The Thieves of Heaven (35 page)

He never said what he really wanted; she thought that more than a little odd. He claimed he was Paul’s new partner, Dennis….She couldn’t remember his last name. He just dropped by to see how she was feeling and ask a few questions about her husband’s relationship with Busch. He said it was for a citation for Busch’s parole work, said he’d stop back after Busch got his most-deserved honorarium. She never mentioned the visit to anyone.

But there was something about him. She felt it as if it was an invasion of her soul. Dennis scared her more than the cancer.

The fact that Busch was under internal investigation had floored him. There was absolutely no way. At no time in his life that he could recall did he become compromised with any of his charges, most particularly Michael. Busch was more than aware every step of the way of how he was conducting their relationship. Thal had shown up before Mary was sick, before Michael had reopened “that” chapter of his life. Why? And why did Thal head to Berlin? Was it to capture Michael and further indict Busch? Or was there something more?

Busch sat in a private computer room, one light, one chair, one desk, and one computer. No windows, carpets, pictures, or decorations. The Byram Hills Police Department’s database was enormous. Not only were there criminal records, but the department had access to a vast array of computer libraries: FBI, Interpol, periodicals, news organizations.

Finster wasn’t hard to find. While the billionaire possessed no criminal record, he did leave quite a trail in both the business and celebrity world. In fact, August Finster was a regular Gates-Turner-Perlman-Trump of the former Eastern bloc. Busch found a video montage of Finster in the archives of Bloomberg News. The video showed an impeccably dressed Finster running a board meeting, surveying his vast real estate holdings, arriving at social galas. What really caught Busch’s eye was the footage where the industrialist was dancing the night away with some of the most beautiful women Busch had ever seen. Stunning, jaw-dropping ladies right off the runway.

A voice-over announced,
“A virtual unknown until the reunification of Germany, August Finster has since become the wealthiest of the former East Germans. Successful in every business sector, he has yet to know failure. His background is a mystery. Single, utterly ruthless in business, Finster’s only weakness appears to be women.”
The flickering images showed the billionaire surrounded by a bevy of beauties. If it wasn’t for the women, Busch would be beyond bored.

“Notorious for his nightly exploits, entertaining two to three ladies an evening, Finster has yet to be photographed with the same woman twice. He’s always found taking in all the latest social scenes which, combined with his ruling of the business world and last name…”

Busch pointed the mouse, about to click-cancel this flashy piece of cinema when…

“…has given him the whispered moniker: the Prince of Darkness.”

Chapter 18

A
ugust Finster was holding court in his li
brary. His thick leather-wrapped gentleman’s den of solitude was quite handy for impressing the easily impressionable. The three ladies sat on opposing couches around the fireplace, their recently freshened drinks in hand. Each was dressed in the finest evening wear from the finest shops in Berlin.

Finster came by his women in different ways. His vast money and charm were always an irresistible aphrodisiac, attracting the attractive to him like bees to honey. Elle, her red hair ablaze, had met him that morning on her way from a photo shoot. Portfolio in hand, the international fashion model spotted him as he looked her way and had been instantly smitten. Lovely June had arrived for an interview at Finster Industries and left with an invitation. And Heidi—well, Heidi had simply arrived this evening uninvited but encouraged by friends who had sampled his charms. But beyond his money, his charm, there was something else. They all felt it, but no one could pinpoint it. It was like they all wanted to reach out for that special something in him that sucked you in but always stayed just out of reach, like the last dream you have before waking, the one that remains just beyond the edge of recollection. It was a kind of magic. And despite the fact that he was known as the king of the one-night stand, the women still flocked to him, it was a bragging right akin to a rock-star liaison. Finster was a regular Elvis with the pelvis to your heart.

When the phone rang, Finster paid it no mind, allowing it to ring three times before it finally stopped. He didn’t like to be interrupted unless it was of the utmost urgency.

“We will dine at El Grocia,” he announced. He always went to the newest restaurants, rarely frequented the same place twice. “Reservations have been arranged for eight fifteen.”

The three arm charms smiled. Mostly it was a smile of acknowledgment, a just-thrilled-to-be-with-you kind of smile. Except for Elle’s; Elle knew El Grocia had an eight-week waiting list and instantly appreciated the power that Finster wielded. In her eyes, the other two girls were nothing more than horny, dimwitted eye candy here for a quick fling.
She
was different.

“I would be honored if you ladies would select our destination for dancing.” Finster’s voice was intoxicating to Elle.

Charles appeared silently in the doorway, in his right hand an envelope. He discreetly passed it to his master while leaning toward the billionaire’s ear. Elle wasn’t a busybody by nature, but she did take an interest in other people’s lives. Though Charles spoke softly, she could make out most of his words. Finster shot a glance Elle’s way as if he heard her thoughts. His fleeting smile may have seemed warm but his eyes remained cold, icing her heart. She was suddenly filled with shame. And fear.

It wasn’t like she heard anything of interest. It was just something to the effect that “they were coming and how dare they and don’t worry they’re safe and he would set up an appropriate greeting….”

Outside, Finster’s chauffeur gave a staccato beep of the Bentley’s horn. Charles glided out of the room. Finster directed the ladies outside and toward the car. Heidi and June were all giggles as the chauffeur held the limousine’s doors open. In the doorway, Finster stopped and turned to Elle. He put his arm around her.

Maybe things would be OK. She really should shake her habit of eavesdropping; it had almost gotten her in a world of trouble again. At least the warmth had returned to his eyes.
Thank God,
she thought. She hadn’t been scared like that since she got caught stealing lip gloss back in Paris.

“I was thinking maybe we would send these other two…children on ahead,” Finster told her, leaning closer.

“I would love that” was all Elle could get out of her quivering lips.

“Why don’t you wait for me in the library? I’ll send them on their way and be back in just a moment. Then we can have a nice quiet dinner here, just the two of us.”

Elle smiled as he walked toward the car. She looked up at the stars like she used to as a child, wishing, just as her dad had taught her, on the first one she saw.
May this happiness last the rest of my life,
she prayed.

Three a.m. Thirty thousand feet. Most slept. Some, with headphones, watched the 1948 film
Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein
. Simon, being his insomniac self, read the Bible. While he knew the ending, every word in the entire book for that matter, he always came away with some new insight, some lesson that he hoped he could apply in his life if he was lucky enough to continue to live it.

Michael had taken over the two adjacent seats, his legs stretched out, with a writing pad in his lap. He was sketching a detailed diagram of what he remembered of Finster’s mansion. His recollection was detailed and vivid, as he had practiced a one-pass reconnaissance technique in his earlier career days.

“Didn’t think I was coming, did you?” Michael said quietly, more to himself than to Simon.

Simon looked Michael’s way. “I knew you’d come.” And he went back to the book in his lap.

Michael didn’t take kindly to brush-offs. “Admit it. You had no idea.”

“Actually, I did,” Simon replied, his nose still in the Bible.

“I wasn’t completely sure myself I was coming, until I boarded the plane.”

“You were coming from the moment you learned the position you’d put your wife in. It’s in your character. You’re an easy read.”

“You don’t know the first thing about me.”

Simon didn’t take his eyes off his Bible. “Michael Edward St. Pierre, age thirty-eight. Orphan. Adopted at the age of two by Jane and Michael St. Pierre, parochial school, altar boy. Dislike for the mundane got him into a bit of trouble as a teenager. Thief: jewels and art. High-risk hits. Stole for the thrill, not the money. Did hard time: Sing Sing. Wife: Mary, age
30
. Loves you very much, stricken with—”

“Enough!” Michael hated hearing his life boiled down to a paragraph befitting an obituary. He had grown up in the suburbs—Armonk, a small town about an hour outside Manhattan. His adopted parents had sent him to Holy Father Catholic High School, where Father Dan pounded in his daily lessons as if they were sermons. Michael was a relatively good kid. He’d had his share of mischief, but nothing that hinted at his troubled future. He got snagged a couple of times for drinking and smoking and he did spend a month in his room—maybe a precursor to his jail time—for stuffing a pack of firecrackers in Mrs. Collete’s mail slot. When he lit the fuse and sent them through the brass-hinged slot of her front door, he could hardly contain the giggles. He and his friends had run like the wind but there was no need. The deaf old lady hadn’t heard the machine-gun-like pops and explosions. She hadn’t heard a thing; she thought the ashen debris was from her cat tearing up the newspaper again, so she just opened the door, and swept the paper shrapnel out. Michael never would have gotten caught if it wasn’t for his accomplice: bragging Stevie Tausigenti; who told Kenny Case; who told his girlfriend, Jen Gillicio; who being a tattletale told her mom; who called Mrs. St. Pierre. Michael accepted his confinement like a man…for a couple of days. After that, he would get home from school, grab a snack, head to his room, then sneak straight out the window. His mom was none the wiser and in fact expressed her pride for his doing his time so stoically.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t his mother who sent him to Sing Sing and it wasn’t for setting off firecrackers. Needless to say, his cell didn’t have a window he could sneak out of. Sing Sing was a prison tucked into the hills along the Hudson River. A quiet, out of the way penitentiary that never captured much notoriety except for the execution of Ethel and Julius Rosenberg. The three and a half years Michael spent there were pure torture. It had been Hell on earth to be away from his young bride for so long. His biggest fear until last month was that he would end up back in prison, torn from his life with Mary. His vow to her that he wouldn’t break the law was really a vow to himself. He’d sworn he would never be trapped away from her again, confined to a world where she couldn’t be with him. Nothing could compromise his vow. Nothing.