Death Logs In (27 page)

“I wouldn’t want to cross her, I’ll tell you that.” Fat Lester added, looking at his cousin to be sure everything was OK.

“Well, listen guys. I trust you, and I trust your judgment on people. There’s going to be a lot happening over the next few weeks. I need for you to keep an eye out for Samantha for me. I want you guys to stay as close to her as you can when I’m not around. At some point—probably right after Labor Day—I’ll be out of the country.”

“Going to our Paris office or with your suits?” which was how Fat Lester referred to Michael’s corporate world.

“A little of everything, including vacation. Samantha will join me in the South of France. But first, I may do some Sharkey fishing …”

Despite the personal turmoil, Michael felt good about Tartarus and now had no doubts about his ability to take his brother’s business to new heights.

“Well, it looks like we’re all making some money. I think we just had a great quarter,” Michael said, adding for Fat Lester’s benefit, “A great three months.”

“Yeah, man,” Skinny Lester said. “I’ve never seen anything like the last several months. And the receipts coming in from Paris are damned good, too. Even with Rosen not paying,”

Fat Lester finally put his fork down and said, “I’ve gotta tell you, I never thought we could make money off the Frenchies. I thought they just read books, drank wine and chased women. The last part’s OK.”

“They’re all so serious.” Skinny Lester added. “I mean they’re snobs. They go to the opera and the theater. That’s all good but they take everything so seriously. I don’t think they have a sense of humor. They don’t ever laugh.”

“I hear they read a lot of those foreign-language books,” Fat Lester chimed in before wiping his dish clean with a piece of bread. “They also watch those foreign films with the subtitles.”

With a perfectly straight face, Skinny Lester said, “Lester, the films with the subtitles are probably American films in English, they’re not really foreign.”

“Yeah, I know. They don’t understand English, other than croissant, which is really just a roll; French fries, which was invented by McDonald’s; and déjà vu, which Yogi Berra made famous.”

Michael and Skinny Lester exchanged a quick, knowing glance. Michael hoped that Fat Lester was indeed smarter than he appeared but feared he wasn’t.

“I saw that look,” Fat Lester said, laughing. It gave Michael hope.

Chapter 67

New York City

M
ichael heard the all-too-familiar ring of his cell phone. As he reached into his sport coat, he thought of all the life-altering phone calls over the past year that he received while he was dining out, beginning with the one he had with Alex at the exact moment he was shot.

“You know,” he said to the Lesters, “I’m beginning to think I should let some of these calls go. It’s never good news.”

“Michael, some strange things have happened.” Donna hadn’t called Michael in weeks but he could tell by the halting tone, that it was unlikely he would be finishing his linguine.

“What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I can’t go into it over the phone. It’s has to do with Alex.”

“Donna, what do you mean with Alex? Alex’s gone.” He recognized the irony of that remark coming from him and wondered whether it was the most sensitive thing to say, but Donna wasn’t exactly the most sensitive woman in the world, either. She and Alex actually were a good fit for each other.

“That’s just it. This thing with Alex, you know, we’ve talked about it before, it just doesn’t seem to go away. Father Papadopoulos called. He said he had to tell me something before it was too late.”

“Before it was too late? What does that mean?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know what he meant by that. I wish I did.” Donna said. “You know these priests, they talk in riddles. Everything’s a goddamned mystery.”

“Well, what did he have to say?” Michael said softly, trying to keep Donna from getting too excited.

She continued, “Remember at the cemetery the other day, you must have said to him that, of course, Alex was dead because he, Father Papadopoulos, had seen Alex’s body in the casket before he closed it? And he told you that yes he did?”

“Yes, of course I remember. I was mostly just being sarcastic although I don’t think he realized that. So?” Michael was rolling his eyes.

“
So,
I’ll tell you
so
.
So
, now he tells me that he lied to you.”

“What do you mean, he lied to me?” Michael wondered whether Donna had been drinking.

“Michael, I mean he never saw Alex’s body in the casket. The casket was closed and sealed from the moment it reached the funeral parlor. For all he knew, Jimmy Hoffa was in there. It was highly unusual. He never even saw Alex’s body at the funeral home when he did the blessing those nights. The casket was always closed—and locked.”

“But, wasn’t it
your
decision that Alex’s casket be closed?” Michael asked while quickly trying to think through the situation.

“Yes, I did request a closed casket. I think that’s what Alex would have wanted, not to have all those people staring at him while he was dead, you know? Your brother was vain—I think he was worried that if some of those young girls he was always chasing after saw him dead, they wouldn’t go out with him anymore. But anyway, Father Papadopoulos told me that he’d been told that even
he
wasn’t allowed to bless the body with the casket open, you know, in private like they do before the public is allowed in. That they were instructed to not only keep it closed for public viewing but that it was to be permanently sealed once Alex was laid out in it. That, Papadopoulos said, he had never heard of before.”

“And who is
they
, the ones who ordered this? Whose instructions were they?”

“I don’t know and Father Papadopoulos didn’t seem to know. It must have been someone at the funeral home.”

“And he just called you up out of the blue to tell you this?”

“Yes, that’s when he said he had more to tell me before it was too late.” Donna was now screaming into the phone. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean. He said one of us needed to come to the cathedral right away. Michael, this is all too much for me. I hate those churches. I was Jewish until I married your brother. You’ve got to call him and go see him. Right away … please.”

Not wanting to alarm the Lesters, Michael kept his voice low and measured. “OK, don’t worry. I’ll get to him. But did you ask him what he meant by ‘before it’s too late’?”

“No, Michael. I missed that particular point. I don’t really give a shit about the priest or what he meant by that. I’m still trying to figure out where your son-of-a-bitch brother really is these days.”

“I know, I understand, Donna. I was just asking in case he happened to mention it. … Donna, listen to me.
Alex is dead
.”

As he said it, Michael wondered exactly
why
he was so sure that his brother was dead. As real as Alex appeared on the laptop, Michael realized that he was no longer the Alex Michael had known, he’d grown, he was more aware of others, more sensitive, his memory was nearly photographic. And wasn’t that the way the artificial intelligence software was designed to work?—or was it simply Alex without booze—an Alex on detox and plenty of sleep. Either way, it was a healthy Alex.

After a silence, Donna, repeated her point, “He never saw Alex’s body. He never saw him dead at all. And, by the way, I keep getting these obscene emails …”

Chapter 68

Rikers Island, New York

A
s he stood at the prison’s bank of telephones, Hightower was nervous; he had never felt so vulnerable, nor had he ever dressed in orange. Always cocky and sure of himself, he now silently prayed that Richard Perkins would answer the phone. When he heard his boss’ voice, he hoped that his fortunes would soon change.

“Richard, thank you so much for taking my call. I was worried that you wouldn’t.”

“Well, John, I must be honest with you. I just picked up the phone. I didn’t know it was you. In view of the situation, it’s not appropriate that we be speaking to each other.”

Perkins’ smooth Southern baritone voice was always so soothing, so comforting to Hightower. Now, however, it had an unfamiliar, stern, disconcerting edge. “I can’t condone what you’ve done and I’m deeply disappointed.”

“Richard, there’s more to this than it appears. It’s not what you think. You have to hear me out. Please, give me a chance to explain.”

“John, I really don’t want to know any more. I shouldn’t even be speaking with you, under the circumstances.”

“Richard, they’ve frozen all my assets, I can’t even write a check to get out of here.”

“You have an attorney, don’t you?” Perkins was speaking to him as though he was an errant schoolboy.

“Yes, I have an attorney but even he’s waiting until they’ve put a lien on my home, for God’s sake. This is crazy. All of a sudden, I’m broke. I’m powerless. The pimps here have more pull. They’ve got cash and people outside helping them. No one will even talk to me.”

Perkins’ voice turned cold. “John, I can’t help you.”

Hightower, desperate, needed to keep Perkins on the phone. “Richard, do you know a man by the name of Hans Ulricht?”

First, there was just silence. Then, “Good-bye, John.”

He knew Perkins would never again take his call.

Chapter 69

New York City

A
s Michael approached the cathedral, he knew something bad had happened.

The drive from I Sodi on Christopher Street to the Greek Orthodox Cathedral uptown took nearly half an hour. Traffic was a standstill on Seventy-Fourth Street, so Michael paid the taxi driver and walked the last two blocks. An ambulance, its red lights flashing and sirens screaming, was burning rubber as it drove past him. Two NYPD police cars were sitting in the middle of the one-way street, blocking off all traffic behind them. An officer was leaving the church, taking his time while the horns from at least four blocks of stranded cars blasted away. Michael considered asking him what had happened but decided to proceed into the church and find out himself from Father Papadopoulos.

He passed through the tall, heavy wooden doors and into the Byzantine Empire, as he often referred to Greek churches. Despite being dressed in a dark blue suit, he felt underdressed for the formality typical of the ancient church. Seeing a priest in his full regalia of robes and vestments, passing quickly from the vestibule of the church, Michael called out, “Father Papadopoulos.”

The priest stopped in his tracks and turned around, at which point Michael immediately realized his mistake.

“I’m sorry, Father, I thought you were Father Papadopoulos.”

“I’m afraid, my friend, that Father Papadopoulos is not here. Did you have an appointment to see him?”

“Yes, I just spoke with him, less than an hour ago. He asked me to come over and meet with him. I’m Michael Nicholas.”

“Ah yes, Mr. Nicholas.” The priest’s expression indicated that Michael’s visit was not a surprise to him. “Yes, yes, of course. I was expecting you. Father Papadopoulos told me he was to meet with you. Let me introduce myself, I am Father John Papageorge. I have assisted Father Papadopoulos for the last several months.” He moved quickly to look into the nave of the church. Seeing it was empty, he motioned Michael to follow him. “Please, let’s get out of the vestibule. We will have privacy in the pews.”

As they walked, Michael remembered how one of his close friends in college used to tease him that all Greeks had last names beginning with “Papa.” And now, here he was dealing with Papadopoulos and Papageorge.

Father John Papageorge’s cream and deep red, gold-embroidered robes gently flowed as he walked, leading Michael further inside to the main body of the cathedral. Michael glanced at the Corinthian marble arches, dark wooden pews, deep red carpeting and ornately painted portraits of the Apostles. The religious icons on the walls, the gold crosses, the white candles, the strong, pungent scent of burning incense—all brought back powerful, almost haunting memories of his childhood Sunday mornings. Even then, he viewed the cathedral as a passage into another time, a place somewhere between life here on earth—and the afterlife. He still did.

They sat down at the end of a long pew and, as though the priest could read Michael’s thoughts, he placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder and whispered, “You know the nave of the church, where we now sit, represents the entrance of the Christian to God’s kingdom. It is the first step to the next world.”

Michael remembered how Father Papadopoulos, at Alex’s funeral, described Greek churches as “God’s waiting room.”

But Michael wasn’t convinced about the direct progression into God’s kingdom from where he was now sitting. “Father, has something happened? I saw the ambulance leaving and police cars as I arrived.”

Solemnly, Father Papageorge spoke. “Michael, Father Papadopoulos had a massive heart attack. It was right after he spoke with you. He was gone before the ambulance even arrived.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. I’m sorry to tell you this.” He paused to allow Michael to absorb the news. “How well did you know Father Papadopoulos?”

Michael had to think. He wasn’t sure how to characterize their relationship. “I’ve known him for probably twenty years. He baptized, married and buried a lot of my family. I can’t say, though, that I knew him well. We were never disciplined in our approach to the church, I’m sorry to say.”

“Michael, I hope you will excuse my directness at this difficult time, but I want you to know, I am familiar with the circumstances that led to your presence here today.”

“Well, I must confess, I’m a bit baffled as to why I’m here. My sister-in-law, Donna Nicholas, called me earlier to say that she had spoken with Father Papadopoulos, who had told her he needed to explain something, something regarding my brother Alex’s death. And he said he needed to do it, ‘before it was too late.’ ”

“Is that all you know?”

Michael had an uneasy feeling from the question. “The only other thing he told her was that, even though he had blessed my brother’s body at the funeral home and presided over his funeral in Queens, he had never seen the body. He told her that the casket was permanently sealed right from the beginning.”