“Well, what does it mean, Jack? Am I the only one who’s being attacked?”
“Yes, just you. At least in this manner. And I’m not sure that ‘being attacked’ is even the right way to describe it. It looks as though someone is trying to communicate with you from some type of server, or source, that we can’t identify. I thought perhaps you might be aware of anything unusual. Maybe one of your kids is a real high-tech genius and is showing off?”
“Well, I have a daughter, Sofia. She’s pretty damn smart, but not a techy type. She’s away at college. I’m sure it’s not her. I have been receiving some odd messages since my brother, uh—”
“I’m very sorry by the way to hear about your brother’s death.”
“That’s okay, thanks. But I have been getting some unusual e-mails and messages. In fact, a few days ago, I received an instant message that seemed to have been cut off in the middle.”
“That may have been a result of the actions we’ve taken here to block these intrusions.”
“Oh, good, I appreciate what you’re doing.” Michael didn’t want to mention that the e-mails and instant messages all revolved around—or appeared to be sent by—Alex. He didn’t want to draw any more attention within Gibraltar to connections to his brother’s life than was already obvious from the news accounts of his murder. But now he wondered again what the rest of the message was and, of course, who really sent it.
“Jack, you didn’t happen to save the remainder of that instant message that was cut off, did you?”
“No, as I said, we were able to block the full message from coming through at all. Listen, Mr. Nicholas, there’s no cause for concern. We’re on top of this. We’ve been able now to deny access so there should be no further breach. Don’t worry. I just thought I’d check in case you were aware of anything unusual going on.”
“Okay, thanks.” Michael exchanged glances with Samantha. “There’s nothing unusual that I’m aware of.”
No, just two murders, our house broken into, strange e-mail and messages, a gangster with a gun in my crotch, and a missing Apple device that seems to be located in the cemetery where my brother is buried
.
Chapter 23
Whitestone, Queens, New York
November 21, 2009
M
ichael looked out of Alex’s kitchen window at the small in-ground pool, now hidden under its green winter tarpaulin. He remembered how, in the summer months, Alex loved to lounge in the shallow water, the Yankee game playing loudly on his transistor radio nearby as he soaked up the sun. It was all the vacation he ever needed. It was his version of Saint-Tropez. “Everyone speaks English here,” he would say. “And after a few drinks, Donna goes topless.”
Sitting around the kitchen table were Skinny and Fat Lester, Michael, and Donna who had taken a taxi from the Carlyle back to her home for the day. Michael had filled everyone in on the details of his aborted dinner meeting with Sharkey.
“We all know what happened with Sharkey. I figured we should sit down together and discuss where we go from here.” Michael knew the heat was on. Things had to happen in the next few days, but he was unsure what their options were.
“Sharkey wants his money—not to mention another hundred grand in interest—by Wednesday.”
Fat Lester’s face became distorted with rage. “Wait a minute, Michael. First of all, Sharkey is full of shit. Alex never paid anyone interest on bets. As long as Sharkey gets his money, there’s no fucking interest. I’d like to break Sharkey’s fucking neck. He had no right to treat you that way last night. Alex would have killed him if he had seen it. He would have broken him in two.”
“Lester, you told me you guys never really even touched anyone.” Michael was trying to keep Fat Lester calm.
“We did some stuff. We did some good stuff. I didn’t want to scare you.” Fat Lester, with a mischievous smile, looked first at his cousin and then Michael. Michael wasn’t sure what to make of the remark or Lester’s facial expression.
Skinny Lester, characteristically, appeared calmer than his cousin. “Alex charged interest when he
made
loans. He never
paid
interest. If we owed money, we paid right away. We’re not crooks. This isn’t Bank of America, for God’s sake.”
“Okay, Sharkey knew he had a rookie with me the other day. I figured the interest was bullshit. Let’s worry about that later. How do we deal with the seven hundred grand that he actually won?” Michael was trying to keep this discussion as clear and concise as he could. “But first, what’s our cash situation? Have we collected what these guys owed Alex?”
Fat Lester jumped in. “We’ve collected some of it.”
“We’ve collected about three hundred and fifty thousand of the five hundred grand that we were owed from sports,” Skinny Lester said, “and we paid out about fifty grand on bets we owed. Plus we had about a hundred and twenty grand lying around from before.”
Michael was always astonished at how his brother handled cash. He remembered Alex always having a wad of fifties and hundreds in his pocket. Alex used to joke to friends, “My little brother here carries a fuckin’ black American Express card. I just carry fuckin’ cash.”
Michael did a quick tally. “So we have four hundred and twenty thousand in cash, is that right?”
“That’s right, Michael,” Skinny Lester answered. “But we’ve got to come up with at least seven hundred to pay Sharkey.”
“Unless we kill him first,” Donna said. Michael wondered whether it was obvious that his jaw had involuntarily dropped.
Fat Lester smiled again, ever so slightly.
Chapter 24
New York City
November 21, 2009
M
ichael decided that he needed to stay in New York for the next few days. The trip back and forth to Connecticut was becoming tedious, and he had convinced Samantha to take off again and bring Sofia to Chicago where he would meet them for Thanksgiving.
He booked a junior suite at the Carlyle, specifically requesting a room on a different floor than Donna’s. He treasured what little privacy and solitude he had left. The suite, with its soft lighting, beige walls, and views of the Manhattan skyline, gave him a sense of detachment, beyond the street and above the fray. He was to meet Donna shortly for a drink downstairs in Bemelmans Bar.
Michael longed for the quiet evenings at home with Samantha across the dining room table at home or in their familiar restaurants in Westport. Now his life had become an endless stream of Donna, drinks, and dinners, babysitting the Lesters, and being terrorized by the likes of Sharkey.
With an hour to kill before meeting Donna, he had spoken at length with Samantha and Sofia. It was an awkward conversation since they did not want Sofia to know the whole story of what was going on.
Michael’s cell phone rang; it was Karen. “Hi, Boss. Just thought you might want to know that Chairman Dick called for you. He asked if I knew when you were expected back.”
Karen and Michael unaffectionately referred to Michael’s boss, Dick Applegarden, as “Chairman Dick.”
“Karen, did I ever tell you my theory that executives fall into two categories?”
“No, Boss, I don’t think you did. Is this a joke coming on?”
“No, not at all. I’m serious. There are two types of business executives. I call them Velcros and Teflons. The Teflons do little, blame others for their mistakes, and take credit for successes, whether theirs or not. The Velcros generally do the work for the Teflons, get saddled with the failures (whether theirs or not), and never get credit for their successes. Our good Chairman Dick is a Teflon.”
“And I guess that makes you a Velcro?”
“Actually, no. But that’s a very good question. I should know better than to tangle with you.”
Finally relaxing, Michael stretched his legs out on the coffee table. “Karen, you have to buy me another week or so. I’m trying to clean up a mess here with my brother’s affairs and my sister-in-law. Just get back to Dick and reassure him that I’m in touch daily, and that I’ll definitely be at the global business meeting in Beverly Hills on the second, so he doesn’t have to worry. I’m supposed to be a speaker—he’s probably worried that he may have to fill in for me.”
“That reminds me, Michael; we haven’t discussed the speech yet, have we? Any thoughts? Do you want me to have marketing put an outline or some ideas together?” Karen, as usual, was on top of things. Michael believed she could do most senior executives’ jobs better than they did themselves.
“Don’t worry about it. I need to think it through on my own first. I want to do something I’ve never done before.” Michael was scheduled to speak on the topic of “corporate cultures.” The last two weeks had given him a fresh perspective on a lot of things. As he thought about reconnecting with his business life, he was determined to do things differently moving forward. He wished he had a video of his discussion with Sharkey. It would be a great lesson for corporate executives on negotiation skills. The world no longer looked the way it did before Alex’s murder. If he was going back to his old world, it would be on different terms. Karen’s next comments, however, brought him back to Alex’s world.
“Michael,” Karen hesitated, “I thought you mentioned that your car broke down and was towed from the cemetery.”
“Yeah, it was. I was astonished at how quickly this guy got the tow truck there. Why?”
“Well, the police just called. They found the car.”
“What do you mean, the
police
found the car? It’s supposed to be at some garage in Astoria. I have the name somewhere. They’re working on it.”
“Oh, they worked on it all right. The police found it just off Chelsea Piers.”
“You mean at the police pound there?”
“No.” Karen paused. “Not in the lot. In the Hudson River.”
Bemelmans Bar was a Manhattan landmark and glorified watering hole for visiting movie stars, New York socialites, politicians, and Wall Street titans. Ludwig Bemelmans was a famous
Vogue
and
New Yorker
magazine artist, and also the creator of the classic Madeline books for kids. In 1947, he painted the bar’s walls with clever, whimsical murals and scenes in exchange for his hotel bill. The legendary New York pianist and entertainer Bobby Short ruled the bar’s piano for decades.
Tonight Michael Feinstein held court at the piano with his own selection of jazz-inspired, classic songs. As Michael felt the warmth of his first sips of his martini, Feinstein sang an old Sinatra tune, “Strangers in the Night.” It was a perfect backdrop for a strong drink and a light bar meal while seated at one of the chocolate-brown banquettes. The dark art deco decor and soft lighting made it difficult to see the other patrons, a likely reason for the bar’s popularity with celebrity clients.
Donna’s face, however, was clearly visible to Michael. He struggled, as he had since the day his brother married her, to understand what lurked inside, underneath her good looks.
Michael needed to discuss Donna’s comments this morning about eliminating Sharkey. He now also wanted to break the news to her about his car showing up at the bottom of the Hudson River. He was getting frustrated by her apparent indifference to the events unfolding and her somewhat erratic, if not incendiary comments. She couldn’t have been serious about Sharkey, he thought—and hoped. Michael was gaining a newfound respect for what his brother must have had to deal with every day.
“Donna, what in the world were you thinking this morning when you talked about killing Sharkey?” Michael was straining to keep his composure.
“Shh, Michael, that’s Rudy Giuliani at that table in the corner with his wife.” As usual, Donna’s eyes and attention were not focused on the conversation but on a celebrity watch around the room.
“I don’t give a shit about Giuliani. What the hell did you mean this morning? And in front of Fat Lester, of all fucking people.” Michael heard Alex in his own words. It surprised him and made him uneasy.
“Michael,” Donna was now speaking as though she were the sane and calm one instead of her increasingly volatile brother-in-law. “You have to relax and calm down. You’re overreacting. I wasn’t serious; I was just suggesting that it was one way to eliminate a seven-hundred-thousand-dollar problem, that’s all. I’m sure there are much better solutions. You’re going to get high blood pressure like your brother.”
“Shit, listen, I’m expecting the police to call me here shortly. My secretary called a few minutes ago while I was in my room. They found my BMW at the bottom of the Hudson River.”
“Michael,” Donna said with a straight face, “did you leave it there?”
Just as Michael rolled his eyes, his cell phone rang. After a weary sigh, Michael accepted the call. “Michael Nicholas.”
“Michael, it’s Fletcher. I just spoke with the Manhattan police. They want to question you tonight. They know you’re at the Carlyle. I told them I would call you to be sure you knew they were contacting you and that you stayed put until they called. I just tried your room.”
“I’m in the bar,” Michael said.
“I should have figured.”
Michael anticipated that Fletcher was letting him know what he had already heard from Karen. “I understand they found my car—which had broken down at the cemetery the other day and was towed—under the Hudson.”
“Michael,” Fletcher’s tone turned more serious, “it’s more than that.”
“What does that mean?”
“They also found a body in your car.”
And then, as if in a scene from an old James Bond movie—a tuxedoed waiter appeared with a phone from the bar. “Mr. Nicholas, I believe this call is for you. They said it’s a detective.”
Chapter 25
Westport, Connecticut
November 22, 2009
M
ichael knew he was in over his head. He needed Fletcher’s advice—and a bowl of spaghetti with Tiger’s special meatballs. They sat down for both at their regular table inside Mario’s large front window.