Death Logs In (16 page)

It took a few seconds for him to realize that the Cadillac’s air bags had deployed. Momentarily relieved, the air bag quickly deflated, his brain recovering and his vision restored, he knew something in the car had gone wrong. After all, the car had lurched forward—the air bags must have deployed to keep him safe. The car slowed nearly to a stop. He was badly bruised but alive. Thank God.

He looked around him, outside his driver’s side window. He saw some young men and women walking up the driveway. Momentarily frozen, they stared back at him, like himself, probably trying to digest what had occurred. They began shouting and appeared to be coming to his aid. He felt a sharp pain in his right arm; it was likely broken.

With his left hand, he gripped the door handle to open it. The door remained locked. He tried pressing the button on the door panel to release the locks but nothing happened.

The dashboard again lit up, its LED lights flashing wildly. He looked outside around him and once again saw the man who’d confronted him. They exchanged glances. Herbert Stein knew he needed help. He mouthed the words, “Help me, please.” But the man smiled and appeared to turn back to his cell phone. Stein mouthed the words he hoped the man could read, “Son of a bitch.”

He was relieved to see the young people from down the driveway finally approaching his door. The first young man was about to reach for to the outside handle when Stein felt the engine suddenly begin to race and, once again, the car thrust forward. He looked ahead—he was catapulting down the embankment in front of the hotel’s driveway, heading toward Sunset Boulevard. As the car jumped the curb, he felt his head hit the roof. His foot pressed down hard on the brakes, but nothing happened. He saw the look on the faces of pedestrians who watched open-mouthed as he sped by, encased in his sealed Cadillac. The steering wheel was locked.

Directly across the street he saw the concrete wall. The car accelerated even more, beyond what he thought possible, the new thrust driving his head back into the seat and then knocked hard again into the roof as the Cadillac powerfully jumped up and over a curb. As the car bounced back onto the street, he glanced at the already deployed air bags lying limp around him. Herbert Stein knew he was going to die.

Chapter 35

West Hollywood, California

S
indy was still asleep. Michael, in his white terry cloth bathrobe, stretched out on the couch and looked out the large picture window to the city where dreams were made. His eyes caught the front page of the morning’s edition of the
L.A. Times
on the table directly before him. The headline read, “Famous Fashion Photographer Dies in Car Crash.” Stunned, he picked up the paper and read further:

“With the help of several eyewitnesses, the LAPD was able to reconstruct the last moments of Herbert Stein’s life. According to the hotel guests who had been in the parking area of the Chateau Marmont, it appeared that Mr. Stein stepped into his car and, as he began to drive away, the Cadillac suddenly and violently accelerated, crashing into a concrete wall on the opposite side of Sunset Boulevard. He was alone in the car. Mr. Stein was pronounced dead upon arrival at Cedars Sinai Hospital. Police are pursuing two theories behind the accident, speculating that Mr. Stein may have suffered an incapacitating stroke, thereby losing control of his car and are also examining the vehicle for a malfunction in its acceleration parts, possibly caused by electronic interference with the car’s advanced computer system.”

Looking forward to his morning pot of coffee and hot croissants, Michael opened the door as the server rolled in the room service cart. As the aspiring actress set the table for breakfast for two, she saw the newspaper opened to the article about last night’s death of Herbert Stein.

“Oh my God, wasn’t that terrible?” she said, whispering after she noticed Sindy in bed through the open door to the bedroom.

“Yes, it’s unbelievable. I saw him doing a shoot in the lobby when we checked in. I always admired his work.” Michael said.

“That’s not all, someone broke into his room right after and stole all his pictures and his cameras. Can you imagine? I mean, the poor guy’s barely cold and you go and rob his room. I mean, what’s the world coming to?”

She put the finishing touch on the perfectly set table, looked again at Michael and, after a sigh, said simply, “May I pour your coffee?”

Chapter 36

West Hollywood, California

F
rank Cortese took his special cell phone in hand and headed down to the hotel garage. He knew his way by now. He’d already installed a GPS tracking device under the body of Michael’s rented black BMW sedan.

Monsignor 007—the Vatican’s equivalent of James Bonds’ Q who headed up the MI6’s gadget lab—had supplied him with his newest technological breakthrough, the “Car Crasher.” Once linked through a Bluetooth connection to certain high-tech cars, like the latest model BMWs, the app allowed Cortese to cyberhijack and take over most functions of the car through his cell phone.

He knew that Michael and Steele were scheduled to be at the UCLA auditorium for the annual global business conference in the morning. Tonight, he would connect his device to Michael’s car and, in the morning, wait for him to drive away, following him until he saw the proper location—either over a cliff or into a barrier at a high speed—to send Michael and his girlfriend into oblivion.

He knew that Monsignor 007 wouldn’t be happy once he found out that he’d used the device for two jobs in the same city in two days, but the photographer had interfered with his plans. As long as the accident didn’t occur too close to the Marmont, he felt any connection between the two was unlikely to be made, after all, the police were still convinced that Stein’s car simply malfunctioned or he’d had a stroke.

Not seeing Michael’s car as he entered the garage, he switched onto the GPS function on his phone. He looked closely at the screen waiting for the indicator to point him to the car. Thinking there was a mistake, he looked closer. The car was in a parking lot at LAX airport.

Chapter 37

New York City

“W
e’re being taken over.” His words seemed to echo back to him inside the executive conference room at Gibraltar Financial’s Manhattan headquarters.

Michael’s statement wasn’t news to Karen DiNardo, who had been privy to his conversations and correspondence with Perkins and Hightower. He knew that Maggie O’Brien had been down this road before. Like Karen, she had worked for Michael Nicholas for several years and, like Karen, she had been through corporate upheavals before. The only surprise was the exact timing.

“The announcement had to be accelerated, that’s why Perkins and Hightower canceled their trip to L.A. and I had to come back early. Not that I cared much about attending the conference this year.”

Michael appreciated the fact that Maggie had not come to corporate America through the usual channels. After graduating Trinity College in Dublin, she had been a nurse and a professional bartender, tending the famous curved bar, the same one James Joyce rested his glass and elbows on, at Davy Byrnes Pub on Duke Street in Dublin. Michael had often thought that perhaps dealing with the sick and sometimes inebriated was one reason that Maggie had become so talented in her job as a highly successful senior executive of a major American financial institution.

Unlike Karen, however, she was not aware of Michael’s venture into the underworld of his brother’s business. Not that it mattered. Today’s crisis had only to do with Gibraltar Financial, the legitimate firm that Michael led. The firm that was no longer bleeding millions each quarter.

Michael’s sixtieth-floor office overlooked Fifth Avenue. He had a clear view of the rooftop pools, gardens and luxury offices and penthouses, a view that “makes you feel like the whole world is rich.” Today, he thought, it seemed a fitting backdrop to the coming debate about the widely divergent fates of those in power—and those who are powerless.

“What does this mean?” Maggie asked, although Michael knew that she knew.

“Cartan’s official line is, of course, that nothing will change,” he said.

“Yes, the corporate takeover equivalent of ‘the check’s in the mail.’ ” Karen said.

“But, everything will change, of course.” he said. “We’re going to have to eliminate another two hundred jobs. And Cartan Holdings is going to leverage the purchase, pull several million in equity out of Gibraltar and finance our takeover with our own equity. So they pocket another ten million and add it on to our books as debt and then we have to meet these additional debt payments out of our earnings.”

“Do they understand that once we make these cuts and add on the debt that we won’t be that profitable?” Maggie asked. He could see Maggie’s Irish temper flaring up. She was back in Davy Byrnes Pub.

“They know but they’ll turn around and sell off Gibraltar before the shit really hits the fan.”

Santana’s “Black Magic Woman,” coming from Michael’s BlackBerry, interrupted the discussion. He knew it was Sindy and excused himself, quickly walking out of his office into the hallway. He made a mental note to change her ringtone.

“It’s not a great time. Is everything OK?” he whispered into the phone.

“Not really. Lester was right. It’s even worse than we thought. Rosen’s bets were a wipeout for him. He’s into us for well over a million. It’s like a worst-case scenario. He’s a zero with the ponies and the games.”

Michael braced himself for the rest of the story. He glanced back at his office and the agitated Maggie O’Brien. He wondered which one of his two lives at that moment were the least painful. “Are we going to have a problem?” he asked.

Steele was all business, “He’s told Skinny Lester that he can’t pay right now.”

Michael’s voice was no longer a whisper, “You’ve got to be kidding. This guy is one of the biggest hot shots on the planet. What do you mean he can’t pay right now? What does that mean? Not today?”

She cut him off, “Not ever.”

Chapter 38

Paris, France

A
s Steele arose from the steamy depths of the Paris Metro, at the Ecole Militaire station, she couldn’t help but admire the view. The River Seine was behind her, just feet away, while towering blocks ahead and dominating the sky, stood the grand Eiffel Tower.

But she was not there to sightsee. She walked slowly past the outdoor market, admiring the hundreds of French cheeses, some firm, others oozing a soft cream; fish of every conceivable variety, so fresh they appeared to be staring back; bright red filet mignons and racks of lamb; pink hams; dark red and white-speckled salamis; terrines and foie gras; and delicate rich pastries and custards; all on display for the passing pedestrians. It was a gourmet’s delight. She walked the hundred feet to the Pont de l’Alma, crossed the Quai d’Orsay and proceeded down Avenue Bosquet until she reached the address she was looking for, number four, a well-preserved, ten-story apartment residence. She looked at the small directory with the names of the residents alongside a small black intercom button for each apartment. When she saw the listing, “10F: B. Rosen,” she pressed the button and waited to hear his voice and the buzzer signaling the unlocked lobby door.

Her stilettos clicked on the black and white marble floor. The elevator was small but looked like a delicate mahogany and polished brass jewel box. The ride up to the tenth floor was agonizingly slow despite the adrenaline rushing through her body. Finally, the elevator door opened and she pulled open the collapsible brass gate. An ornate spiral staircase was directly in front of her. As she passed it, she looked down to the lobby floor from which she had just arisen. Rosen’s door was just a few feet from the elevator.

The front door was already open, and there stood Bertrand Rosen waiting for her, smiling, his eyes open wide. As she entered the apartment, he seemed pleased, if not incredulous, that she was there. She nodded, walked by him and through the opened door. With her high heels, she was several inches taller than him. She could feel Rosen’s eyes following her, leering she was sure, at the back of her long slim legs and tight skirt.

“Madame Steele, what a pleasant surprise. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Perhaps we could have a glass of wine?” she said.

“
Bien s�r
,” he answered in French as he motioned her to the living room and headed to the kitchen to fulfill her request. She took a quick stroll through as much of the spacious apartment as she could see without causing suspicion. A large, rotund cat rubbed up against her, purring.

“May I use the toilet?” she called out.

After determining that they were alone, she returned to the living room and sat on the long white velvet couch, just as Rosen was entering with two Baccarat crystal goblets of Sancerre. To her surprise, he sat down on the couch too, just close enough to make it clear that he misjudged the purpose of her visit. Perhaps worse, she thought, he had clearly misjudged her.

He motioned as though to make a toast but she ignored the gesture and took a long sip of her wine. But she was certain that Rosen had misjudged again. Looking into her eyes he said, “Don’t be nervous. I’m delighted that you came.”

But she wasn’t nervous. Instead, she took her first sip, then looked around the room and began her mental calculations, assessing the physical surroundings and situation and comparing it to the detailed options she had run through in her mind before arriving.

She placed her glass on the coffee table. Rosen did the same. He looked into her eyes.

She clutched her Louis Vuitton handbag and inserted her right hand inside, gripping the silencer-equipped HK45 handgun, still out of sight from Rosen and, abruptly, stood up. He remained seated, clearly unsure of what was happening. She moved to the other side of the coffee table, thereby putting several feet between them.

“Bertrand,” she said, dispensing with the formalities of French address, “this is not a personal visit. This is business, strictly business. Mr. Nicholas’ business. You have a debt which must be paid.”