Death Logs In (19 page)

It was typical Donna, he thought. One minute asking serious questions and the next, laughing them off. He made a mental note to check her medicine cabinet for OxyContin the next time he went to her house.

“No, come on, that’s not what I meant at all. Listen, I went to the cemetery today with the two Lesters. Cemeteries never meant much to me but they wanted to go. It’s funny how these two guys are so sentimental.”

Donna interrupted, “You’re trying to tell me that Fat Lester of all people is sentimental? Michael, that guy doesn’t even think. He just grunts and eats. Jesus. And Skinny Lester, I mean, he’s supposed to be some kind of genius. Alex thought he was so smart. He looks to me like some old, drugged-out, burned-out hippie. These two were Alex’s groupies—his male ones anyway.”

Michael could see he would have to fight to keep the conversation on point.

“Maybe I thought the same about both of them too until I started working with them on a daily basis. But Skinny Lester
is
very smart. He’s a genius at assessing odds. If he was twenty-five, he’d be at Goldman Sachs trading derivatives. Anyway, he’s smart. And Fat Lester is a gruff, tough guy on the surface but, you know, that works well in this business. No one wants to cross him. People pay their debts knowing he’s around. The reality is he’s almost harmless. He’s a softie underneath—most of the time. And he really misses Alex. Don’t forget, he had no other friends.”

Donna’s eyes were wandering.

“OK, let me get back to what I started to say. While we were at the cemetery, Father Papadopoulos drives up.”

Donna broke in again. “Do you remember, at my wedding reception, how he came in his big robes and hat and all that, and put his hand on Alex’s shoulder while Alex was eating. Which, by the way, was his first mistake. That’s like messing with the dog when he’s eating. Anyway, he said something to Alex like, ‘God bless you son.’ It was pretty funny. Alex, he’s still swallowing, puts his fork down and turns to look over his shoulder at him—this Holy Father, you know—and said, ‘Get your fucking hands off my shoulder.’ You could hear a pin drop. I thought my parents—and yours—were going to die. It was funny, though. Alex had no patience for pompous people.”

Michael had to laugh. “Yeah, it was classic Alex. I guess it’s what we all loved about him—but what was also frightening at times. He was brutally honest.”

“But you were always different, Michael. You were more respectful. I think in some ways your brother always admired that about you.”

“Maybe, who knows?” Michael had exhausted any further desire to reminisce. “Father Papadopoulos took me aside and said he’d spoken to you. He said you had concerns about whether Alex was really dead.”

She seemed to be taken aback. “Michael, please. Yes, I did speak with him and I brought up that question. I was confused. Maybe I just wish, in my heart, that he somehow really was still alive. I know it’s crazy. I’d just spoken to a bunch of his old cronies after, you know, that birthday party that they just had for him. He wasn’t there, of course.”

Michael interrupted, “
Who
wasn’t there?”

Donna was getting frazzled, “I meant Alex—the birthday boy—wasn’t there. Jesus, I was kidding, Michael. Lighten up, will you? This is like talking to your brother. I loved him—some of the time—but he was a pain in the ass. Especially if he’d had a drink or two. Or ten.”

“So what was the rest of your conversation with Father Papadopoulos?”

“As I was saying,” she continued, rolling her eyes, “I told him that some of Alex’s friends thought it was spooky how you, his straight little brother, who less than a year ago didn’t know how to buy a fucking lottery ticket, was now running Alex’s business without skipping a beat. Forget about the fact that you’ve made it even bigger than Alex could ever have imagined.”

“Yeah, so what was the point? I mean, where were you going with it? Do you think I had a brain transplant or something or that we really dug Alex back up from the grave? Or, that somehow, we faked his shooting and death in front of a restaurant half filled with cops that night?”

“No, of course not. But one of the guys at dinner mentioned that Skinny Lester had talked about that computer that Alex had hidden. The Apple with that ‘live forever’ software or something on it.”

“You mean the ‘artificial intelligence’ software?” Michael corrected.

“I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this myself. I think the priest got a little offended or, at least, annoyed. After all, he’s the one who gave the eulogy. He buried him, for God’s sake. You know, this whole artificial or virtual life thing, I had the feeling from him that it’s like we were messing in his area or something. Frankly, he and Alex never got along. As I was saying, Alex never really liked priests.”

As the waiter placed a seemingly delicate, paper-thin veal cutlet parmigiana sitting atop a delicate tomato sauce on the table, the restaurant erupted to the music of Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl.” It was Michael’s BlackBerry ring tone for Samantha. Looking at the phone and then Donna, he said, “Excuse me. I wouldn’t take this except it’s Samantha.”

“Send her my love,” Donna graciously offered.

He pressed the “Accept” button and, turning away slightly from Donna, put the phone to his ear. His wife’s voice was low, she was whispering, or, was she crying? Michael knew something was wrong, very wrong.

Chapter 44

Florence, Italy

C
ardinal Angelo Lovallo and Monsignor Dominick Petrucceli shared many secrets together; none more damning than their relationship with Joseph Sharkey.

After an exhausting day of academic meetings examining the spiritual implications of Brunelleschi’s dome, Cardinal Lovallo looked forward to enjoying a quiet evening with his confidant, and eating the classic Florentine, charcoal-grilled steak at his favorite restaurant, Trattoria Omero, tucked inside an old stone farmhouse high up in the dark hills overlooking Florence.

He sipped his glass of 2004 Antinori Nobile di Montepulciano and listened as the young monsignor recounted in painful detail the “accidental” deaths years ago of the young men who were about to testify against the pedophile Bishop McCarthy; the murders of Morty, Nicky Bats and Lump in the basement of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church; the garage hanging of the esteemed Bishop McCarthy; and, now, the aborted attempts to kill Michael Nicholas. But he took comfort as he looked out the trattoria’s tall windows at the lights twinkling in the hills and the city of Florence. He inhaled the aroma of the steaks searing over the open charcoal oven nearby.

The cardinal spoke, his eyes still gazing out at the black hills, his mind seeming to drift to another time, “Dominick, it was here, very close to this trattoria, that the Church, Pope Urban VIII, banished Galileo for promulgating the theory that the Earth revolved around the sun. It was heresy at the time. He lived here under house arrest for ten years until his death.”

The cardinal paused, his attention shifting to another thought. “Dominick, when will this be over?” he finally said, speaking softly in between bites of his first course, a golden, quill-shaped pasta in a rich red meat sauce.

Petrucceli appeared momentarily confused over the question, then answered, “Soon, I believe. We must consummate the mission regarding Michael Nicholas. He has been unusually elusive or fortunate so far. Mr. Cortese had expected to be back in Rome by now. I won’t burden you with those details.”

“I can imagine, Dominick. I can only imagine.” The cardinal was tired; he was worried about this matter but he was hesitant to show Petrucceli how deeply it troubled him.

Petrucceli continued, “Frank just followed him into a Queens cemetery, but it appears that divine providence stepped in and, of all things, a Greek Orthodox priest unexpectedly presented himself, joining Nicholas and his friends, again making the assignment too risky to complete.”

“Yes, my friend, the last thing we need in all of this mess is trouble from the Greeks. They are almost irrelevant—even in Greece—yet they believe the heavens are their exclusive domain.”

The waiter placed a sizzling steak for two on the table, swiftly dividing it between the two clerics’ plates. No words were exchanged; he nodded and went about his business.

“Tonight, Dominick, I feel all of my seventy-two years, perhaps more.” The cardinal could see his young protégé watching him. He wasn’t sure if what he sensed was fatigue—or fear.

“Angelo, you are like a father to me. Please, I have a difficult question. You need not answer it if you are uncomfortable.”

“What is it, my son?” the cardinal asked, but he knew. He knew the question that was coming. He could read it on Petrucceli’s face.

“Are you concerned that, as we proceed with what we believe to be the work of the Church, that, maybe, the times have changed, that, more to the point, perhaps the Holy Father seeing this change has altered his position? Perhaps, he no longer believes that men—men like Bishop McCarthy—need to be protected for the good of the Church. And if that is so, then all that we are doing to shield Sharkey and his crimes may no longer be valued by our Pope. All of these nasty deeds which I have just described to you—and the forthcoming elimination of Michael Nicholas—all of this has been done to pay back and protect Sharkey, who did us a favor by eliminating those unfortunate boys that McCarthy abused, and to protect him from arrest and exposure which would come right back to the Church.”

His protégé had spoken his worst fears for him; its implications seared through to the pit of his chest. Angelo Lovallo sat back in his chair, as though simply taking a break from his meal.

“My son, I don’t think there has been a substantive change. I am privy to many internal discussions, as you know. The pressures on Leo are enormous. Nothing is hidden from the eyes of the masses today. It is a different world. Our Pope must adapt on some level.”

Petrucceli lowered his voice to a whisper. The cardinal struggled to hear him and moved in closer. “He has met now with victims, he’s accepted the resignations of the bishops from Miami and Dublin. More are to come. Are you not concerned that our actions now, should they ever come to light, may no longer be quietly sanctioned by the Holy Father? Is it possible that we are alone in this endeavor?”

The cardinal reached across the table and gently grasped the younger man’s arm.

“Dominick, we are never alone. We are doing God’s work. As in war, actions are acceptable which would not be proper in peacetime. So it is today, with us. The Church is under siege—spiritually, morally, financially, socially—and extreme measures have to be undertaken. It is normal, it is right to question. But our mission is a holy one and it is understood at the very highest level. I promise you, my son.”

With that, the cardinal released his grip, lifted his knife and fork and proceeded to finish his steak. “So what is the latest news on our plan to remove Mr. Michael Nicholas from this world?”

Monsignor Petrucceli’s face brightened. “The New York Yankees will be playing the Boston Red Sox over the American Memorial Day weekend coming up. Michael will be attending the game, sitting in the box his brother Alex owned for years. It will be the season finale for him.”

The cardinal listened and sighed, “It’s a blood sport, this game of baseball, isn’t it, Dominick?”

Chapter 45

Westport, Connecticut

L
eaving Mario’s, Samantha waved good-bye to Angie and breathed in the unusually cool air of the late August evening. It was eerie weather, she thought, just before a storm. A major thunderstorm had been predicted for later in the evening. Samantha had just enough to drink to enjoy a buzz and still be able to safely drive home, just across the narrow little bridge over the Saugatuck River inlet.

As she approached the house, she was thankful to be getting inside before the storm. She wondered, as she did on so many nights now, if Michael would be joining her, or, would she be spending the evening alone. Until a year ago, when Alex was shot dead and Michael entered his brother’s world, Samantha and Michael spoke constantly, each knowing exactly where the other one was almost at any given hour. It was different now. They were together only by accident or for carefully orchestrated trips abroad.

She thought back to her dinner in Paris with Michael, Bertrand Rosen and Sindy Steele. It was then that she knew for sure that Steele had entered her marriage. Now, Steele had become a constant presence in Michael’s life. Was Michael in love with this woman or was she a convenient, attractive and available mistress? But Samantha knew one thing for certain: she needed to deal with it—and that loomed over everything.

___________

As she lay in her bed in the large house, she could hear the repetitive crack of the thunder, still far in the distance. The bedroom was dark except for the flashes of light preceding each clap of thunder, erratic strobe-like sparks bringing a brief but crisp clarity to the bedroom, the empty bedroom.

Tonight she hoped that she would hear the soft rumble of the automatic garage door opening, the brief buzz of the burglar alarm and then feel Michael’s presence, distant though it had become, in their bed.

She turned over in the bed, but her thoughts began to win over her desire to sleep. She remembered the terrific bottle of very fine aged cognac sitting on the table in their wine cellar. She got up from her bed, turned on the lights and headed downstairs.

The door to the basement steps was slightly ajar; Michael always closed it, she habitually left it open. She must have been the last one to go down there, although she was unsure how that could be given Michael’s regular trips down there for wine … or to “play” with his computer.

No sooner had she reached the bottom of the steps, the power went out. Despite its rich-town reputation, Westport seemed to be losing power with each snowstorm, hurricane or thunderstorm. She only had several feet to go to reach the wine cellar, simply grab the bottle of cognac and head right back to the bedroom where they had stored the candles and flashlights.