Death Logs In (2 page)

“Would these people—the ones who did this thing for you—”

“For
you,
you mean.”

“OK, whatever, would they have any idea that … you and I spoke … or suspect who I am?”

“They’re professionals; they don’t want to know nothing from nothing.”

“Did my brother ever have anyone … you know—” Michael didn’t want to say the word, as though by verbalizing it he would be taking another step closer to where he didn’t want to go.

“Taken out? Ha, you mean ‘eliminated,’ or whatever they call it now?”

“Yes, I guess that’s what I mean. Did he?”

“Not really.”

“
Not really
? What the hell does
that
mean? Either he did or he didn’t.”

There was silence, then finally, “No, he didn’t.”

Michael felt at least a small token of relief. Not enough to wash away his angst over what had occurred. But at least he had a confirmation that his brother had not crossed a line that Michael would have found impossible to reconcile, the same one he himself had apparently, although mistakenly, crossed.

At least he hoped it was purely a mistake. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t find that part of his soul that could shout at him
for certain
that it wasn’t the outcome that he secretly desired.

“Michael, let me say this—he never had anyone iced, but …”

“But, what?”

“He should have.”

“What do you mean, ‘he should have’?” Michael asked.

“He’d be alive today.”

Chapter 3

Westport, Connecticut

I
t all started right after Alex was murdered.

Michael knew that he and Samantha had drifted apart. Maybe it was his decision to take over Alex’s business and the fact that he was home even less than ever now.

Or, maybe it was the elephant in the room: Michael had found his brother again and, although Samantha was aware of some communication with “Alex’s computer software,” as she liked to describe it, she clearly didn’t want to hear any more about it. Whenever Michael tried to open up the issue, she would turn away, accusing him of losing his sense of critical judgment, or something worse.

“Michael, how did this all come about?” Samantha said softly as she turned her attention away from her novel, looking up from her bed, snugly surrounded by her down comforter and soft Frette sheets. Blonde, tan, and fit, she looked a decade younger than her forty-five years.

“Remember right after Alex was murdered, beginning at his funeral, I began getting these strange emails?” Michael said as he sat in his favorite chaise lounge, dressed in his soft, black cashmere sweater, tan although he was slightly chilly despite the evening’s summer heat outside. Their bedroom thermostat was set at sixty-six degrees. They both loved a chilled—if not refrigerated—sleeping temperature; it was a quirk they shared.

“Yes, how could I forget? Someone sent you a picture of Alex on your BlackBerry while the priest was giving his eulogy, for God’s sake. I was hoping you would have dropped this whole artificial intelligence thing by now. Not to mention that your brother wasn’t exactly a computer genius.”

“You’re right, Samantha, but he had the smarts to find odd but incredibly smart techies to figure it out. You’ve got to listen to me. You know Alex was obsessed with his own mortality and he must have read about artificial intelligence somewhere—”

“And he wasn’t much of a reader.”

“No, you’re right again—but he did read when he was on the toilet. But then—maybe from working with these geeks he hired—they came up with the idea of combining the artificial intelligence software with other advances like computer imaging and voice replication and recognition and, somehow, made a breakthrough.”

“Oh, come on. It couldn’t have been that simple.”

“It wasn’t. I told you, they spent hundreds of hours feeding Alex’s history, his reactions to different questions, his voice, his images and his gestures, facial expressions, all kinds of things, into this system and then onto his secret laptop.”

Samantha rolled her eyes. “And who told you about this
laptop
?”

“Alex had a mistress.”

“What a surprise.” Samantha said. “Was this the supposed ‘hairdresser to the stars’?

“Yes, Jennifer Walsh.”

“She does blow jobs—”

“Blow
outs
,” Michael corrected.

“Oh, sorry, I remember her now. You told me about some of this with her but you never gave me the whole story.”

“In the beginning, I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. Jennifer never really understood what it was; she was thinking it was more of a record of his life. Then, as I realized what Alex had actually created, I knew you’d think I was crazy or obsessed or something, so I have avoided bringing it up. But it’s part of what’s separating us now. You have to listen, with an open mind.”

“Michael, I love you but I do think you’re either obsessed or maybe still grieving for your brother in such a way that you just can’t let go, and I’m sorry but I just can’t believe this … fantasy of yours—and neither would you … normally.”

“OK, hear me out. Jennifer contacts me right after the funeral and explains that Alex had this hidden, secret Apple laptop with all this customized software that he’d spent millions of dollars on and that he’d created a ‘virtual Alex Nicholas,‘ a
duplicate
of himself, on his laptop, which he’d hidden from everyone. She then told me where to find it—he’d had a secret compartment built into his closet where he stored it—and she gave me Alex’s password.”

“Michael, I can’t even keep straight what you’ve already told me and what you haven’t. I can’t believe you’re serious. What difference does this make? So what, you’ve got Alex’s old password.”

“It was the last thing I needed in order to find him.”

“In order to
find him?
Michael, you
haven’t
found Alex. He’s dead.”

He knew it was time to show her.

“Samantha, Alex is in our wine cellar.”

Chapter 4

Rome, Italy

“I
am a guest of Monsignor Petrucceli.”

As he observed the reaction on the face of the maître d’, Joseph Sharkey knew that he was still an important man.

He hoped that he was again being mistaken for the actor Christopher Walken; he knew that, behind his back, people had whispered about his uncanny resemblance to Walken, particularly in one of the actor’s more demonic roles. Sharkey cultivated the attention—and the comparison. His pasty, pale skin tone and thick mane of white hair contrasted with his all-black attire.

Dal Bolognese’s rich wood-paneled walls and gold-framed, illuminated paintings reminded Sharkey of the luxurious restaurants he would frequent in New York, when he was in his prime, a “made man.”

While the maître d’ grabbed a menu, Sharkey looked around hoping to catch a glimpse of his imaginary flame, Sophia Loren, whom the hotel concierge had assured him dined there often.

Dal Bolognese was filled with the elite of Rome on this Friday evening. From the deepest depths of his dark soul, Joseph Sharkey believed that he was one of them.

He immediately recognized the tall, young, dark-haired gentleman sitting quietly at his table. Dressed in a black suit and white Roman clerical collar, sipping a glass of Chianti. Monsignor Dominick Petrucceli was the special aide and confidant of the esteemed Holy Cardinal Lovallo.

“Good evening, Joseph.” The monsignor’s English was perfect.

“Yes, Monsignor. It’s good to see you. I was hoping to see the cardinal too.” As he sat down, Sharkey looked around, distracted by the voluptuous women at neighboring tables.

The Monsignor’s face tightened, his voice lower, just above a whisper.

“You’ll meet the cardinal in good time, but surely you understand that, under the circumstances, he cannot be here in such a public setting.”

Petrucceli hesitated, seemingly uneasy, and began again, “For now, I’d like to be sure that we understand your situation so that we can best assist you. The cardinal has instructed me to provide you with all the assistance possible from His Eminency’s offices.”

Sharkey had met periodically with the monsignor as part of his protective arrangement, or, as he thought of it, payback; however, he’d yet to meet the cardinal. His contact with him had been over the phone or through the intercession of the monsignor. He understood now that this was by design.

“I appreciate the cardinal’s consideration, Monsignor.”

Dishes of crumbly Parmesan cheese and rich, marbled red slices of Italian salami were placed on the table. Sharkey’s glass was filled with the deep red Chianti from the monsignor’s bottle. The waiter, an older professional, was deferential to the monsignor but had a more condescending approach toward Sharkey as his eyebrows seemed to arch with disapproval whenever he looked his way.

“Joseph, let’s look at the menu and order. Then we can discuss our business.” Sharkey realized the monsignor wanted to get this over as soon as possible. He took a deep breath and concealed his annoyance. After all, Petrucceli and his cardinal were his only protection from arrest, extradition and an eternity in a high-security prison in Colorado.

The waiter reappeared, smiling and speaking to Petrucceli in Italian.

Once they finished ordering, Petrucceli got back to business.

“Joseph, all of your problems stem from the murder of this Greek-American, Alex Nicholas, and the subsequent kidnapping of his younger brother, Michael, by your associates, who, if my memory serves me correctly, are named Morty, Nicky Bats and Lump. You know, you don’t make Italian-Americans look good with all of this difficulty and with these characters. And may I ask again why you found it necessary to have Alex Nicholas murdered?”

“It was to settle an old score. He screwed his first wife, Greta, out of money in his divorce.”

“And what has that got to do with you?”

“She was a good woman. We became close. She’s gone now, but that’s a long story.”

“I see. And now the brother, Michael? What is your issue with him”?”

“He’s his brother.”

“I understand that but why the need to try and eliminate him too?”

“He screwed Greta out of her rightful share of Alex’s estate.”

Petrucceli sat back in his chair. “And so, here we are.”

“Monsignor, I don’t like this situation myself. I’d like to be home in Brooklyn. But I didn’t lecture the Church when you came to me twenty years ago when your high and holy Bishop McCarthy raped those two kids in his parish. I fixed that problem for you. I put myself at risk. Do you think ‘accidents’ like that are created by the good Lord?”

Petrucceli placed his right hand gently over Sharkey’s arm. “We do not forget our friends. We will fix this problem and have already taken steps in that direction. I have just arranged for the release on bail of your friends with the odd names. They are under our protection at a Bronx parish. They will not represent a threat to you.”

Sharkey tried to relax, closing his eyes.

“They’re gonna testify against me.”

“No, they won’t. Not on this earth, anyway. I promise you.”

But Sharkey never trusted a promise from a man in a collar.

“Allora, here are the three problems which we must solve. First, we have to ensure your three little friends do not testify. Second, you have mentioned this cassette tape that was captured with them and is now in the hands of the New York City Police Department. What exactly is on this cassette, Joseph?”

“Yeah, uh, it alludes to the Michael Nicholas kidnapping.” He cleared his throat and this time looked anywhere in the dining room but at the monsignor. “It may also contain references to some prior, unrelated problems.”

“Joseph, if I’m going to help you, you have to be truthful with me. What ‘problems’ are on the tape?”

“I’ve had to help others—just like I helped your bishop—with their … difficulties. There were some other disappearances, you might say, which I arranged. In those cases, I had my men play a tape to the unfortunate soul, wishing him the best in his new life—a personal ‘going away’ card or message.”

The monsignor rolled his eyes, seemingly to the heavens. “So you recorded such a message for Michael Nicholas, too?”

“Yes.” He paused, put his lips together, rolling them over. “We have to get that cassette tape or I’m screwed.”

“I cannot begin to tell you how ridiculous all this sounds. Nevertheless, we will handle this problem. I am sure we can find friends within that police station who have access to the evidence room.”

“I’m grateful to you and the cardinal. You mentioned three problems. What is the third?”

“The third is that we must eliminate Alex’s brother, Michael.”

For the first time since he entered Dal Bolognese, Joseph Sharkey was a happy man.

“I’m glad to see you finally got religion, Monsignor.”

“Brace yourself, Mr. Sharkey—we are in for a bloody few weeks.”

Chapter 5

Westport, Connecticut

M
ichael opened the heavy oak door to his wine cellar. The customized oak shelves containing hundreds of bottles filled the walls from the floor to the ceiling, casting a soft greenish glow throughout the room. A big, rectangular, black mahogany table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by eight red leather upholstered chairs. It was a beautiful and cozy space.

Soon, Michael thought, Samantha would understand his recent obsession with this room. Yet, despite his excitement, he felt an odd sensation, more like he was entering a tomb.

Samantha was the only person he told about what he’d discovered on Alex’s hidden laptop nine months ago. And tonight, he would finally reveal to her the miracle that he still didn’t fully understand; a miracle that sometimes made him wonder if his life was a dream from which he would awaken.

He sat down and reached under the dining table, pressing a switch hidden on the underside. The recessed ceiling lights slowly dimmed, and a large projection screen began to lower itself from the ceiling simultaneously, unfurling and covering a full wall of wine shelves.

Michael swung open a series of wine shelves, disclosing a sleek, aluminum Apple computer connected to a series of black boxes taking up nearly a third of the wall hidden behind the shelves. Small blue indicator lights were blinking like Christmas lights on the boxes.