Death Logs In (12 page)

Fat Lester already knew this, but hearing his cousin verbalize it gave him strength and filled him with trepidation.

“I know, but what’s Michael going to say? He’s never seen this side of me. Alex did, but I doubt Michael ever knew about it. Then what the fuck happens with Rizzo? I’ve taken his drugs already.”

“Don’t worry, Lester, we’ve known Michael since he was a baby. He knows you better than you think. Listen, Alex was his brother. First we’ve got to let him know what’s going on. He’ll get you help; you know, rehab to start. Then, we’ve got to hope he’s as good at dealing with Rizzo as Alex was.” Skinny Lester paused, took another sip of his wine, and added, “Maybe more than that, we’ve got to hope that, underneath the suit, Michael’s got a heart like Alex had.”

“Alex’d be pissed if he heard you talking about his damned heart. He didn’t talk about that stuff.”

Fat Lester twirled a forkful of sweet, tomato-coated spaghetti and, savoring its flavor on his tongue, drew comfort from its familiar taste. He wished he could just keep eating it forever and never have to put the fork down or get up from the table. He watched as, with each deliberate twirl of his fork, the portion of spaghetti remaining in the bowl dwindled, bringing him closer to the two calls he dreaded and feared.

He wasn’t sure which one he feared more, the one to Michael or to Rizzo.

Chapter 24

New York City

R
izzo knew that his Museum Tower neighbors wondered how a retired New York City cop could afford to live in their exclusive building. He suspected that only the building’s maintenance staff knew the truth. He had once overheard the doorman joking to the handyman that “Mr. Rizzo” had been known as “The Nose” by those on his beat, for his ability to sniff out the vulnerable ones he then extorted during his thirty years on the force.

Riding down the elevator, he laughed when he remembered the faces of undocumented immigrants, landlords with illegal apartments in their basement, bookies, loan sharks and small-time drug dealers who had provided him with the riches a straight street cop could only dream about. As he saw it, he provided a service: protection from arrest in return for cash. Protection led to greater opportunities as he branched out into dealing the cocaine and heroin he regularly confiscated.

Rizzo silently thanked those faces that had allowed him to build up enough cash to retire after twenty-five years on the force, along with a full pension as an added bonus. It wasn’t long after his retirement that he moved into his $1.4 million condominium in the tony Museum Tower, adjacent to the Museum of Modern Art on Fifty-Third Street. As he waited for the elevator to reach the lobby, he felt content for the first time in his life.

Rizzo looked forward to meeting Fat Lester and collecting the first installment on what promised to be a new and substantial annuity. He had arranged to meet him right outside his building and he expected to be riding back up to his apartment a few minutes later with thirty-eight thousand dollars in cash.

When the elevator doors opened, immediately, Rizzo saw something was wrong.

The lobby was empty. No one was manning the concierge desk and, even more unusual, the doorman was absent from his post.

As he exited the building through the revolving door to meet Fat Lester, he was startled instead to see Michael Nicholas and a stocky, well-built stranger, who introduced himself simply as Fletcher. Fat Lester was nowhere in sight.

His instinct for danger set off the old familiar alarms, the defensive safeguards he had not felt since his years on the force. He knew he was caught off-guard and unprepared. He knew right then that his ride back up the elevator would not go as he planned.

Chapter 25

M
ichael, I didn’t expect to see you. I thought you were over in France,” Rizzo said, keeping a slight distance away and looking Fletcher over. “I was just expecting Lester.” Getting no reaction or response from Fletcher, he turned back toward Michael. “You didn’t have to come yourself.”

Michael and Fletcher both quickly advanced closer to Rizzo. Michael spoke, “Let’s go back inside where we can have some privacy.” Fletcher started the revolving door with his hand and guided Rizzo in as he and Michael followed close behind. As they all entered the still-abandoned lobby, Rizzo looked around, his eyes rapidly scanning the entire area, looking for any sign of the staff.

Once inside, Rizzo looked again at Fletcher, trying to access his role in this encounter. Fletcher returned his gaze and slowly opened his sport coat revealing a black Glock 19 pistol securely tucked into his waistband.

Rizzo straightened up as he further sized up Fanelli. He then turned to Michael. “What the hell’s going on, Michael?” Then looking back at Fletcher, “And who are you?”

Fletcher didn’t utter a word, but Michael jumped in, “Fat Lester couldn’t make it tonight, Johnny. But we wanted to settle accounts.”

“Michael, what is this? I could have waited for the gift. And you didn’t need to bring your girlfriend.” Rizzo smirked, staring again at Fletcher.

“Listen, you asshole,” Michael said in a hushed tone, “You’re lucky my friend here doesn’t have you pulled in right now for procuring smack for Lester.”

Trying to keep his temper and his fears in check, Rizzo kept up an aggressive show. “What the hell—you’re going to have me arrested? You gotta be freakin’ kidding. I think you’ve got things a little confused.” He turned again to Fletcher. “Are you a cop?”

Fletcher took a step closer, now nearly in Rizzo’s face. “Don’t worry about who I am.” He then put his hand on his gun and motioned Rizzo toward the elevator.

Rizzo turned toward Michael. “So what the fuck do you want? What about my money?”

“Get in the elevator,” Michael said, motioning toward the open teak-walled elevator.

Rizzo was unsure; he tried to analyze the risk in going up to his apartment. On one hand, he’d no longer have the safety of a public place. But he didn’t really believe Michael Nicholas was capable of hurting him. Fletcher was the wild card. On the other hand, he knew his own pistol was loaded and accessible in his nightstand drawer. If he could shift the scene up to his apartment, he might be able to get to his weapon.

Rizzo led the way to the elevator, entering and then pressing the number for his floor. But before he could even turn around, Fletcher slammed him violently against the back wall of the car. He then felt a crushing blow to the back of his knees, causing him to collapse in a heap onto the elevator floor. Rizzo knew the drill. He had done it himself countless times to those who resisted his shakedowns or whose looks he simply didn’t like.

“Are you guys freakin’ nuts? You’re out of your freakin’ minds.” In a matter of seconds, Rizzo’s face was pushed into the floor and he felt Fletcher’s knee pressing hard into his back. He suspected Fletcher was a current or former cop as he found himself handcuffed to the waist-high steel railing with his hands behind his back.

He watched as Michael waited for the elevator door to close and then inserted the key that closed the doors but held the elevator on the lobby floor.

“Where’d you get that key?” Rizzo grunted.

He could feel Fletcher’s knee pinning him even harder now into the floor.

“People in this building hate your guts, Rizzo. It wasn’t hard.” Fletcher said.

Michael’s face was emotionless, his demeanor calm and his voice low. He looked at Rizzo and instructed Fletcher, “Let’s get his clothes off.”

Rizzo laughed and, as Fletcher finally released his knee-hold, he looked up at the car’s floor indicator lights, hoping for a rescue. But he knew the elevator was going nowhere. “You’re crazy.”

With that, Fletcher punched him, hard and low, doubling Rizzo over. “Shit,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath.

Fletcher then secured Rizzo’s ankles together using a plastic cord.

Michael said, “What do you think, John? You were a dirty cop. You’re still dirty. You knew Lester was trying to stay clean. You didn’t give a damn. You didn’t mind maybe killing him with your drugs for a little money?”

“He asked me for help. He asked me to score the stuff for him. I was doing fatty a freakin’ favor.”

“Yeah, sure, at my expense. You think we’re as dumb as you are?” Michael said.

Rizzo was breathing hard. Secured to the railing with both hands cuffed behind his back and his feet bound at the ankles, his eyes bulged out as he saw Fletcher pull out a hunting knife from his back pocket. He didn’t expect this.

In three short, swift strokes of the blade, most of Rizzo’s clothes had been slashed open. Fletcher and Michael easily pulled off the remaining shards and rolled up the ripped garments, including the remains of his underwear. Rizzo was standing, bound and naked in his own elevator but relieved when he saw Fletcher return the blade to his pocket.

A voice came over the elevator intercom, “Is everything OK, Mr. Rizzo? We’ve got some folks here waiting to go up.”

Before Rizzo could respond, Fletcher spoke, “Yes, Harry, we’re done. Be out in a second. Thanks.” Michael turned the key and pressed the button to take them to the basement where, Rizzo surmised, Michael and Fletcher could exit through the service door.

The elevator door opened and Michael and Fletcher walked out, carrying Rizzo’s shredded clothing and leaving him secured to the railing, standing naked facing the door.

On his way out, Michael turned around, holding the elevator door with his arm as the buzzer went off. “Just remember, I’ve got enough on you to get you arrested for dealing and maybe even eliminate that cop’s pension you somehow have held onto. Next time you’ll know better, Rizzo. You don’t cheat your bookie.” Rizzo watched as Michael then pressed the lobby button and exited the elevator.

As the door closed, Rizzo shouted out to him, “No, next time, Michael, you’re going to die.” Even before the doors reopened into the lobby, Rizzo began planning his trip to Westport, Connecticut.

Chapter 26

New York City

J
ust before he climaxed, Michael looked hard into Sindy Steele’s dark, half-opened eyes.

Had she really murdered the bishop and hung him inside John Hightower’s garage? Although he knew it was a little sick, the very thought of it was like an intravenous injection of Viagra.

Michael rolled over to Sindy’s side. His next thoughts were near panic. The St. Regis suite, he realized, had become his second home and his lover was possibly a murderer.

The lights were off, but the blue light from the digital alarm clock illuminated the tiny beads of perspiration that glistened on her body. One long, slender, pale white leg dangled outside the covers over the side of the bed. She stared up at the ceiling, spent and satisfied, Michael hoped. Or, perhaps she was somewhere else. Somewhere he couldn’t go, somewhere he was afraid to go. Somewhere dark.

“Sindy, where are you?” he asked, whispering into her ear.

Her eyes darted back to life. “What do you mean?”

“You seemed to be far away, somewhere else.”

“I have something to tell you. It’s a strange thing. It frightens me.” She looked vulnerable.

“Is it about McCarthy’s suicide?” Michael knew the answer even though she had already denied having anything to do with his death.

“Michael, do I frighten you?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes. To be honest, right now my whole life frightens me.”

He tried not to think about Samantha. He knew Alex was right, that Samantha knew he was sleeping with Sindy. After the dinner in Paris, the chill between them had almost become a deep freeze. Oddly though, Samantha had yet to confront him over his relationship with Sindy. Worse, Samantha had no way of knowing that he didn’t see this arrangement—or relationship, or whatever it was—lasting too long. To him, it was—almost—just business and, perhaps, something he needed at the time. And, speaking of business, he realized that, in view of his plan, he was not yet ready to part ways with Sindy.

Sindy was now an integral part of the second life that Michael had come to inhabit. Just as much, he thought, as Samantha was an integral part of the first one. Michael knew he had taken his ability to “compartmentalize” to a new—and very troubling—level.

But what really panicked him was that he knew he couldn’t envision how it could possibly end, or end well. Now he wanted to change the subject.

“You mentioned once in passing that you’d gone to medical school. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it? What happened?”

“I did—Stanford—and I did well there, academically, at least. I only attended for two years.

“Why’d you leave?”

“I was young, immature. I was in love with this guy, another medical student. It didn’t work out. I was heartbroken. That’ll never happen again.”

“Did he—”

She cut him off firmly. “Michael, in time I’ll tell you everything.” She stopped, catching herself and softening, she continued. “But, if you don’t mind, I don’t want to talk about that time in my life anymore right now.”

“I understand.” He had to ask her one more thing that couldn’t wait. “One last question, not related to that period.”

“One,” she said, totally expressionless.

“What do you think—what are your feelings—about the bishop being dead?”

“It was poetic justice. Hightower is your enemy. He knows you don’t like him. He’s the one with some connection at the Vatican that resulted in McCarthy being presented to Gibraltar as a board member. Believe me, Hightower is scared shitless. You’ve neutralized him. He’s not about to mess around with you again. Now he’s afraid for his own life. He believes you had something to do with this. He doesn’t know how you pulled it off, or even what exactly happened. But the image of seeing that pervert hanging from his garage ceiling, all lit up, as he was about to drive in—that’s one he’s never going to forget.”

“And how did I pull it off?” He was watching her closely now.

“Well, the police actually believe it may have been a suicide and they’re privately acknowledging that it looks like the good bishop may have been a jilted lover. They’re speculating that Hightower may have rejected McCarthy’s advances or affection and so he hung himself in a place where Hightower was sure to be the one to find him.”