Death Logs In (21 page)

She knew it was strange yet all she could think about at that moment was how much she loved her backyard.

Chapter 49

Westport, Connecticut

A
s he searched for her, Rizzo pictured Michael seeing his wife’s body—just before he too was to die, slowly, regardless of what Sharkey wanted. Michael had humiliated him, leaving him nude, handcuffed to his elevator railing, for all his neighbors to see. Now he would pay.

But he couldn’t help wondering what he’d
really
seen on that laptop downstairs. He was anxious to tell Sharkey. How had Alex—no, the computer—known to call out his name? He kept hearing it in his mind, “
Rizzo
, what the fuck are you doing in Michael’s basement?” And how did he know about the wine? It had to be something with a camera—but where was Alex, if it was him at all?

He entered the mahogany, book-lined library. His flashlight traced the numerous books, the leather-framed family pictures. He knew he was in Michael’s private sanctuary.
That’
s his fucking problem, he thought, Michael reads too fucking much. Through the French doors leading from the library to the dining room, he could see the winding staircase leading to the second floor.

He heard footsteps. She was still in the kitchen, the room he had just left. He tightened his grip on the butcher knife. A crack of thunder shook the house, followed by a flash of lightning briefly and bizarrely illuminating the spines of the hundreds of books surrounding him.

He heard her again. He needed to move quickly now, before she could get out of the house or get help. He saw her shape, her shadow, a hint of blonde hair, as she moved through the kitchen and into the mudroom. She’d be through the back door and outside in just seconds. But he knew the house was secluded and the backyard, with its high, thick hedges, was insulated from view to anyone nearby.

He now knew how he’d kill her.

Chapter 50

Rome, Italy

J
oseph Sharkey couldn’t sleep. Sitting in his upholstered chair, looking out at the city, he wondered how he had let Michael Nicholas get under his skin. How had this businessman gotten to him? How had Michael been able to embarrass him, disrespect him? Ten years ago, Michael Nicholas wouldn’t have lived through the week. Yet now, Sharkey sat in his luxurious but lonely room in the Hassler Hotel, forced to flee U.S. authorities because his own trusted crew had been unable to successfully eliminate Michael. And now he was relying on his friends in the Vatican to get to Michael and finish the job. But their “professional,” the guy they had working on it, was too cautious, too slow.

In the meantime, Sharkey would extract some measure of satisfaction for the way Michael had treated him. Samantha Nicholas would soon be dead.

Sipping a limoncello, Sharkey was surprised when the hotel phone by his chair began ringing. It couldn’t be Rizzo; he would only call on the cell phone.

“Joseph, it’s Monsignor Petrucceli.”

Sharkey quickly shifted gears in his head. “Monsignor, what a surprise this late at night. I’m just looking out at the Spanish Steps. It’s so beautiful and peaceful at this hour.”

The monsignor ignored the small talk. “We need to talk. Let’s meet in the second-floor bar downstairs. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Before Sharkey could even protest, Petrucceli had hung up. Maybe something had happened.

___________

The bar was empty. They sat a small, quiet table. Monsignor Dominick Petrucceli looked nervous. “I’ve been asked to provide some information.”

Sharkey jumped on the question. “Information? What kind of information? Who wants information?”

“Never mind
who
. I need for you to tell me again exactly how we reached this point regarding the need to take care of Michael Nicholas.”

“Monsignor, are your people having second thoughts? It’s a little late for that, you know. When you needed something fixed ten years ago in the Bronx, I didn’t come back and ask you for a report, did I?”

“No, you didn’t. But things here are more complicated. There is, as you say in America, a new sheriff in town. The Holy Father sees things a little differently than some of his predecessors. There are new pressures that have come to bear. You read the papers, don’t you? The Americans have been relentless for several years and now the Irish have allowed this whole sexual abuse business to escalate.”

“What does that have to do with me? I’m not one of your clergy and I never abused any kids, remember?” Sharkey’s temperature was rising. “I’m a saint compared to some of your guys.”

“Yes, of course. But your involvement with us, indeed the debt we owe to you, was a result of the indiscretions of our friend, Bishop McCarthy, who, of course, is no longer with us after his unfortunate accident in Connecticut.”

“Listen, Dominick, Monsignor, whatever, you guys needed a favor. A big favor, ten years ago. That bishop abused those kids and they were ready to blow the whistle. I took care of things for you. Now, your new guy with the big hat thinks maybe you guys need to stop protecting everyone. It’s about time. But, let me tell you something, Mister Monsignor, that doesn’t change anything about
our
situation. Do you understand? Because, it wouldn’t be so good for people to find out what I did for you. Do you understand what I’m saying here?”

There was a brief silence before Petrucceli spoke. “Joseph, calm down. Believe me, I understand. I understand better than you think. I just need to answer the questions, to retrace the steps, as to how Michael Nicholas is linked to all of this.”

“He’s not linked to this except that you owe
me
. Do you understand? You owe
me
. Michael’s brother, Alex, and I had a problem. It had to do with one of his wives. Anyway, I did her a favor, out of love, you know. So Alex had an unfortunate end last year. His brother, Michael, now enters the scene. He and I don’t get along. Some associates of mine—a Mr. Bats, Nicky Bats, Lump and a legitimate mortician, Morty—were caught trying to dump Michael in the bay in Queens. Before they did, the New York police caught them. Now, your guy takes care of them in the church basement in the Bronx. So, the only person left who can finger me is Michael Nicholas. Once your guy Speedy Gonzalez takes care of him, I’m home free and I’m on my way back to New York and out of your hair.”

“I see,” Petrucceli answered.

“You see? What do you mean, ‘I see?’ What is that supposed to mean?”

Sharkey could feel his temper gaining control over him. He thought about the sequence of events that made it so necessary that Michael Nicholas suffer and die. It was a little more complicated than the version he had just given Petrucceli. As with most crimes, he thought, there was a woman behind it.

It started with Michael’s brother, Alex, a tough guy, but not tough like the men from the “family” that Sharkey knew. Alex would never kill a guy. It wasn’t his type of thing. No, Alex was an outsider and he was smart. He wasn’t Italian, either. Greek, not really even that. He was born in the U.S. But he ran a good business. Always paid off, on time. Made good on everything. No, it was Greta Garbone, Alex’s ex, that started it all. Sharkey fell for her that night in the bar at Piccola Venezia. She was the one who convinced him to have Alex killed, to hire that kid from South Carolina to shoot him in his old restaurant that night. She figured she’d get a lot of his money. They surely knew the place would be filled with off-duty cops—many of them Alex’s friends—and that the kid would never make it out alive either. Then, when Michael took over Alex’s affairs and wouldn’t give Greta the money she needed from the estate, and secret cash everyone knew he had, she convinced Sharkey to go after Michael too. He didn’t mind that as much since Michael wasn’t like Alex. No, he was a punk. He didn’t grow up in the business. Too straight. Thought he was better than everyone. But Michael had escaped from the clutches of Sharkey’ guys as they were dumping him in Flushing Bay that night. Then, when Sharkey’s men were arrested, they fingered Sharkey. Hence, he had to flee the country and here he was, a secret guest of his old friends in the Vatican, his new protectors.

“Joseph, are you listening?”

Sharkey had tuned out. Back again, he looked up, “Yes, of course. But, Monsignor, you’re making me nervous. When will your man complete the job?”

“Soon, Joseph. Very soon. I assure you.”

“If your man can’t get it done, I may have to take matters into my own hands.”

The monsignor tilted his head slightly, his right eyebrow now raised, “Joseph, be careful, my friend. You are placing yourself in a precarious position. We are on top of this situation. Don’t do anything that could endanger our operation. I am your advocate within the Vatican. You must not jeopardize my own support with the powers above me.”

Knowing Petrucceli was looking for a sign of agreement, Sharkey looked away, his eyes following an attractive woman in a long formal gown crossing the room.

But Petrucceli persisted. “Joseph, you have already given me your word that you will take no action on your own toward Michael Nicholas. You must honor that. Do you understand me?”

Sharkey finally looked back at the monsignor but said nothing, while trying to weigh his options. He knew too well that he didn’t have any. “OK, you have my word. I already told you I will not touch him—”

Petrucceli interrupted. “Nor will you authorize or hire anyone
else
to do so.”

“Whatever. What are you, some kind of lawyer? You have my word. I won’t touch him.”

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you tonight. I have the information I need and I can make my report. There will be no problem. The cardinal needed to answer some questions, and I wanted to refresh my own memory on the facts.”

“There are no facts, Monsignor. Only debts and obligations.” Sharkey smiled. As they stood up to leave, Sharkey wondered if Samantha Nicholas was dead yet.

Chapter 51

Westport, Connecticut

S
amantha looked out into her backyard. The trees were still. A ray of moonlight ever so slightly illuminated the shimmering swimming pool.

And then she heard him. He was right behind her. She bolted forward out onto the patio but, just as she did, she could feel his hand on the small of her back as he grabbed the elastic of her panties. She began to scream, “Help—” but his powerful arm took her around her neck, his hand covering her mouth. Her cell phone and the knife fell to the ground as he lifted her off her feet.

She couldn’t believe his strength. It overwhelmed her. His strong arms held her entire body in place. In a split second, she was overpowered and immobilized. Who was he? She could smell his cologne and liquor. He’d been drinking too, she thought. Then her eyes were nearly completely covered by the pressing flesh of his hands against her face. Any thoughts of a struggle or even a scream were a fantasy. She knew she could never shake his grip. He held her from behind but was forcing her to the left, toward the swimming pool. The water was just a few feet away. She knew his plan.

She was choking for air before she even hit the water, his grip still firm as she went under, her lungs convulsing, desperately seeking whatever air was in her body. Briefly, she was able to bring her head back up, above the water. “We’re almost through, you little bitch,” she heard him say as she felt her body being thrust again below the surface. She knew she had only seconds of consciousness left. She opened her eyes under the water. It was black except for what appeared to be a mass of tiny colored lights, twinkling. She had seen them before, she thought, when she was a little girl and had pressed her fingers against her closed eyes. It reminded her of Christmas lights. Was this what dying was like? Visions of Michael and Sofia flashed before her. Where were they, she wondered? These thoughts had distracted her from her pain; she was no longer choking. No, now she was relaxed. Was it over? Was she waking up from a bad dream—or had she gone over to the other side, the place with the white light?

But as she opened her eyes again underwater, she saw his white pants and a glimmer of light miraculously reflecting onto the partially exposed steel zipper. Her mind was so oddly clear now. She remembered from somewhere about the best way to defend against a male attacker. They were there for the taking.

She reached over through the water and cupped her hand under Rizzo’s balls and squeezed. Hard. Then harder. He released his hold on her, and she shot up to the surface. He was bent over, clearly in pain. She was free.

But before she could even turn away, he pulled up, stood upright in the waist-deep water and pulled out the large kitchen knife tucked under his belt. “You fuckin’ bitch. Now we got to get the water all bloody.”

She tried to swim away, diving into the water away from him, but no sooner had she made her move, she felt his hand tightly grip her ankle, pulling her swiftly back to him. As soon as she reached him, he changed his grip from her ankle to her throat. As she choked and began to feel her life slipping away, she saw him raise the large variegated silver blade in his right hand. She hoped she’d die before she felt it in her.

And then everything turned black. There was nothing to see but she could feel the warm water taking her. For a second, she remembered the feeling of being put to sleep before a surgery; that ever-so-brief split second before the anesthesia made everything go away.

___________

She was on the surface again, her head above the water. He was gone. She waited for him to strike again.

She headed to the edge of the pool and then she felt something in the water brush up against her. She jumped back. A clap of thunder erupted and the sky lit up from a distant bolt of lightning. He was there … his lifeless body on its way to the bottom.

Chapter 52

New York City

C
EOs are just like everyone else. They want to be liked by their boss. Richard Perkins was finally going to meet the one man he was in awe of, Jonathan Goldstein, the chairman and the largest stockholder of Cartan Holdings