex had later agreed to finance her risky “comeback” movie when the traditional investors had demurred over concerns about her age.
After Alex’s death, Catherine had contacted Michael and he’d…reluctantly…fallen victim to their charms, honoring Alex’s agreement to finance Catherine’s movie. Later, despite Michael’s concern about word leaking out, the digital Alex had contacted with Catherine while she was on a movie set filming a scene from the movie.
Looking back, Alex decided that Catherine had been the easiest to convince about his “return.” Maybe because Hollywood types
already lived in more than one world, they weren’t as surprised when a window opened to yet another one.
Alex recognized the room, Catherine’s regular suite at the Ritz. There were changes, however. The hotel had recently undergone a major renovation, which probably accounted for the subtle differences he noticed in the suite. But the room had lost none of its luxurious charm, gold door handles, warm lighting, soothing creme walls, patterned carpeting—he remembered the feel of the soft, woolen carpet on his bare feet—marble fireplaces, crystal chandelier, long floor-to-ceiling windows, the view of the Place Vendôme, plush chairs, and the pillows and linens gracing the king bed. Only Marie Antoinette or, more accurately, Coco Chanel, was missing. Neither of them, however, could have matched the beauty on the bed tonight.
Jennifer had conveniently and, he believed, intentionally, left her laptop open on the dresser facing the king bed so that he could see. He could hear the sound of water running in the bathroom and, even from his angle of view, caught a glimpse of Catherine stepping out of the white bathtub, drying herself with the Ritz’s familiar thick, peach-colored towel, finally letting it drop to the floor as she entered the bedroom and lay on the bed. She was followed a minute later by Jennifer, her tanned, still wet body wrapped loosely inside the Ritz terrycloth robe. She, too, dropped her robe onto the carpeted floor, revealing her distinct tan lines forming a provocative triangle. There was an open bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the nightstand. As Catherine watched her, Jennifer poured them each a glass.
Sex for Catherine was like a movie scene: it had a beginning and an end. The same way Alex regarded it. It didn’t necessarily linger. For it to begin, the actress needed a cue, like the clapper signs used by directors on the movie set. Off the set, a glass of champagne signaled the onset, just as surely as the lighting of her French cigarette signaled the end. In between the two points lay pure lust. Alex remembered it well. And the introduction of Jennifer, made later in their relationship, had only made it better.