Death Logs In (13 page)

“How clever of him,” he said.

“You don’t get to be a bishop without being clever.”

After a long silence, she spoke again. “I looked up ‘tartarus.’ I wondered what it meant and why you decided on that name for Alex’s business.”

“It’s a prison, where the Greeks sent the defeated gods. A dank, gloomy pit surrounded by a wall of bronze,” Michael said softly. “It’s the lowest region of the universe, the abyss, even farther away than Hades or hell.”

“Is that where we are, Michael? I forget that you’re Greek. This sounds so mystical, so old European.”

He listened, then continued. “My parents were Greek. I was born here. But, it’s in my blood, how I was raised. It never leaves you, good or bad. Tartarus is the abyss I feel like I’ve jumped into with Alex’s world.” He paused, gently redirecting her. “You never answered my question about the bishop.”

“Which question was that, exactly?”

“The one about—let me phrase it this way—did you kill him?”

“Of course I killed him. You knew that. It was probably the nicest thing I’ve ever done for anyone.”

Chapter 27

New York City

M
ichael realized how little he really knew about Sindy Steele.

The concept of a single bodyguard made sense but, in practice, it was appearing to be impractical. Michael enjoyed some level of privacy. Leaving his office after a day of wall-to-wall meetings, he headed alone down Madison Avenue toward the St. Regis.

His thoughts alternated between visions of Sindy between the covers and trying to imagine how she could possibly have arranged to kidnap and then murder the bishop—and still catch her flight to Paris. The timing seemed almost impossible. Was she really capable of murder—or was she simply playing mind games with him? When he had tried to probe further with her on her comment regarding the bishop, she remained elusive, then seductive. “Stop thinking so much and just bury your face between my legs,” she said. It was a line he knew he’d never forget.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his BlackBerry. It was his assistant, Karen DiNardo. Her voice brought him back to the moment. “I meant to tell you—before you rushed out—that your schedule of employees to be terminated was delivered on time to both Hightower and Mr. Perkins, so they should be happy.”

“Thanks, Karen but, believe me, there’s more trouble coming. They’re not through with us. Wait until the details of the merger unfold.”

“Are
you
in trouble?” she asked.

“I don’t think so. They can’t afford to lose me right now. I’m still newsworthy after all the publicity around my speech last year attacking Wall Street. Plus, you know how these things work. Senior management makes out like bandits. We’ll all get bigger jobs, more money and big-time golden parachutes. In the meantime, the shareholders pay for it and the line-level employees lose their jobs.”

“Boss, you know the game. Please, whatever they come up with—just take a deep breath before you react. Those two would love to find an excuse to push you out.”

Michael knew that Karen was right as always. He had been brought on three years ago to turn around the company that was collapsing under the weight of several ill-advised acquisitions. Now, after stabilizing and rebuilding the organization, it just wasn’t possible to deliver the unrealistic profits that his former boss, Dick Applegarden, and his current boss, Richard Perkins, were demanding.

“And speaking of your speech last year, that meeting is coming up again in L.A. in two weeks. Fortunately, you’re not speaking this time, but Mr. Perkins wanted to confirm that you’ll be there. He’s going—along with Hightower. Do you want me to book you into the Peninsula?”

Michael thought about last year’s meeting. His big speech, how a furious, red-faced Applegarden went up to him after he left the podium, cursing and threatening.

“No, book me into the Chateau Marmont. I’ve always wanted to stay there.”

“Perkins’ secretary wanted to know where you were staying.”

“Tell her nicely to mind her own business. I like my privacy.”

He continued his walk to the St. Regis but had only gone one block when he felt his BlackBerry vibrating. After fumbling around, he pulled it out of his suit coat pocket and, while continuing to walk, stole a glance at the notification on the screen: “Alex Nicholas changed his Facebook cover photo.”

His mind took off in a million directions. What was going on? He was anxious to get to his laptop in the hotel. He and Sindy were going to order room service in the suite for dinner tonight. He knew he only had a short time before she returned for the night.

___________

He sat on the couch in the living room, facing the front door of the suite so he couldn’t be surprised by her arrival. Michael logged into his computer and then signed onto Facebook. He then typed in “Alex Nicholas” in the box for finding friends. He hadn’t checked Alex’s Facebook page since his murder. Why would he, of course? How many dead people change their Facebook cover picture? Only Alex, he thought.

Sure enough, the picture on his page had changed. It was no longer the one of Alex and his son at his seats at Yankee Stadium, the one that had been his Facebook cover photo at least a year before his death and, as far as Michael knew, right up until a few minutes ago. In its place was the interior of a church, facing the altar with a large gold cross just above it. Michael leaned in closer to the screen; as soon as he did, he knew for sure. It was the Greek Orthodox Church in Whitestone, Queens—the one where Alex’s funeral had been held.

Michael immediately signed out of Facebook and clicked onto the icon for Alex.

“I figured that would get your attention,” Alex said as soon as he appeared.

“What was that about? Are you trying to bring attention to yourself?” Michael was annoyed. The last thing he needed now was questions regarding Alex. After all, Samantha was the only one he had shown the virtual Alex to—and even she didn’t believe it.

“You probably didn’t realize it but that would have been the view from my casket—if it had been open. Actually, I just got bored. Maybe I don’t want my friends to …” he hesitated. Michael noticed a brief and rare look of vulnerability on his brother’s face. “… to forget me.”

Michael softened. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Not yet, anyway.”

Alex appeared to regain his normal, tougher composure. “I have some news that you’re not going to like,” he said, his expression turning unusually solemn, although Michael detected the slightest hint of a mischievous smirk. “It’s about your mistress.”

“I didn’t expect you were going to do a Google search on her.”

“Michael, I’m discovering that I can access things here that you wouldn’t believe. I don’t know how this has happened but it’s like I can go anywhere and get inside anyone’s email and even a lot of corporate internal email systems. My power seems to be growing. Anyway, I found out some interesting things about Sindy Steele that I picked up from some confidential documents that a dean at Stanford had saved in his email files.”

“Don’t tell me—she dropped out of Stanford medical school after two years,” Michael said, hoping he’d beaten Alex to the punch. He’d seen it in the online background check he’d done—right
after
he hired her. “She fell in love with another medical student and I guess got her heart broken and never recovered.”

“You’re right—but I don’t think that would be the headline if I was a reporter or something.”

“OK, what would be the headline?” Michael could see that Alex was enjoying the intrigue and maybe some attention.

“You mean if I was writing an article in like the
New York Post
?”

“Exactly. Or the National Enquirer, take your pick.”

“Try this one: ‘Jilted female medical student murders her ex.’ ”

“OK, what’s this all about?” Michael felt as though his Alex was toying with him, enjoying teasing his little brother like they were kids again.

“Is this your first affair?”

“Well, yes, it’s the first time—and it’ll be the last affair for me. This one won’t last too long, either. I don’t know, maybe it’s the element of danger that I seem to suddenly like—but this whole affair thing is too complicated and I’m not very good at keeping stuff from Samantha. We’re too close. Or we were.
Damn it, what did you find out?”

“How soon do you plan on ending it?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I have to admit, right now she’s very useful to me. Not just for the sex.
What is it
?”

“Good. If I were you, I’d take my time and think very carefully before cutting things off with her.”

Michael was exasperated. “What the hell are you talking about?

“It appears that a few weeks after her boyfriend—a William McGee—dumps her, he’s found dead in his new apartment. No cause of death was immediately apparent.” Alex appeared to be reading from some document or other computer screen out of Michael’s range of sight. “The coroner initially ruled that the healthy twenty-six-year-old student had died of ‘natural causes.’ The press reports the next day stated that ‘no foul play was detected or suspected.’ ”

“So—where does
murder
come in?” Michael said.

“Several weeks later, the toxicology results showed some, and I quote, ‘disturbing yet inconclusive findings.’ The medical examiner believed—but could not prove—McGee had somehow ingested a deadly but impossible-to-detect poison. By the way, do you happen to know what Steele’s specialty was in med school?”

“No, what?”

“Try medicinal chemistry and pharmacology. I found out that records of the death, as well as an agreement leading up to her permanent departure from Stanford, were sealed as part of a settlement negotiated by her attorney.”

Michael heard the crisp click of the electronic key lock on the front door of the suite. He looked up and saw the handle turning. She was back.

Chapter 28

Rome, Italy

M
onsignor Petrucceli checked his watch and looked out at the dining room, searching for a familiar face. It was eight o’clock and every table at the ancient Ristorante La Campagna was filled with Romans enjoying dinner. The scene was a controlled chaos, mostly traditional looking, well-dressed families—in some cases four generations — seated around long tables, enjoying a festive evening of cheeses, salamis, artichokes, pasta and, perhaps, a sizzling bistecca. Bottles of the house red anchored each table. The brusque waiters, all men, uniformly dressed in white shirts, black suits and bow ties, roamed the room without a smile and with an occasional expression of annoyance.

Monsignor Petrucceli was already on his second glass of the
Morellino di Scansano 414.
Beginning to feel the warmth of the robust red wine soothe his nerves, his anxiety returned as soon he saw Joseph Sharkey being led by the maitre’d to his table.

“Joseph, sit down,” he said, motioning Sharkey to the seat opposite him. As they shook hands, he remembered how odd it was that such a seemingly tough, fearless character could have such a weak, limp handshake.

“Good evening, Monsignor.” Sharkey said as he poured himself a glass of wine, looked around at the other diners, their plates, and settled his stare on a particularly shapely woman seated at the next table.

The monsignor, wanting to bring Sharkey’s eyes and attention back to the ground, said, “Joseph, it’s good to see you. We have a lot to talk about. There have been developments.”

Sharkey was attentive. “ ‘Developments’—what does that mean? I’m aware that my three little friends are no longer a problem.”

“Yes, Joseph, they have found, as we say, everlasting peace.”

“They were good men.”

The monsignor, marveling at Sharkey’s obtuseness, smiled, “Oh, I’m sure they were worthy of sainthood, Joseph. We will certainly miss them.”

Sharkey’s eyes narrowed as he looked across the table. The monsignor knew he had tweaked his companion’s temper but continued to steer the conversation. “Joseph, you should also be aware that our mutual friend, Bishop McCarthy, is also gone.”

This clearly caught Sharkey by surprise, his head jerked upward. “Gone? What do you mean ‘gone? Where the hell did he go?’”

“He had a terrible accident.”

“Monsignor, who do you think you’re talking to here? What do you mean, ‘He had a terrible accident?’ ”

“Calm down, Joseph. Everything is OK. The bishop was, after all, a liability. If you have been reading the papers, you will see that our Pope Leo is very distressed over all these pedophile priest problems. The church has, as he said, been humiliated. There will be no more tolerance for such behavior. I’m afraid Bishop McCarthy could no longer be protected.”

“It was no accident. Who ordered it?” Sharkey was inflamed, yet obviously struggling to control his temper.

“The police believe he took his own life. He was found hanging,” the monsignor said, trying to keep his voice low and calm, hoping his tone might help settle Sharkey down.

“Who are you kidding? I’m not some rookie, you know,” Sharkey persisted.

“That is all I know right now. You must understand, the Vatican is made up of many layers, many separate fiefdoms. I am not privy to all that goes on.”

But as he listened to Sharkey’s ranting, the monsignor knew that he himself was the most surprised at this most recent turn of events. He also questioned the “suicide”—in fact, he had come to doubt all suicides and deaths by ‘natural causes’ of anyone under ninety who had certain dealings with the Vatican. He knew too much.

He thought back to his conversation with Hightower, who expressed his own shock at finding the bishop dangling in his garage. And several days before, the bishop himself mentioned that Michael Nicholas had been highly antagonistic toward him.

Hightower had sounded nervous on the call. He said he didn’t think that Michael was capable of murdering the bishop—especially in such a sadistic manner—but he was afraid of this new female bodyguard.

He turned his attention back to Sharkey, who, having no clue that the monsignor’s attention had drifted, was continuing his rant.