Death Logs In (32 page)

“Sindy, it’s all too fast. I need to digest this. What do you want from me right now?”

And with that, she smiled, handed him the beer in her left hand, and whispered, “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Chapter 83

Bronx, New York

F
rank Cortese had a good seat to watch a game he barely understood—and the best seat to observe a murder he thought he could predict.

Watching Michael on his cell phone, Cortese knew something unexpected had occurred. He didn’t know who the caller was, or what was said, but he knew it had disturbed Michael. Up to that point, Steele had acted according to plan, but she now appeared to be in an intense discussion with Michael instead of doing her job. Why hadn’t she handed Michael his last drink?

He wasn’t used to scenes spiraling out of control.

According to Monsignor Petrucceli’s last call, Steele had turned on Michael and had agreed to poison him. Petrucceli had secretly instructed Cortese to then shoot her, using his silencer while the crowd was already preoccupied with a dying Michael Nicholas. Cortese would then lose himself in the commotion and slip out through the nearby stadium exit onto the street.

But something was wrong. He watched as Steele repeatedly withheld the poisoned drink. Cortese had to wait until Michael was either dead or in his final moments before shooting her through the back at the precise point where the bullets would be sure to penetrate her heart. His disguise would ensure that even if he were later spotted on surveillance cameras, his identity would not be revealed.

But just as Michael appeared to be finally taking the cup of beer from Steele, a roar erupted from the crowd. Everyone around them, including Michael, suddenly stood up, their eyes following the trajectory of the white baseball heading toward them, their hands reaching up, straining to catch the prized souvenir. As the ball came closer, seemingly headed directly to Cortese, the press of the crowd, reaching over him, jostling for position, nearly knocked him over. As he struggled to stay in his position in his seat, his hat and sunglasses fell to the ground.

Chapter 84

Bronx, New York

S
indy Steele watched the flight of the ball as Michael pulled his hand back, never taking the beer from her but instead leaping up in an effort to catch the ball heading for the seat directly behind him. She crouched down, protectively holding both cups of beer from the frenetic crowd around her. She watched Michael leap up and saw the ball carom off the straining hands reaching over the man seated behind him, she saw his sunglasses go flying and as he emerged from beneath the tangle of hands and arms, she recognized the man with eyes of different colors.

He was reaching into his pocket for his gun.

She knew now that the situation was not what it appeared to be; she had been deceived. The plot unfolding was different than the one that had been explained to her. They were going to kill
her
as soon as she murdered Michael. She had been set up. She dropped both beers and reached for her Glock.

Not confident she could outdraw or overpower Cortese, she decided her safest move was to jump over the three-foot wall and onto the field. He wouldn’t be brazen enough, she hoped, to shoot her once she was in full view of the police and the entire stadium crowd. She had only seconds to leap over the low wall before he would be able to aim and shoot.

She plunged over the concrete divider, landing onto the red clay warning track; she was in a crouch but on her feet when she saw, just a few feet away, the white pinstriped uniform with the blue “33” on the back of the Yankees right fielder, Nick Swisher.

Probably hearing the commotion from the stands behind him, Swisher turned around, at first startled, and then shook his head, smiling, and called out to her, “Oh man, what the heck are you doing out here?” Almost immediately, however, he appeared to focus on something behind her—Cortese—and his expression changed. Swisher began to holler and move away, “Hey lady, that guy’s got a gun.”

She knew she had no time to waste. She ran quickly, making sudden moves to the left and right as she sprinted toward a gate a hundred feet away along the first-base line. She could see NYPD officers with their guns drawn entering the field from all sides. She glanced back and saw Cortese in the outfield behind her. His gun was out, and he was looking right at her. She turned back around, and, running as fast as she could, she was getting closer to the exit. A blue tide of police officers were entering the field from her left and right sides. It was a race to see which came first: the gate, the police or a bullet in the back from Cortese.

She heard a thundering roar from the crowd cheering her on as she ran for her life. Then she heard loud pops as clumps of grass exploded around her. And then an eerie silence settled over the stadium. The pops continued, raising the grass all around her. She kept running, left, then right; then straight again for the gate.

She was almost there when she heard a series of loud explosions. She knew the NYPD had opened fire and waited for the first sign that she’d been shot.

Chapter 85

Westport, Connecticut

“I
s she dead?” Fletcher asked.

Michael had barely sat down, this time in Mario’s private back room. He looked around him to see if anyone was within earshot, or worse, gunshot range. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Didn’t you see what happened?” Fletcher was either getting excited or he was beginning to panic.

But Michael was calm. “I just slipped out of there along with thousands of others who poured through the exits before the cops could close the gates. I figured it was best if I just left. That’s why I called you so we’d both get out and get home before anyone started asking questions.”

“Holy shit. What happened to her?” Fletcher’s mouth was still open in amazement. “You mean she could still be out there? On the loose?”

“Or dead. Or wounded in a hospital or an alley. I don’t know. I’ve tried her cell and it goes right to voicemail. At least the cops didn’t answer. She hasn’t tried me.” Michael recounted the details, beginning with the decision to meet Steele as they had planned for weeks, not wanting to signal his intentions by canceling their game appearance together, then ending with the frenzied gunfight in the outfield between Steele and the unknown man sitting behind him during the game.

The evening news came on the television monitor above the bar. Michael and Fletcher watched and listened as the news anchor reported the day’s event at the ballpark:

“A violent shooting occurred on the field at Yankee Stadium today. As fifty-thousand people watched from the stands and another three million at home, a man seated in the seats in right field reportedly attacked a woman seated nearby, chasing her onto the field while the game was in play. The attacker fired a series of bullets in her direction. The NYPD attempted to shoot the attacker but was hampered by the crowd that, in a near panic, stormed onto the field and out the exits for cover. Unofficial reports claim that at least one person was killed and another seriously injured. There has been no confirmation or official word yet from police spokesmen as to the identity of the victim or victims—or whether they had made any arrests.

“So we know one of them is dead. It’s odd that they wouldn’t have more details on who was shot or killed,” Fletcher said, his eyes narrowing as he struggled to figure out the unusual lack of information. “They must be having trouble sorting everything out with all the chaos that went on—or they want to keep someone they’re looking for wondering. And you’re sure you didn’t recognize the guy who went after her?”

“No, I hardly got a look at him. He was sitting behind me. Then when Ortiz hit the ball into the seats, all hell broke loose. Next thing I know, Sindy’s running away, she jumps over the right-field wall and onto the field, Swisher turns around, and this guy from behind me has a gun and he’s running after her and firing at her. I think he had a silencer because there was no noise and the gun looked like it had some kind of extension on the end of the barrel.”

Fletcher’s eyes widened. “He’s a pro. Michael, this guy was a professional. That’s why the cops are staying quiet. They’re probably still trying to figure out what’s going down. Plus, we don’t know yet who got shot or arrested. The NYPD will probably try and talk to anyone who was seated anywhere near you guys in the stands. They’re going over video tapes from all the game cameras now.”

But Michael knew he had left out one important detail: his call from Alex.

“Fletcher, I’ve got something I have to tell you,” Michael looked around for the waiter, “but you’re going to need a stiff drink first.”

“OK, just give me a hint until I get the drink.”

Michael’s expression turned grave, “While I was watching the game, I received a phone call on my cell.”

Fletcher watching Michael closely said, “Yeah, who was it?”

“It was Alex.”

With his usual perfect timing, Tiger strolled up to their table. But before he could say a word, Fletcher pleaded, “A double Manhattan, as soon as you can.”

Chapter 86

Venice, Italy

C
ardinal Lovallo took a sip of one of Harry’s Bar’s famous peach Bellinis.

“Let us pray he is alive.”

“We will know shortly.” Monsignor Petrucceli nervously checked his watch and glanced toward the entrance of the bar.

The cardinal, uncharacteristically silent, seemed to be searching Petrucceli’s face for a hopeful sign. But Petrucceli had nothing positive to offer yet. He sat, watching the door, waiting, and tried over and over, to analyze what little news they had been given about yesterday’s events.

The table was set for three. In a gesture of divine faith, Petrucceli thought, as soon as he sat down, Cardinal Lovallo had ordered three Bellinis. The cardinal finished his, Petrucceli was still nursing his, and the third, which was to be Frank Cortese’s, sat undisturbed. Petrucceli sensed that the cardinal wanted to drink that one too but was reluctant to show any lack of faith that Cortese would arrive soon.

With the absence of any official reports on the identities of who was killed, injured or arrested by the New York police, the cardinal and monsignor could not be sure whether Cortese was, as planned, on the Delta flight from Kennedy airport to Venice. The plane should have just landed and the Cipriani’s awaiting sleek mahogany speedboat would have Cortese at the restaurant in just minutes.

“Dominick, finish your Bellini, it will calm your nerves,” Cardinal Lovallo said as he sat, apparently calm and serene. He looked like a man who had survived many crises.

For Dominick Petrucceli, this was as close as he had ever come to catastrophe. “I’m sorry, my stomach is in turmoil. I won’t be able to digest anything until Frank walks through the door.”

“God willing, Dominick, he will arrive momentarily.”

Finally Petrucceli saw the speedboat in the distance making the turn from the water lanes toward the dock, which was just out of sight. But he couldn’t tell whether there was a passenger on board in the cabin below the deck. As the boat disappeared from sight, the low roar of the inboard motors could be heard inside the bar, although only Lovallo and Petrucceli actually heard it.

The next three minutes—roughly the time required for the boat to dock and for the captain and any passengers to disembark and walk the short distance into the bar—seemed like an eternity. Petrucceli nodded to the cardinal, who continued to sit motionless, “Now we will know God’s will,” he said, not even turning around to glance at the entrance.

Finally, the two narrow wood-and-glass front doors swung open. The boat’s captain, dressed in his formal white uniform, held the door open, allowing a tall, athletic woman with long, dark hair to enter before him. He placed her large, wheeled carry-on behind the bar nearby. She nodded to him and tried to discreetly slip him some type of currency as a gratuity, which he appeared to reject, holding up his hands in a defensive type of gesture.

Seeing no one else enter the bar, Monsignor Petrucceli and the cardinal looked at each other, searching for the words to measure the depth of their peril.

The cardinal gave a sigh of resignation. “I will contact Cardinal Sardino,” he said, referring to the pope’s chief of staff, or consigliere, formally known as the Vatican secretary of state. “He will not be pleased. But whatever has transpired, we must ensure that there are no surprises for the Holy Father.” Likely seeing the look of distress on Petrucceli’s face, he added, “We will deal with this as we have dealt with many other problems. There is a solution for everything, Dominick. Some are more expensive than others.”

But just as they had blocked out the rest of the world, they were startled by the approach of the tall, confident, powerfully built woman who stood over them at their table. It was the woman who entered the bar with the captain. Neither of them had any idea who she could be. One horrible possibility crossed Petrucceli’s mind. It’s not possible, he thought.

“Gentlemen, I believe you were waiting for Mr. Cortese. Unfortunately, he’s dead.”

Neither moved nor said a word. They both simply stared at this attractive stranger. Petrucceli wondered whether his worst fear had yet entered Lovallo’s mind.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself,” she said as she sat herself down in the empty seat. “I believe I spoke with one of you on the phone just the other day. Actually, I have it recorded. I’m Sindy Steele.”

Petrucceli was speechless. He looked over at the cardinal, suddenly appearing to age before his eyes, his mouth dropped open. As the stunned, speechless men continued to watch, she took a sip of the untouched Bellini, smiled broadly and proclaimed, “I think from what I’ve seen so far that we’re going to work well together. I just love Bellinis.”

Chapter 87

Rome, Italy

S
harkey was awakened by the metallic ring of his bedside telephone. As he reached for the receiver, he wondered whether this would be the call letting him know that, finally, Michael was dead.