Death Logs In (3 page)

Michael began typing on the Mac’s silver and white keyboard. He clicked on the icon, a tiny, gold, ancient Greek cross. As he did, he thought of Bob Dylan’s song, “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.”

As Samantha entered the cellar, Michael watched her eyes widen, scanning the room.

“Oh my God, Michael, what is this? I know you had all this work done down here—but why do I get the feeling that this is more than just converting our wine cellar into a home theater or whatever I’m looking at?”

“Just keep watching,” Michael said as the lights dimmed and a blue color filled the giant screen. Michael had plugged his laptop cable into an outlet under the table and was typing in a password.

Suddenly, the blue screen changed. A series of broken images, faces, flashed across the screen; some looked familiar to Samantha.

“What’s going on? What are you doing?”

He said nothing, his attention focused on the laptop keyboard as he continued to type.

Samantha stared at the screen as her former brother-in-law, Alex Nicholas, appeared, larger than life, on the screen.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Alex is dead. What is this?”

Alex, looking tan and healthy, if not fully alive, stared back at them both, smiling, his face lifelike and animated as though this were simply a video conference coming from another location, not the afterlife.

Michael wondered how Alex could possibly have gotten a tan, a thought so bizarre he decided to just let it go.

Samantha looked at the screen and called out, “Alex? Alex?” She turned away from the screen and looked directly at Michael, “Who—what—is this?”

Alex looked out from the screen, his expressions just as they had been in life. He appeared to be amused, as he so often used to be while watching Samantha. His eyes followed her. “Why’s she talking about me as though I’m not here? Is this your worst nightmare, Samantha? By the way, when are you finally going to invite me to dinner, especially since I’m right downstairs now? Where the hell am I? Is this your wine cellar? You know I don’t like wine. I hope you’ve got some Dewar’s in here somewhere—”

Samantha turned away from the screen, her face appeared stricken, she spoke right over Alex, as though he wasn’t present. Michael could no longer hear him as he turned his attention to her.

“I don’t understand this. It’s unbelievable, and not in a good way. Something’s wrong here; this isn’t right. I just can’t believe what I’m seeing. Actually, I don’t
know
what I’m seeing.”

“It’s no trick. Those guys that looked like they were teenagers who were working down here last month were actually big-deal tech consultants. They improved what Alex’s tech guys had set up before he was murdered; it’s a breakthrough combination of artificial intelligence, computer imaging, and voice replication and recognition technology. Samantha, you and I are the only ones who really know about this. I only let the guys who worked on it see the parts they needed to deal with.”

Alex began to laugh, his image filling the screen with a wry smile. “I may be dead, but I can hear everything you’re saying. I hate it when you talk as though I’m not in the room.”

Samantha looked back at Alex, then back at Michael. “I’m sorry, Michael. But I’m not about to talk to this … whatever it is,” she said as she pointed to the screen.

Alex grinned, his eyes following Samantha. “You know, this isn’t that much different from real life, Samantha. You barely talked to me anyway.”

Michael, addressing both Samantha and Alex, said, “Listen, this is a lot—for both of you.”

Samantha looked at Michael, her voice now rising to nearly a scream. “For
both
of us? Michael, are you crazy? There’s only you and me in this room. You, me, and a pile of computer equipment.”

Michael put his hands out, both palms up, as though to say, stay calm. “OK, just hear me out, let me finish. This technology is moving so fast.” He turned to face Alex. “You’ve been enhanced with new vision and facial expression analysis software, more powerful than what you originally had installed—before, you know, you died. This will—supposedly—allow you to read other people’s faces and then, to some degree at least, understand more than just the words that they speak. And, we’ve added emotion-sensing software.”

Alex looked lost. “I wish I had that when I was alive,” he said.

“Yeah, it’ll be good for you. Maybe with that, your next marriage will last a little longer. We’ve also installed Bluetooth wireless capability. The consultants aren’t even sure what it’ll do here, but they said it’s worth experimenting with. We haven’t had a chance to play with that yet.”

“Christ, I’m worn out already. Next thing you’ll be sending me to some fucking gym to work out.”

Michael looked straight into Alex’s eyes. “To be honest, we don’t know exactly what you’re capable of at this point. It’s a little frightening. With all the data you had loaded in while you were alive, and the new programs we’ve added—along with all this powerful new equipment—we’re in unchartered waters.”

Samantha stood still, looking paralyzed as she watched Michael and Alex parrying back and forth. She shook her head and turned to leave the room. “I’m sorry. This is too much for me.”

“I’ll be up in just a minute,” Michael said as Samantha disappeared out of the cellar and up the stairs. “Let me finish up with Alex,” he said now to the empty room and to his virtual brother on the screen. Michael understood the near-comedy of his words.

Alex looked at Michael. “She’s not
my
wife, but you’ve got to loosen her up.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Michael said. “You’ve got two—three now—ex-wives and you want to be my new marriage counselor?”

“I only have two ex-wives.”

“Oh, you’re right, just two divorces—and now you have a widow.”

“A widow doesn’t count as an ex-wife.” Alex looked serious.

“For most guys that die, it does.”

“Well then, maybe I don’t have a widow. How many widows’ husbands do you talk to?”

“
Donna
thinks she’s a widow.”

“She wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box.”

“That’s true. Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t have married her.” As he said it, Michael wondered whether he’d gone too far. Nevertheless, Alex seemed to be comfortable with the give and take. Michael decided to leave his brother’s choice of wives alone for now.

For a moment, everything seemed to stand still. Alex’s facial expression changed; he looked serious, if not strained. “Michael, I’m worried about you.”

“About me? What do you mean?”

“Well, we know that Sharkey was behind my murder. He’s the one that hired that kid to shoot me, and he had those three idiots try and make you a concrete anchor at the bottom of Flushing Bay. He still needs to get rid of you. I told you, this guy Frank is on his way to kill you. I’m trying but I can’t get anything more on him. How’s your security?”

“Not good, not yet anyway. Don’t forget, I have a ‘day job’ too. How do I explain to the Gibraltar corporate people that I need bodyguards without bringing more attention to this side of my life?”

“They already know about the attempts on your life, and they assume it’s because you’re my brother. They don’t know you’re running my business now. Have the cops said anything about capturing Sharkey?”

“Not really; there’s all kinds of warrants out for his arrest, but they’re not sure where in the world he is now. I can’t exactly tell them that
you’re
sure he’s somewhere in Rome.”

“Well, he is and well-protected and hidden by the Vatican. I can’t get his exact location. He’s been silent lately. “

“We’ve got to find him. As long as he’s alive, Samantha and I will never be safe.”

“And what do we do when we find him?”

“We turn him over to the authorities.”

“What greater authority is there—especially in Rome—than the Church?”

“I thought you were an atheist.”

“Yeah, atheism is easy when you’re young. Not so much when you’re dead though.”

“You’ve got a point there.” But Michael was just beginning to digest Alex’s comment.

“I wish I was still in Queens. But this isn’t bad …” Michael noticed that Alex’s eyes looked away, “…although I’m not crazy about being in the basement or whatever you call this.”

“It’s a wine cellar.” Michael said.

“Yeah, but it’s still underground. I went to a lot of trouble not to be in the ground.”

___________

As he came up the stairs from the basement, Michael wondered what would await him. He knew Samantha was upset. He could see the bedroom door was open—which was, perhaps, a good sign. But before he reached the door, he could hear her voice; she was on the phone. He paused several feet away but out of sight, and listened.

“Angie, I am so scared. You won’t believe what I just saw in our basement.”

Angie Fanelli was Samantha’s best friend.

“No, Ang, I didn’t finally check the freezer and find the body of that nanny I fired several years ago. This is serious.”

“No, it’s not about Michael. It’s about Alex.”

Chapter 6

New York City

I
t was by accident that Michael had first seen her.

About a year ago, the night before his speech and Applegarden’s murder, he passed her in the lobby of the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills. He remembered her because of her striking good looks; she was exceptionally tall and fit.

Was this the woman he now saw before him? She reached out to shake his hand.

“Mr. Nicholas, Cynthia Scotto, I’m a financial reporter for the
Financial Times
. I heard your speech last year in L.A. and I’m doing a follow-up article.”

Michael recalled his conversation with Karen, who said Scotto had called the day before and, due to an urgent deadline, pleaded for an appointment to interview him, promising a positive story.

“Ms. Scotto. It’s so good to meet you.” Michael looked into her cold grey eyes.

“Please, it’s Cynthia—actually Sindy with an S—and I’m delighted to finally meet you. I must say, your speech took a lot of guts.”

“First, please call me Michael. I guess I did cause a lot of uproar. I’m just glad I had the opportunity to speak my mind about all the damage these hedge funds and some of these Wall Street types are doing to good companies and the people in them.”

“Well, the press certainly loved it. You’ve become a celebrity at the
Financial Times
.”

He motioned toward a chair around the coffee table. “Please, have a seat.”

She sat down while he seated himself on the chair across the table, opposite her.

“And then to have your chairman die in his sleep that night at the hotel. That must have been quite a shock.” She stared into Michael’s eyes; her smile had disappeared.

“It was a tragedy, no question,” he said, now slightly troubled.
Financial Times
reporters didn’t typically venture into the more human or sensational topics.

“Yet, as tragic as it was, it did open the door for you to move into his position.”

“I hope this interview—and your story—will be about the substance of the business issue I spoke about and not the more unfortunate passing of our former chairman.”

“Of course, anyway, we’re not even on the record yet, as they say. Believe me, we’ll move on soon.”

He didn’t want to acknowledge that he may have remembered her from the hotel the night before his speech but he was still curious to find out if it was really her. “So I hope—besides my speech—that you had a chance to enjoy L.A. while you were out there.”

“Oh, I did. I’ve spent a lot of time on the West Coast, before I was a reporter.”

“I’m curious, where does the
Financial Times
put up a reporter in L.A. on a trip like that?”

“Nowhere special, I can assure you. But I did get out to some of the hot spots and restaurants while I was there. I had a few really great dinners on that trip.”

“I’m always interested in new restaurants. Where’d you eat?”

“Well, neither of them is new, but they’re both excellent. I had sushi at Matsuhisa on La Cienega.”

“I love Matsuhisa, actually there’s a little place in Westport called Matsu that, I think, is right up there.”

“I’ll have to get out to Westport, it seems all you financial types live there… I also had a business dinner at the Belvedere, the night before your speech.”

“Isn’t that the restaurant in the Peninsula?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact—and what a gorgeous hotel. I wish they’d put me up there. I’ll bet the rooms are beautiful.”

He knew for sure now that she was the woman in the lobby, but something was wrong about her. Michael had been interviewed hundreds of times over the years; he’d learned to quickly read a reporter’s personality. She didn’t fit the
Financial Times
mold. She was much too social, too chatty. She was either trying to lull him into a false sense of security, or she was someone else. But Karen had checked out her credentials before confirming the appointment.

“May I ask, how long have you been with
FT
?”

She hesitated; he could see her thinking about her response.

“I haven’t been honest with you. My name is Sindy Steele, and I’m not a reporter.

“OK … who are you?”

“I’m the woman who’s going to save your life.”

“I didn’t know my life was in danger.”

“Dick Applegarden didn’t die of sleep apnea, whiskey and Ambien.”

This can’t be happening, Michael thought. He knew he needed to sound firm, confident, despite the feeling that his world was imploding.

“I beg your pardon—”

But now
she
appeared confident, sure of her ground.

“He was murdered.”

“What do you mean? How’s that possible? They did an autopsy; the coroner determined it was—”

“I know what the authorities said. They’re overworked and not always the brightest crayons in the box.”

“And how would
you
know this?” he asked.

“My business is security. I’m a bodyguard, Michael. I’ve protected some very high-profile, very vulnerable people.”

“But how do you know anything about Dick Applegarden’s death?”