Death Never Sleeps (6 page)

“Your brother kept it just in case,” Skinny Lester said almost apologetically.

“Is it registered?” Michael asked. Just as his intuition told him what was in the drawer, he also knew that it was highly unlikely that the weapon he was not about to pick up was registered with the New York City police department.

Neither Lester answered; both just gave him a quizzical look reflecting the absurdity of his question.

“I have to go, guys. I’m supposed to be at Alex’s by eight thirty.” Michael was uneasy but didn’t let it show.

His cell phone rang just as he was leaving. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,
”
the ringtone Michael had assigned for Alex’s calls. Now, Michael thought, the ringtone was no longer cute, but bizarre. Donna must be using Alex’s cell. He quickly flashed back to the last time he heard that ring, when Alex called him in Paris, minutes before the shots rang out.

He put the phone to his ear and heard Donna screaming, “Michael, oh my God. Oh my God. Where are you? Come right away, please … It’s Russell. He’s dead.”

Chapter 9

A
s Michael rushed in his car to Alex’s house, he could see the flashing red-and-blue police lights from blocks away. Donna was hysterical on the phone and with good reason. Once Michael cleared through the initial police blockade, he was quickly waved into the house. Donna nearly collapsed in his arms when she saw him.

“I had just come home from shopping when I saw the front door partly open. I thought maybe you or Russell had gotten here early. I called out but no one answered, and then I saw him on the floor in the kitchen. They shot him with his own goddamned nail gun. Michael, the cops said he had at least thirty nails in him. They tortured him first, and then finished him with two in his head.”

“But why?” Michael was trying to make sense of it. “What’s going on?”

“Someone must have known that Russell knew where the money was. They were trying to get it out of him.”

“But how could they have known that Russell knew about all this?” Michael wondered how someone else was putting all these pieces together. “Did they also know we were all going to meet tonight? I never even told the Lesters I was coming until I got up to leave.”

“The police think whoever was here rushed out the back door when they saw me drive up the driveway. Maybe they figured he’d talk easily, and they could get in and out quickly,” Donna said.

“Do you think they got him to talk? Is anything missing or ripped open?” Michael was scanning the immediate area to see if things were out of place, hoping he would not have to go into the kitchen, where he knew his old friend was still sprawled on the floor, pierced by multiple nails.

“I don’t think so. Nothing seems out of place except the mess in the kitchen.” Donna was clearly distraught, her eyes red and puffy, but she seemed to be gaining control over the trauma of finding Russell’s body.

“Have the police questioned you?” Michael anticipated the complexity of the discussion that might take place once the police began asking questions. He knew Donna could not acknowledge that Russell was coming to the house to uncover the secret hiding places he had built for Alex to hide his cash.

“So far, they’ve only asked who Russell was and why he was in the house. I just said he was a close friend and frequently dropped by, and that the three of us were going to have a drink to reminisce about Alex. They also asked if I had any idea who may have killed him.” Michael was impressed. Donna had explained Russell’s presence with as much of the truth as possible without mentioning the lure of hidden cash.

“They don’t suspect me, do they?” Donna asked.

“Right now, I’m sure they suspect everyone. You just have to stay away from any further questioning until a lawyer gets here. I called Larry Rothberg, my attorney. He’s on his way. Then, we’ll let him handle it and buy time. We need to talk this thing through.”

Michael could see that he was no longer just an observer trying to clean up loose ends. He felt the sensation one gets when stepping over a threshold, one with no safety net and a life-threatening drop below.

“Michael, who’s doing this? What’s going on? I can’t stay here.”

He first thought he should take Donna up to his home in Connecticut but quickly came to his senses. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you a room in the city, at the Carlyle. You’ll be safe there. I’ll hire some security to guard the house and someone to guard you. Whoever is behind all this must be looking for Alex’s cash.”

“Well, that makes two—” Donna hesitated and locked eyes with Michael before continuing, “three of us.”

Michael averted his gaze, as though trying to release himself from Donna’s power. “But I don’t understand why they needed to kill Alex to steal the money. And, what’s most frightening, I don’t know what danger we are in from these people.”

Donna didn’t appear to miss a beat. “I don’t understand what’s going on either, Michael, but I’ve been around enough to know it’s just a matter of time before they get to us.”

Chapter 10

Westport, Connecticut

November 12, 2009

M
ichael and Samantha’s home was a forty-five-minute drive from Queens, over the Whitestone Bridge and then up the Connecticut coastline. Situated along Long Island Sound, Westport was a picturesque Connecticut town with one of those charming main streets filled with little shops and trendy restaurants.

Formerly the home of celebrities like Paul Newman and Martha Stewart, it was fast becoming a suburban hub of hedge-fund headquarters.

“You can spot them around town, the guys wearing baseball hats, blue jeans, and then custom shirts with their sleeves rolled up and thousand-dollar loafers,” Michael would often comment.

The house was a large but unpretentious gray colonial behind a manicured lawn and near the water. It was only a five-minute drive to the beach. High, thick hedges concealed a lush private backyard and a swimming pool covered for the winter.

As Michael drove into his garage and entered his house, he had a sense of stepping from one life and into another, the process of disarming and then rearming the alarm system giving him permission to pass through. Yet he was no longer sure which one he was visiting and which one was home.

During his drive, he had begun to think more about Samantha and how she would feel about his involvement, however temporary, in Alex’s business. He knew he had to bring Samantha up to date on a lot of what he had been doing the past few days. So far, he had been somewhat vague on many of the details. He hadn’t mentioned Russell’s murder to Samantha when they spoke on the phone earlier in the evening. He wondered whether that alone was some sort of transgression, a temporary breach of faith. He decided to tell her tonight, in person.

He knew the murder and its grizzly details would be like a stick of dynamite going off in her psyche. He wondered why it wasn’t equally so for him. Samantha would be highly skeptical—if not petrified—of Michael’s participation in a life he had so adamantly rejected for so long. He was too … or was he?

They had not made love since Paris, but as soon as Michael entered the bedroom and laid eyes on Samantha standing in the black, short sheer negligee she had purchased on the Rue Saint-Honoré, he knew that drought was about to end. The negligee fell to the floor as they collapsed into a passionate embrace. They were on the bed in less than a minute. As Michael watched her below him, he marveled that she could look so good at nearly fifty. But, as crazy as he knew it was, he struggled to stay in the moment and tried not to think about the conversation he knew they needed to have. It was over quickly, neither of them having the patience for leisurely lovemaking.

As Samantha began to cool off, she sat up in bed and pulled her beige cashmere Hermes throw over her shoulders and breasts. “I think we needed that.”

Cautiously, Michael began to recount the last few days’ events including the details of Russell’s murder, Donna’s earlier plea for Michael’s help, and his reluctant consent to do so.

Samantha tilted her head slightly, her mouth dropping open. “Michael, are you out of your mind?”

Before Michael could formulate his response, he saw Samantha’s eyes fixate on the alarm panel near the bed. The series of tiny red lights that indicated the system was armed had turned green.

“Michael, I thought you turned the alarm on when you came in.”

“I did. Those lights were red a few minutes ago.” Michael bolted out of bed, locked the bedroom door, and pushed a large, low dresser several feet so that the door couldn’t be pushed open. In a series of visual flashbacks, he mentally retraced the brutal events of the past few days. “Call 9-1-1.”

But just as Samantha picked up the phone to dial, it rang. Flustered in her attempt to dial out, she answered on instinct, “Hello, who is this?”

“Yes, Mrs. Nicholas, this is your alarm service. We understand there has been a breach. Is everything okay?” The voice was loud and deep; Michael could hear everything from where he stood.

“No, we’re not okay. Send the police. Someone is in our house.” Her voice was cracking.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Nicholas. We’ll be upstairs to help you in just a minute.” Michael could see that Samantha was momentarily comforted, but he then saw a look of confusion on her face.

“Michael, how did he know I was upstairs?”

Michael looked closer at the multiline phone. The numerous buttons and lights showed which telephone lines and extensions in the house were being utilized. A paralyzing chill darted up his spine. A red light was flashing, indicating that the telephone extension in the downstairs library was being utilized. The caller was inside the house.

Michael reached for his cell phone on the bureau near his bed. But before he could press in 9-1-1, a voice seemingly coming from in the bedroom stopped him in his tracks. “Don’t touch that cell phone, Michael.”

Samantha appeared to bolt upright. “Michael, it’s the same guy I just heard on our phone. But where is this coming from?”

Before Michael could answer, the stranger spoke again. “I’m here with you.”

Without moving from where he stood, Michael looked around, his eyes scanning the large bedroom. He looked at Samantha. “He’s not here. There’s no one here.”

The voice echoed through the room again. “Oh, but you’re wrong, Michael. I was here before you moved the furniture against the door. I didn’t want to interrupt your screwing around.” Michael again reached for his cell phone.

“If you want to die right now, go ahead and get your phone. By the way, Samantha, I just loved your little nightgown, although you look even better in that blanket.”

Michael continued to look around the room, unable to find anyone—or anything—unusual. “What do you want? Who the hell are you? Where are you?”

“Where am I? I’m here, Michael. You can keep looking around, but you won’t see me until it’s too late. By the way, I enjoyed the show.”

Michael rushed toward Samantha, taking her in his arms. She whispered closely into his ear, “What do we do?”

The phone rang again. They both stared at it, sitting on the table by their bed, the blinking red light indicating the incoming call. The first ring seemed to last forever. And again there was another red light glowing on the phone panel, indicating that someone was on another line in the house. But this time the call wasn’t coming from the library downstairs. Michael stared in disbelief at the indicator light signifying “Guest Bedroom #1.” The caller was on the second floor, in the room next door, just five feet away from their bedroom.

Michael whispered to Samantha, “But how can he see us in here?” He scanned the room again. Connecting to their huge bedroom was a large bathroom and two dressing rooms. The doors to each of those rooms were open. Four large windows were, as always, obscured by thick fabric drapes behind which were blackout shades. The lighting was soft, coming from the dimmed lamps on either side of their bed and from recessed spot lights, also dimmed, illuminating the several pieces of fine art, mostly fashion photographs, each framed in either black or silver, on each of the white walls.

“I don’t see anyone here—unless they’re hiding in the dressing rooms or the bathroom and peeking in,” Michael said after checking one door after another, looking for movement or, worse, a pair of eyes staring back.

The distinct squeak of a turning brass door handle interrupted their hushed huddle. They both looked at the bedroom door. The shiny gold brass knob, just visible above the dresser, was turning back and forth. “I locked it, but that lock won’t keep anyone out for long,” Michael said. “It’s just to keep little kids out.”

“Oh my God, Michael. Do something, please.”

“We’ve got to take a risk. I’m going for the cell.” Michael broke away from Samantha and headed again toward the bureau where he had left his cell phone. But before he could reach it, all the lights went out. The room turned black. “He’s cut the power.”

As Michael groped in the sudden darkness to find his cell, the stranger’s voice let out a piercing, horrific laugh. It reverberated through the room. Michael finally grasped his cell phone. It was then that he saw the unfamiliar tiny blue light near the floor at the other end of the room.

Chapter 11

M
ichael knew he had to call for help. As he dialed, he whispered into Samantha’s ear, “Check out the little blue light near the bathroom door.” The cell phone keyboard lit up as soon as he hit the 9.

But before Michael could finish dialing 9-1-1, the bedroom phone rang again.

Michael looked at Samantha. Finally, he checked the caller ID. “It’s Fletcher!” he whispered to Samantha as he switched his cell into his left hand and picked up the receiver with his right. Fletcher Fanelli was a close friend and the police chief of Westport.

“I’m two minutes away, but we’ve already got three patrol cars approaching your house right now. Where exactly are you?”

Michael could hear the police sirens in the near distance, and soon the red-and-blue flashing lights were reflecting through the windows and partially opened curtains, creating a light show on the walls. He felt a flush of relief.