Death Logs In (17 page)

His head jerked back ever so slightly, perhaps the recognition on his part that she was not attracted to him or his riches.

“But, of course, it will be paid. Very soon. Of course.”

Something in the exuberance of his smile, a subtle hint of French or male condescension—or perhaps it was just her own intuitive sense from having dealt with people on the edge of desperation—whispered to her that he was lying.

“When exactly will you pay us?” she asked.

“In due time, in due time, my dear.”

Still hidden inside her bag, she placed her hand on the pistol handle and inserted her right index finger into the trigger. “The money is owed now.”

“But, madam, we are speaking of an extraordinary sum of money, over a million euros…”

She cut him off, “Had you won, you would have expected several times that from us—and immediately.”

“Perhaps, you are correct. Nevertheless, I am not in a position to pay you at this moment.” His smile was gone. His expression had turned from amusement to tension, even anger. “How dare you come here demanding money? Who do you think you are? My business is with Monsieur Nicholas, with Michael. Not with you.”

“I’m leaving here with cash, a check or some negotiable instrument which I can take directly to your bank.”

His look was incredulous. “Madame Steele, I suggest you leave my apartment.”

She pulled the gun out of her bag and, with both hands, leveled it at him. If the appearance of the steel black pistol alone wasn’t enough, she was sure the addition of the long silencer convinced Rosen that the threat was imminent and deadly. His mouth opened slightly, his eyes looked back into hers.

“Very well, I will do whatever you want. Or at least, whatever is possible.” His face softened, appearing to relax or, perhaps, it was resignation. “I have little to lose.”

“You have your life to lose,” she said softly, wondering what he meant.

“I have no money, no money at all. And, therefore, perhaps not much life either.”

“Who the fuck are you kidding? You manage billions. Maybe I’m imagining this place,” she looked around at the Louis XIV furnishings, the Matisse and Picasso oils on the walls in their ornate, gold frames, the silk drapes, the large floor-to-ceiling windows. She continued, revving up her own anger, “Your villa in Cannes, your penthouse in New York. A million either way can’t make that much difference to you.”

He looked down, his eyes nearly closed, sad. “I cannot pay you. I’m sorry. I can’t explain it now but it will soon be evident to you, to everyone.”

“That’s not good enough. You think I’m going to believe you?” Motioning toward the large window, she said, “Go over there and open the window.”

He hesitated.

She lifted the gun, aiming it higher now, toward his head. “I don’t think you’re in a position to defy me. Move!”

“Killing me will not get you your money.” His voice was soft, cracking.

“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get it anyway. And we can’t stay in business allowing people to walk away from their debts. Go to the window and open it.”

He shrugged and walked across the large living room to the wall of floor-to-ceiling, square-paned windows, opening two of the large panels. As she stepped several steps closer to him, he turned back toward her. “Are you going to shoot me or push me? What is it that you want?”

She smiled, “Maybe I’ll give you the choice. But what I really want is our money, Bertrand. I would prefer not to kill you but I will if I have to. I think you know that.”

“But, you see, I have nothing to live for,” he said, calmly.

She wondered how that could possibly be. Was this a well-orchestrated bluff by Rosen? Either way, had she exhausted her leverage? No, there was more to this situation, more to Bertrand Rosen than she could figure out at this moment. Perhaps, she thought, she had made her point. He was certainly scared—but, oddly, appeared almost resigned, ready to die. Too ready. She was missing something. Perhaps he was stalling, almost as though he was waiting for something … or someone. Had he pushed a security alarm button without her seeing it? And, if there was any chance he would pay up, there was no point in killing him. Not now, not yet anyway. She’d push just a little harder; she had to find out what he was hiding. Then, she could reevaluate her next move.

The warm air flowed into the room, neutralizing the chill of the air conditioning. She could see a sliver of the steel side of the Eiffel Tower. The fat cat reappeared, purring and rubbing against her leg.

“Give me a portion of what you owe us, write the check right now, or my first shot will cut through your knee. Then, we’ll work up from there.”

He looked at her, laughed and said, simply, “Fuck you.”

It was then that Bertrand Rosen, without even appearing to look, threw himself headfirst out the window. She rushed to the window and looked down just as his body hit the sidewalk. A dull thud carried up the ten floors. She immediately ducked back into the room, took a deep breath, gulped down the remaining wine in her glass, placed the glass in her bag and proceeded toward the door.

But just as she was preparing to turn the polished brass door handle to make her hurried exit, she heard the doorbell ring followed by the sound of a key in the lock—and then saw the handle turn.

How the hell could anyone possibly get up here so fast
, she thought. Her mind was racing, she had seen that the sidewalk was empty when his body hit, so whomever it was, they had to have been on their way up
before
Rosen went out the window. They think he’s here.

As the lock was turning, she ran several feet in the opposite direction from the entry hall and into what appeared to be a coat closet. She tucked herself securely inside, leaving the door ajar an inch or so. As she again gripped her gun, she hoped the person entering was not the maid.

She watched from her perch as the front door swung open. It was a woman but she couldn’t get a good look at her face. “Bertrand, are you home? It’s me. Are you on the phone? Bertrand?”

Steele knew the voice. All too well. Her heart racing, she watched as Samantha Nicholas cautiously entered the apartment, leaving the front door open as she proceeded down the long hallway to the living room on her left. And just as Samantha entered the room, Steele silently slipped out the front door, calmly removing her high heels and walking quickly yet silently down the ten flights of the building’s ornate circular stairway.

Her high heels back on and clicking loudly now on the black and white marble floor, she exited the empty lobby. As she walked out the doors and stepped onto the sidewalk, she turned to her left, away from the direction from which she had arrived twenty minutes earlier and from the small group of men huddled over a body on the sidewalk to her right.

Chapter 39

Westport, Connecticut

M
ichael watched as Fletcher Fanelli took a heaping portion of the fried calamari and dipped his warm garlic bread with its melted mozzarella cheese into the bowl of Mario’s famous red marinara sauce.

“I can do my daily duties as police chief in this town in about two hours. Our crime consists of shoplifting from Walgreens and a couple of DUIs each week. Once a year, a bunch of punks might travel up Route 95 from the Bronx figuring they can rob what looks to them like the ‘small-town’ Bank of America branch and then get back on 95 and return home with their loot. Just as often, one of my guys picks them up for speeding on their way out of Westport, making us look like J. Edgar Hoover.”

“I know, since your promotion, you’ve seemed less excited about things. It’s like something went out of you. Yet, you’re the youngest police chief in the town’s history. You should be pumped.”

“The odd thing about my promotion is that now I’m bored to death. Half the time I’m working on budgets or appearing in front of some half-asleep committee. I’m frustrated and I don’t have the patience for the town’s politics. I guess I’m itchy for a little danger.”

“Listen, I really need your help with this, but I don’t want to put your career in jeopardy.”

“I’m not taking any greater risk with my career than you are with yours. I didn’t get into police work because I wanted to clean up the world. I became a cop because it was a good job, they were hiring and it paid well. I plan on remaining chief for a few years and then starting my own private security firm. In the meantime, as long as we’re reasonably careful, I’m going to help you as much as I can and if I can make some extra cash doing it, it gets me where I want to be even faster. Angie spends it quicker than I can make it.”

“OK then. It’s nice to have someone besides Sindy watching my back.”

“I have to be honest with you, that woman scares the shit out of me.” Fletcher was afraid of very little in life. He sipped his Manhattan and looked around the restaurant at the early dinner crowd. “And now Bertrand Rosen lands on the sidewalk.”

Michael frowned, “Fletcher, I hate to admit it, but she scares the shit out of me, too. But I’m not sure exactly how to deal with it. She swore to me she didn’t push him. She went there to threaten him. She was shocked when he jumped out the window.”

“So, she had nothing to do with it? It was just a coincidence that this guy with an incredible life decides to just commit suicide while, of all people, bingo, Sindy just happened to be visiting his apartment?”

“Life is full of coincidences. I only said—that
she
said—she didn’t push him. She threatened him with her gun, told him to open the window, gave him a choice, asked him again for at least some partial payment and then he said ‘fuck you’ and jumped out the window.”

“Oh yeah, that’s very different. Don’t forget she first said she hadn’t touched that bishop either, or was it just that she left him hanging?” Fletcher sat back, laughing. “You must be in pretty deep with her.”

Michael looked away, sighed, and said, “Deeper than I should be.”

“Listen, what you do with her privately is none of my business. I don’t care who you’re screwing around with. It’s murder that I’m worried about.”

Fletcher went silent as Mario’s owner, Tiger, pulled up a chair. “So what are you two rocket scientists up to?”

Michael answered, “Samantha’s in Paris with Angie, shopping.”

“Are you two crazy? You guys are strange. Next time, why don’t you just give them an expenses-paid trip to the Short Hills Mall or something like that? Paris, Christ almighty.”

Before Fletcher or Michael could answer, everyone’s eyes moved to the front door of Mario’s, which had just swung open. Chambers Galore, the famous ’70s porn star and Westport native, accompanied by two younger versions in cut-off shorts and sneakers, walked in, tanned, toned and giggling, and approached the bar. Tiger squinted through his glasses and rose up from his chair, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

Chapter 40

Westport, Connecticut

I
t was time to ask Alex again—the question no living person could answer.

Michael continued to be astonished at his brother’s growing mental capacity—especially his reasoning and judgment. It was unquestionably Alex except—instead of the slight but steady deterioration of his mental capacity with his advancing age and the effects of unrestrained alcohol and tobacco use had he lived—now his mind seemed to get sharper each time they spoke. He knew he needed to engage Alex’s help in tracking the people trying to get to him, but this was, after all, the biggest question of all.

“Alex, one time I asked you what it was like to be dead. You said you just didn’t have enough information to answer at that point. But you’ve really grown over the past year. This is nothing like when we first started to speak after, you know, you were killed.”

Alex looked back at Michael. His mannerisms were precisely as he remembered him in life, no matter how many times Michael saw him on the screen. It was still uncanny. “The system was designed to learn as it acquired more information and input. I told you, I’d eventually be smarter than I really was in life. And that’s not easy.”

Michael could see a new vibrancy, a spirit, in Alex’s face that he had not seen for many years, perhaps before the inevitable disappointments of life and the stresses and wear from his three loopy wives.

“It’s almost like I’m on drugs, on steroids. It feels good. I think I’ve finally got all the alcohol out of my system. Although I must admit, I miss a drink at times.”

Michael paused and looked back at Alex. “Alex, what’s it like? What’s it like to be dead?”

Alex stared straight ahead then shut his eyes. Now he looked to be in pain or just lost in thought. Perhaps this question, Michael thought, required an extraordinary amount of time for Alex to assimilate, or compute. He worried; had he overstressed Alex, or the software? Was the gravity of the question an overload?

But Alex came to life. His eyes opened wide. “I don’t feel dead. I’m not dead. I feel like I did before but, it’s different in some ways. There’s no time.”

Michael could feel something happening. He felt a wave of something, a surge of feeling, of emotion, pass through him. “What do you mean, ‘no time’?”

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s different though. It’s like time stands still. Or there is no time. Without it, everything’s different. It’s like I know what I did yesterday, I know what I’m doing now, but I also know what I’m doing tomorrow. Except, there really is no breakdown of time like that. It’s all one, although it’s not like I can tell you which horse is going to win the Preakness.”

“That’s too bad.” But as intriguing as Alex’s last comment was, Michael had bigger questions on his mind.

“Alex, is there a God? I mean, have you met him—or her? Have you seen
anyone
? Another person?”

Michael wasn’t sure himself whether he was being serious or joking. He knew the entire situation was surreal yet it was happening. His brother was on this computer screen and they were carrying on a conversation much like they did before Alex left this earth. Except for the subject matter.

“Is there a God? How the hell do I know if there’s a God?” Alex looked at Michael with the sarcastic expression he would often show when he wondered if someone was simply crazy. He was agitated. “I exist because you see me. I’m not here until I hear from you. Yet things seem to go on. But, it’s not like there’s some hotel up here that I’m staying at with people and angels—and Saint Peter’s not at the front desk.”