Angie watched her friend intently. “Leaving all that aside, could you have shot and killed her?”
Michael did not hesitate. “Absolutely.” As soon as he said it, he saw Samantha flinch.
“Did the police ask a lot of questions?” Fletcher asked.
“They did. Listen, they’re not interested in the gambling part or anything about Alex’s business. After all, some of the big guys in that precinct and some other top cops in the city are customers. All they cared about was ensuring they covered themselves on shooting Greta—that they correctly assessed the situation that led up to firing on her.
“It was actually pretty straightforward. They got my 9-1-1 call and had overheard my conversation with Greta while I left the phone on. I was trapped in my—Alex’s—office. She had cut out the power from the breaker box inside the front door, and when they walked in, she was holding a gun and had obviously been firing into my office trying to kill me. When they ordered her to drop her gun, she just turned toward them with the gun and, intentionally or not, pointed at the cops. That’s all they needed to shoot her, eight times.”
“Did they ask about why she was trying to kill you?” Fletcher asked, clearly knowing how the police would have to approach the situation.
“Yeah,” Michael went on. “But it really wasn’t that hard to explain. Greta was a jilted wife with a whole set of her own problems. She was pissed at me as the executor of Alex’s estate; she wanted to receive money herself instead of it going to George. She was heavily in debt. Her former live-in boyfriend was found in the Hudson River, and on top of that, she was living with Sharkey, who’s already a fugitive from justice. It all actually fit together very cleanly for the cops. Plus, it’s the missing piece of the puzzle of who was behind Alex and Russell’s murders. It was all logical and believable—and had the added benefit of being the truth. She had motive and, with Sharkey, the means to pull it all off.
“This was like a bonanza for the cops. Now, all they need to do is find Sharkey and it’s all wrapped up. Greta was a killing waiting to happen. No one is going to challenge the cops on either how they reacted to the situation they walked in on or the character of the person they shot. It’s open and shut.”
“You know,” Fletcher added, “it conveniently rescued you from a lot of potential problems. If she’d just been arrested instead of killed, she could have exposed a lot of difficult issues—from the cash to Alex’s business.”
Just as everyone, including Michael, was digesting his account, Michael’s cell phone rang. It was Karen, calling from New York. Michael excused himself and walked out to the courtyard. “Hi, Karen.”
“Hi, Boss. I just wanted to check in before the day got going here. I thought you might like to know that late yesterday I received a call from a writer at the
Economist
. They want to interview you for a story about how you keep a company going during a major downturn. They said they wanted your ideas on things like how to avoid destroying a company through layoffs and things despite the demands of Wall Street for financial performance even during hard times.”
“They should talk to that Brit asshole from Richard’s office—John Hightower—and ask him,” Michael said while gazing at the parade of beautiful Parisian women filing past him in the courtyard.
“I think they want
you
. It’s all a result of that LA speech. I’ll set up a meeting in your office and put it on your calendar. I’ll keep it under wraps again from marketing so you won’t have to have them involved.”
“No, not this time, Karen. Let’s go through the proper channels. Let marketing know. If they want to send a communications person over to be there for the interview, it’s okay with me.”
“Michael, is the alcohol content greater there in Paris than at home? Or did I just reach the wrong number?”
“No, Karen. I’m fine. Listen, I’m not looking to be a total cowboy. Plus, I can only get away with so many things, and I gave Richard my word that I wouldn’t give unauthorized speeches. This isn’t a speech, but the
Economist
is too high profile to potentially have pushed in his face if I say something the board doesn’t like. Right now, I’ve got enough going on, so I don’t need to rock the boat any further. We’ll play this one straight.”
“I hear you, Boss. It certainly makes my life easier, not to mention my own job security.”
“All the client meetings went reasonably well. I’ve e-mailed our account reps with a summary of each one. Tonight Samantha and I are having dinner with Catherine Saint-Laurent.”
“You do live quite a life, Boss. I don’t know how you do it or how you manage to know some of these people. Don’t forget you also have a conference call with the
Financial Times
the day after tomorrow, and your driver will be at your hotel tomorrow morning at eight for the trip to Orly Airport. Be sure they don’t take you to de Gaulle.”
“I’ve got it. I’m all set. I’ll speak with you when I get to Saint-Tropez.” Michael turned off his cell phone and resumed his lunch inside.
It was a festive celebration evening at Chez Dumonet. This time, however, Michael achieved celebrity status at the bistro when he and Samantha were accompanied in the door by the stunning—even by Paris standards—Jennifer and the legendary Catherine Saint-Laurent.
After their hectic entrance, the greetings by Nono and Guillaume, and the now-familiar stares of the other diners, Michael and his party settled into his favorite table directly in front of the bar.
Michael quickly changed the tone when he sat down and exclaimed, “I was sitting right here, Catherine, when I received a call from Alex to say hello. During that call, he was shot dead.”
“God, that seems like it was a lifetime ago. So much has happened in the last several months,” Samantha said. “It’s amazing how something you don’t ever think about can happen and then change your life in a way you never could have dreamed possible.”
Michael looked at his wife, and after reflecting on her words, said, “Life isn’t always destined to go on the way it seems like it will. Events can change it in a split second, or we can will ourselves a different life—or both can combine to change our course. Yet, at times, it seems like nothing can change the path we’re on. You realize how silly that concept is.”
Catherine spoke up, a glass of the house champagne in hand. “I miss your brother, Michael. But I must admit, this tragedy brought me the opportunity to meet you and now Samantha. I want to thank you for keeping the commitment that Alex made to me. Your money completed the financing we needed. Casting is done, and we expect to begin shooting in September in Cannes.”
Michael smiled and turned toward Jennifer. “I also owe Jennifer for her selflessness in seeking me out and helping me unlock the mystery of Alex’s special computer. Without her, I don’t know how I could have figured out where Alex had hidden not only his secrets but some of the money necessary to pay off his debts and continue his business. I have to confess, the first time we met at that lunch, I thought you might be a nut. Thank you, Jennifer.”
“By the way,” Jennifer asked, “was all that ‘artificial intelligence’ stuff any help other than finding Alex’s hiding places?”
Michael thought it was interesting that Jennifer asked the question. He was, in fact, anxious to get some privacy, open up the laptop, and talk again to Alex. He could feel Samantha staring at him, watching for his reaction, but he diverted his eyes to his plate of smoked salmon and said, “No, not really. I mean, it was interesting, but I don’t think the technology has come far enough yet to have any lasting impact, other than recording some information. Maybe someday all this artificial intelligence science will be meaningful—probably just a matter of years.”
“Oh, that’s a shame. It certainly would have been interesting to have Alex around again,” Jennifer said. As she flashed her all-American perfect white teeth and those all-too-familiar blue eyes, Michael wondered if Jennifer believed him. But just before he answered, he caught Samantha’s eyes still watching him.
“Unfortunately, I think Alex died about five years too soon to be able to live forever.”
Chapter 64
Saint-Tropez, France
July 19, 2010
M
ichael and Samantha landed at Nice Airport from Paris and boarded a private helicopter to take them from the airport to the landing pad near their hotel in Saint-Tropez. The ride was a favorite of theirs. The twenty-minute flight was mostly flown at only five hundred feet, just above the deep-blue Mediterranean waters, until the actual approach to Saint-Tropez, when the craft had to rise high above the hills.
As they approached the hotel from the air, Michael thought about the routines they had established on these stays and how much he looked forward to another year of doing the same thing they had always done.
He and Samantha usually awoke about ten in the morning; had a breakfast of freshly squeezed orange juice, warm croissants, and strong French coffee; and then arrived at the pool by noon. They would then split a bottle of wine, usually rosé, at lunch and leave the pool for their room by six. Dinner was at nine after a five-minute ride on the hotel’s shuttle to the quaint port town, and then back in bed by one in the morning.
And for now, Michael looked forward to getting settled in their familiar room and heading straight to the pool and the hot sun.
The pool at the Chateau de la Messardiere was a mosaic of various shades of tiny blue square tiles jutting out over the Picasso-blue Mediterranean Sea. Michael was lying alongside a twentysomething young woman who, at five foot ten, would be at least three inches taller with her spiked heels, a would-be model with long blonde hair and her small, firm breasts basking in the hot sun.
The reflection from the tiny droplets of perspiration on her breasts could be seen from all angles around the pool. The only impediments to the perfect Playboy-esque view were the tiny turquoise triangular piece of fabric between her slim thighs and the large Gucci sunglasses concealing her eyes. Her long, toned, and tanned legs parted ever so slightly across her lounge chair, a fruit drink and a copy of Russian
Vogue
nearby on her side table. She and Michael never exchanged words.
Michael noticed Samantha eyeing the odd but not uncommon poolside combination. She appeared to be mildly amused as she said, “I told you, money does buy happiness, however brief.”
Several chairs to their right, an older but just as alluring French woman, also topless, sipped champagne. According to Mustafa, who had been in charge of Messardiere’s pool for a decade, she was a French film star, no longer in demand but still well known and recognized. Mustafa knew everyone who stayed at the Chateau. He knew who was important to the hotel and who wasn’t. Samantha and Michael were always well taken care of, mostly because they were longtime customers, generous tippers, and generally well liked—for Americans anyway.
Although they came in handy to shield his eyes from the strong Mediterranean sun, Michael always said that his sunglasses were necessary at the Chateau’s pool so that he could gaze at the “scenery” without appearing to be a voyeur. This summer was clearly no different.
Samantha and Michael took their usual reclining lounges at the very center, facing both the pool and the Mediterranean. Mustafa ensured that those same two chairs were reserved and waiting for them each morning, along with Michael’s copy of
Le Monde
. Michael continued to struggle with his French, but he could at least make out the gist of most articles, especially if they had pictures. He usually dozed off before he finished a few pages.
As Michael gazed out at the pool scenery and the Mediterranean in the distance, he reflected on the events of the last eight months. It was hard to believe that, through it all, he had not only retained his position at Gibraltar, but with the death of his boss, Chairman Dick Applegarden, he had actually been promoted.
Yet Michael wasn’t sure how he felt about his unexpected success. He wondered if, deep down, he really wanted to have been fired from Gibraltar. Although he was certainly now riding high, he chafed at the shortsighted corporate strategies he had become a part of. He felt somewhat satisfied yet more stressed than he had ever been.
Michael’s daydreams were interrupted by the familiar ring of his cell phone.
“Hi, Boss. Just a reminder that you have a conference call with the
Financial Times
reporters in less than an hour. They know you’ll be on your cell.”
“They don’t know where I am, do they?” Michael didn’t need the press reporting that he was vacationing in Saint-Tropez. It wasn’t good press relations and could always lead to an ugly article on corporate excess or even just a passing reference on page 6 of the
New York Post
. Michael still struggled himself with the amount he was getting paid compared to the average Gibraltar employee.
“No, I just implied you were in Europe on business, but one of the ground rules for the interview is that there are to be no questions about exactly where you are. I didn’t say it, of course, but they may have reason to believe that you’re in acquisition discussions somewhere. You didn’t hear it here though.” Karen was something else!
As Michael continued to speak into his cell, now gazing up at the sky from a full, flat reclining position on his chaise, three young ladies in their mid to late twenties, each almost six feet tall—and none wearing tops—walked by his chaise lounge. Michael’s head was about four feet from their knees. Thank God, he thought, that he had his shades on. All were deeply tanned, their bodies slim and built where it counted, their legs long and shapely yet still lean—and glistening in the late morning sun. They strolled by, chatting and totally oblivious to the fact that Michael had nearly dropped his cell phone in awe.
Michael’s mind wandered from his conversation with Karen as he speculated on the practicality of adding Playboy Publishing to Gibraltar Financial. That would certainly be a colorful discussion with the reporters and his own board. As he glanced over at Samantha, who was settling back in her chaise after a visit to the poolside ladies’ room, he was reminded that her still shapely, slim, and sexy body was enough stimulation for any man.