Death Logs In (20 page)

Just as she turned the corner at the foot of the stairs, she was relieved to see a glow of light coming from the half-opened door of the wine cellar. It would make the rest of the way a lot easier, she thought.

Until she took her first steps and she saw the man from the bar at Mario’s.

The door to the wine cellar was open, his large flashlight illuminating the room. He was holding two bottles of wine and staring at Michael’s computer. She began to turn around and head back upstairs when she heard Alex.

Chapter 46

Westport, Connecticut

R
izzo guided his powerful searchlight around Michael Nicholas’ basement. He had disabled the backup power system and activated the cell phone signal disabler. Samantha would be unable to communicate. The house was his.

But to his surprise, he heard the ring of his own cell phone. “What the hell?” he whispered, now regretting he had purchased the cheaper, Chinese cell phone disabler. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen identifying the caller, and decided it was one call he wanted to take.

“What’ s the matter, buddy, trouble sleeping?” he said softly into the phone while continuing to look around at the different parts of Michael’s basement that were illuminated. “She’s asleep upstairs. I’ve got their alarm system disabled and all their power off. There’s a big thunderstorm here so even if she notices, she’ll think it’s from the storm. Hopefully, she didn’t hear my phone go off. It’s not the best time for a fucking chat, you know.”

He opened a heavy door and flashed his light into the room. “Shit, this guy knows how to live. You should see the wine cellar he’s got here.”

“Actually, I sleep very well but I figured this would be good timing and I didn’t want to miss this moment,” Joseph Sharkey said.

Just days ago, Sharkey had called him. For years, Officer Rizzo would take envelopes stuffed with cash to overlook Sharkey’s various activities. For years, they knew they both shared the same bookie, Alex Nicholas, but this call quickly led to the realization they both had a common enemy, Michael Nicholas. Sharkey told him that Michael would soon be taken care of but getting Samantha first would be a way to ensure that he suffered before his own demise.

“John, don’t get sidetracked down there. Take care of her,” he said. Rizzo could feel his old friend’s familiar insanity.

“Hey, stop worrying, partner. I’m just going to grab a few bottles before I leave. I think this is expensive shit here. We can drink them when this is over and you and I celebrate.”

“Listen, you stupid fuck,” Sharkey was screaming now. “Forget the booze, get the job done. And I want you to send me the pictures. Don’t forget.”

But Rizzo continued to look around, fascinated. “There’s a lot of computer stuff down here too. I wonder what he needs all this for?”

Chapter 47

Westport, Connecticut

R
izzo knew he was pushing Sharkey’s buttons and enjoyed knowing that his new partner—with a temper much like his own—was thousands of miles away and helpless. “Hey, Joseph, I’m thinking maybe I should take some of this computer equipment he’s got here. I know some guys who’ll pay—”

“Rizzo—are you nuts? Who the hell wants his computer crap?” Sharkey was hollering again.

“Maybe there’s something good on it? Who knows what—” But Sharkey wouldn’t let him finish. Rizzo placed his hand over the phone to muffle the sound. He laughed, “Relax, you crazy old man.” He knew that would really get him fired up. “Why won’t let me get Michael at the same time. I could just tie
her
up and wait for him to come home and do them both; her first so we still get the maximum benefit, you see what I’m saying?”

“John, I’ll come there and kill you and her myself if you screw this up. Tonight just get rid of the bitch. Then wait for Michael to come home. These priests here are so fucking afraid of being caught; I don’t know what the hell they’re doing. I’d have finished him off a long time ago if I was there myself. Once he’s gone, the cops can’t touch me, they’ve got no one to testify about anything. I’ve got to get back, I’m going totally nuts here.”

Rizzo was hardly listening and, instead, was looking for a bag or box in order to put aside some of Michael’s wines. There was no way he was leaving without some wine.

“Don’t worry man, I won’t touch the computers,” he said, deciding to just leave some bottles of wine out on the floor. He’d come back downstairs after he finished his work upstairs.

“OK, listen. I’m going to take care of things now and call you later.”

He knew it was time to head upstairs but he saw something—a trace of light near the computers. He moved in closer and saw an Apple laptop. It was partially open; the screen flickering on and off. Perhaps Michael had left it on or forgotten to properly shut it down. It must be on its battery power, he thought. He opened it up and began poking randomly at the keys.

Alex Nicholas appeared on the screen.

At first he thought it was a computer photo album. “Hey, Alex,” he said, laughing while speaking directly at Alex’s image. But, just as he continued to leave, Rizzo could swear he heard Alex’s voice.

“Rizzo, what the fuck are you doing in Michael’s basement?”

He turned back and put his face close to the computer screen. “Alex? What the …”

“I said, what are you doing in Michael’s basement?”

“What is this, a fuckin’ joke? Are you hiding somewhere? Where are—”

“Never mind where I am, you asshole. I’m more alive then you’re going to be.”

Alex looked so real, his voice, the way his face looked, his expressions. But Alex was dead. Or had he faked his death to hide for some reason. Yet, something was slightly different, a little off. He couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Hey, what happened, Alex—did you owe out a lot?” Rizzo was laughing.

“If y
ou
want to stay alive, get out of my brother’s house. Now…”

Rizzo kept laughing, but it was now a nervous laugh. He didn’t know what to make of this, except he needed to finish what he’d come to do.

“Alex, just stay right where you are. I’ll be back.” No longer laughing, he turned to leave, but he heard Alex, still speaking.

“…And put the wine back.”

Chapter 48

Westport, Connecticut

T
he only light was from the sporadic bolts of lightning, preceding a house-shaking clap of thunder. She moved back around the staircase, hiding herself from the intruder’s view. She pulled her cell phone out of her robe’s pocket and pressed 911. “Call Failed” lit up on the screen. And with the power out, she knew the house’s phone system would be dead too. She could feel an impending panic attack battling her survival instincts.

She peeked back around the corner of the stairway, watching the man whose face appeared to be glued to Michael’s computer. Although there was no power for the projection unit, the laptop had an internal battery.

She was afraid to move, afraid to make a sound now. She gripped the handrail and looked again, staring at his face while he appeared to be mesmerized by the computer screen. Was he seriously speaking to Alex—just as Michael had done that night? Is that why he came to their house? Or had he simply stumbled on the computer while doing whatever he was doing in the basement? And why did he have two bottles of wine in his hands. Was this a simple burglary?

She heard Alex’s voice again—and the man laughed and quickly turned to leave. She saw his face more clearly. He was definitely the man she saw at the bar in Mario’s.

She stared a moment too long: he had seen her.

She had to get out of the basement. She turned around and quickly took the first step back up the stairs. Samantha and Michael had built the house ten years earlier. She knew every square inch, every step, but it was different in the dark. Turning to her right, she reached for the familiar feel of the thick curved oak handrail and began her cautious climb to the first floor.

As she reached the last step, she again fought the urge to panic, to just crumble onto the floor. But she had to keep going, through the blackness, aware that her imagination—in addition to any real intruder—was her tormentor, able to strike without warning with each step she took.

She had a slight head start on him, he wouldn’t know which way she’d turned at the top of the steps. It was her only advantage.

Now on the first floor, she turned to her left into the hallway that would take her to the breakfast room and then into the kitchen. On her way there, however, she would pass the door, on her right, to the powder room. It was always shut.

She placed her hand along the wall on her right as she moved. Her mind flashed back to scenes from the old movie thriller,
Wait Until Dark
, and she was the blind Audrey Hepburn, desperately trying to evade her own intruder. She reached out into the void, expecting to feel a body, a person, perhaps a muscular arm patiently waiting to grip her own. But she felt nothing until her hand, trembling, touched the partially opened powder room door. Who had opened it? Had this man actually gone to the bathroom when he arrived? Could there be more than one? She quietly continued along her way; the breakfast room was just ahead.

She reached out and grabbed the edge of the dining table, then the backs of a series of chairs, as she made her way through the breakfast room and toward the kitchen.

She could hear him coming up the steps. She turned around and could see an erratic spiral of light from his flashlight coming through the open basement door several feet behind her. He seemed to be playing it cautiously, not rushing headfirst and full speed after her. She had a chance.

A flash of lightning hyper-illuminated the kitchen ten feet in front of her. Another clap of thunder shook the house, vibrating her already-brittle nerves. She could feel her cell phone but she had no time to stop and look at it, even if it did work. She pressed a button without even looking, hoping something, maybe Michael’s speed dial would work. She tried to stop crying.

She finally entered the kitchen. And then she heard him again. The creaking floor, a sound she swore in her mind that she could actually feel, as though the plank flooring beneath her feet were carrying the vibration right up her spine. She had to keep going. Standing still wasn’t an option, not here, not in the dark. Where to now? The garage. The car. Lock the doors, press the electric door opener, and drive? But what was waiting for her between the kitchen and the car? Even if she made it to the car, she still had to get in, lock the doors, and try to back out while this man might be smashing her car window to get to her. She’d seen it in countless movies—and her worst nightmares. No one ever got away.

Another bolt of lightning silently flashed through the room, followed by thunder. But the light reflected onto the nearby black granite kitchen counter and in that split second, she thought she saw something amiss. The incongruity entered her brain before the visual image itself could appear in her sight, in the internal movie playing out on the darkened screen in front of her.

As she stepped forward, she moved her hand to the butcher block where the sharp knives were stored—and saw the empty slot where the largest knife should have been. Then the room went dark again.

She thrust her hand forward and gripped the first handle she could find, removing a weighty knife from its slot. She knew she had to keep moving. The mudroom and the back door leading to the patio and swimming pool were just ahead; the dining room and the main entry hall leading to the front door were behind her. Oh, God, this was no time to have to choose; she couldn’t afford to pick the wrong door.

The back door would lead to their secluded yard and pool. She feared the attraction of the black pool water to her killer. She visualized herself again; this time being trapped, in the dark, unable to see the face of her pursuer. No final flash of recognition or understanding. A motive she’d never discover, even in the last moments of her life.

The path behind her, to the front door, she thought would be her best bet. But, as she turned, she heard a noise, the light creaking of the floor. He was getting close. It was time to go the other way, to the mudroom and out the back door. She started and suddenly felt a blow, she’d hit something hard, knocking her feet out from under her, her knife grazing her thigh as she fell. At first, fearing it was him, she tried to scream, but no sounds came out. She felt her own warm blood dripping down her leg. She realized she’d run into two cases of wine that had been recently delivered and were still stacked on the kitchen floor.

Now he’d know exactly where she was.

She got back to her feet and bolted out of the kitchen. Now she had to get out of the house. With the butcher knife still in her hand, she willed her legs to move. She knew the distance by memory—six or seven large, quick steps through the last room, the mudroom. She made it to the door and reached for the doorknob—but the door was wide open. Was this how the intruder came in? She had no choice, she had to keep going. She could feel him behind her, closing the short distance between them. No matter what, she said, I’m going to hurt him, scar him. He may kill me, but they’ll be able to find him.

She stepped quickly out the back door, the cool night air focusing her. She was outside. Another sharp clap of thunder and a sequence of flashes. She could see the reflection of the swimming pool to her left and outlines of the patio furniture straight ahead. And then dark again. She felt he was behind her, but was no longer sure of how far. She could feel the goose bumps across her back. Was he somehow already
outside
, waiting for her to literally run into him? The lightning struck again. She saw no one in front of her. Nothing was moving, but the shrubs were tall and thick. They could hide anyone. The sliver of moonlight and the brief disconcerting bursts of lightning were all she had—both combined to illuminate fragments of life as she always knew it: the green manicured lawn, bluestone patio, Brown Jordan chaise lounges, the gas grill, the dark blue swimming pool.