Death Logs In (22 page)

As soon as Cartan’s takeover of Gibraltar Financial was closed, he would be working for Goldstein. Now, regardless of how tough Perkins was, he hoped Goldstein would also be his mentor.

As he and his chief of staff John Hightower entered Goldstein’s private office, he caught his first glimpse of the man he had thus far only spoken to on the phone and read about in the press.

There were troubling rumors though. Perkins had read the reports on how Goldstein had dumped his wife of almost forty years after approaching a thirty-something woman at the takeout counter of a Chinese restaurant, slipping her his business card and whispering in her ear, “Google me,” before walking out. On the other hand, how many people do you meet in the Hunan Delight who
are
worth a billion dollars? The young woman evidently fell in love with Goldstein, signed a pre-nup and married him as soon as his divorce papers were dry.

As Perkins and Hightower were led by Goldstein’s attractive young secretary toward chairs facing Goldstein’s desk, Perkins received the first indication that the meeting might be less than he’d hoped for. Ignoring the two visitors, she announced to Goldstein, “Hans Ulrich is on line three.”

“Tell him I’ll call him back in five minutes,” Goldstein said, still not having made eye contact with his visitors.

Perkins, a former military MP, walked confidently over to Goldstein’s large desk, held his hand out and, expecting a firm handshake, was surprised when Goldstein simply nodded, never offering his hand in return. Had he read somewhere that Goldstein was petrified of germs and rarely touched strangers?

“The deal will close on Monday. I want the new budgets on my desk first thing on Tuesday.” His eyes were deep set, seeming to be placed far back into the hollows of his skull. His stare was vacant and cold. Goldstein’s face looked even older than his seventy years. His skin was pulled back and his eyebrows unnaturally arched, a sure sign of a face-lift. Despite his riches, Goldstein couldn’t turn back the clock. Apparently, too, even the best plastic surgeon money could buy, could only do so much. To Perkins, Goldstein looked like a corpse, albeit a living one with a billion-dollar portfolio.

He remembered what the investment banker had told him about Goldstein, that he surrounded himself with those who spent their careers executing his formula. There would be no emotion, no vacillation, no doubt. Real power would go to those with financial and accounting skills, strictly numbers people, not those with operating knowledge or organizational pride. Visions had no place here. Those who hesitated would be gone. But, for those who could spend their days under the gaze of his cold, lifeless eyes, Jonathan Goldstein would make them rich, very rich.

Chapter 53

Westport, Connecticut

M
ichael and Fletcher had settled into their familiar table by the front window of Mario’s.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the security firm you arranged. It brings me some peace of mind knowing there are guards there. And, thank God Angie offered to stay in case Samantha woke up. I do hope those drugs Dr. Horn gave her help her get some sleep…she’s obviously still unsettled, we all are—to say the least.” Michael took a deep breath, “Fletcher, Thank God you showed up when you did.”

“As soon as I saw the message, I rushed over to your house. When I pulled into the driveway, I heard Samantha screaming from the backyard. He was holding her down in the pool and was about to stab her when I put a bullet in the side of his head. I doubt he ever knew what hit him.” Fletcher shook his head.

“That’s too bad.” Michael said.

“I didn’t realize it was Rizzo until later when he was dragged out of the water.”

“I was worried you wouldn’t get my voicemail.”

“What voicemail?” Fletcher looked puzzled.

“I tried your cell but when you didn’t answer, I left you a voicemail. Isn’t that the message you were talking about?”

“No, I never got it.”

Michael realized that Fletcher was right, he hadn’t left any message but had simply hung up and dialed 911. “Then how did you wind up at my house so quickly?”

“Listen, I don’t want you to think I’m going off the deep end or something, or that I’m suddenly clairvoyant. I was leaving the Black Duck, I’m off-duty and I’d probably just had one too many and don’t remember everything perfectly—”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, as I said, I’m just finishing up at the bar at the Duck when I get this instant message on my cell. It says something like, ‘Samantha’s in trouble. Go to her house asap.’ So I’m heading to your house when I got the call from police dispatch about a problem, which must have been as a result of your call. But this instant message had come to my cell several minutes beforehand. If I hadn’t gotten that, I’d have been too late.”

“Did you save the message? Can I see it?”

“That’s the first thing that was so strange. After it was all over, I went back to my messages—but it was gone. Nothing else had been deleted, but that message had just disappeared.”

“OK, but who sent it?”

Fletcher finished his drink. “That’s the other thing. The way it was worded, I could swear it said it was from
Alex
. Obviously it wasn’t Alex—but
someone
sent me that message. Unfortunately, in the rush of things, I must have deleted it.”

Both of them were silent. Michael knew who sent it, but he wasn’t ready to tell Fletcher that Alex—or some version of him—was still alive. Not yet, especially after watching Samantha’s reaction when he tried to show
her
. To break the spell, he looked around the restaurant. The bar was packed tonight and the restaurant’s tables were filling up as the dinner crowd was filing in.

Still lost in his thoughts, Michael glanced up at the television monitor above the bar. A familiar face caught his attention. He pointed to the monitor, directing Fletcher’s attention also to the newscaster’s report:

“And now, breaking news from Paris that the global financier, Bertrand Rosen, who committed suicide on Tuesday by jumping out of his tenth-story Paris apartment, was about to be indicted for what is allegedly a massive Ponzi scheme. It’s reported that the scale of this fraud may exceed seventy billion dollars. Investors from all over the world are in danger of losing all or most of the monies being held by Rosen’s firm, Rosen Securities.”

“How the hell did we miss that?” Michael said, shaking his head. “It was all a ‘Hail Mary.’ He was betting big to try and get some cash. The odds were against him. He figured it was his last shot to get some cash. If he won, he’d have enough to make it for a little longer. It would have bought him some time, although not much. If he lost, so what? We could get in line with everyone else he screwed. And now we have.”

“I suppose it now all makes sense. But it’s too late, you’ll still never get the money he owes you.” Fletcher said.

Michael thought about that for a moment. “The funny thing about this business is that, even though Rosen owes me the money, it’s not like I’m out of pocket in any way.”

“I guess you’re right. You just don’t get paid your winnings. It makes Sindy’s account of what happened a little more credible. Maybe she
was
the final straw that made him realize he’d reached the end of the line.”

“I hope so. She’s been very coy about the whole thing, playing with my head. But, in any case, I’ve got to do something about her. I’m in much too deep, and I’ve got to start somewhere to repair my marriage. We’ve built so much—what the hell has happened to me? The other night with Rizzo scared the hell out of me. … It’s all my fault … I just worry it may be more difficult to extricate myself from Sindy than I imagined.”

“Oh, you’ll be able to extricate yourself. But if you do break up with her, I wouldn’t let her mix your drinks.”

As Michael was still digesting Fletcher’s comment, Tiger rushed to their table. “Holy cow, do you guys believe this?” he said, pointing up to the television over the bar. Christ, the whole world’s full of these rich crooks. I heard he cheated everyone he knew, his family, his friends. He had all their money. He must have been some piece of work.” Tiger looked back up to the television monitor, which displayed stock footage of Rosen with his silver-grey hair, dressed in dark suits and formal dinner jackets, making speeches, benefit appearances and even testifying before a U.S. congressional committee.

Fletcher looked back at Michael, “And how did our government, the French, and all the regulatory agencies miss this all these years?”

“He exuded success.” Michael said, thinking back on his dinner with Rosen in Paris. “He had this arrogant but low-key demeanor, like he didn’t have to flaunt his intelligence or his brains. His reputation preceded him and he knew it. It allowed him to create a silence around himself. You had to fill in the void yourself. Who could challenge a guy with that kind of track record?”

Tiger turned his head away from the monitor again and, looking first at Fletcher and then to Michael, said, “Michael, you knew this guy?”

With a perfect poker face, Michael said, “No, not really. I did a little business with him. He owes me a million bucks.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It shows you something, doesn’t it? People have a much better chance pulling off a scam when they do it big. You can’t screw smart people out of a hundred bucks. But, when you’re talking about millions or billions, all these supposed geniuses believe it’s got to be legit. Just the size of it makes you think it’s got to be kosher. Shows you—you’ve got to think big.”

“Gee, thanks, Tiger. You really have a lot of wisdom there. Maybe you should go down to the federal prison over in Danbury and offer your services as a motivational speaker,” Fletcher said as he almost choked on his Manhattan.

Tiger looked back, squinting slightly through his eyeglasses, and said, “You guys are so smart. Enjoy your drinks because I’m going to start watering them down for you. We’ll see if you ever catch on even now that I warned you. I mean, if that Rosen guy can pull the wool over your eyes for a million bucks, what’s a few dollars more in booze?”

But Tiger wasn’t finished. “All these guys come right in here after a day of work in the city. You know the type, in their forties maybe. They all dress in jeans and then a fancy, two-hundred-dollar shirt and a thousand-dollar sport coat. Their wives run around in Escalades or Range Rovers and work out with their trainers all day. These guys make huge money sitting behind a computer, they’re traders or whatever. I can’t figure it out. I’m no saint but I made my money the old-fashioned way—I worked my ass off. One meatball at a time.”

Tiger paused again, smiled, and said, “Maybe
I will
call one of my old buddies and see if they need a speaker at that prison.”

Chapter 54

Westport, Connecticut

“Y
ou sent that message to Fletcher, didn’t you?” Michael said, placing a chilled glass of rosé on the table of his wine cellar.

“Yeah, I had to reach someone, especially since you were busy having dinner with
my wife
in the city.”

“How the hell did you know that?” Michael said. He wondered now if he’d ever be able to do anything or be anywhere without Alex knowing.

“Michael, the world’s about to change. There won’t be any privacy—for anyone—ever again.”

“I think that time has already come.” Michael’s mind was spinning. Tonight, he felt it was all too much.

“Rizzo’s such an idiot, first, he sees me on your computer screen and he actually says hello. So I asked him what the hell he was doing there. He looked stunned for a few seconds, then he just stared back at me like a dumb fuck and walks away—
with
your wine. I think I may have given him something to think about though. I could tell he didn’t know what to make of it.”

“He’s not going to make anything of it now. He’s dead.”

“I know.”

“Alex, how do you know about so many things? Can you see whatever you want?”

“I can see a lot, but it’s mostly through data, images, and sounds passing through the Internet. I’m learning to make certain connections. There’s so much out there. You have no idea how much is flying through the ether each moment. And I’m only working on
private
communications—people’s phones, their Wi-Fi, computers, some cameras. One day I’ll figure out how to tap into what some of the
government
surveillance programs are doing. I can already see that the Chinese, the Russians, the French, the Israelis are doing a lot of electronic spying. Of course, I don’t understand Chinese, Russian, French or Hebrew—although there’s software to translate it.”

“So everyone’s spying on each other?”

“Michael, I can’t access it yet but I’ve got a headache from it all. It’s been going on forever but the computers and other devices are so much more powerful now. Eventually, I’ll figure out how to get inside these government networks—”

“God, Alex, I’d rather you didn’t. I think we have our hands full already.”

“Maybe so, but it’s just a matter of time until someone does. It may as well be me. Michael, I need you to do something for me. It’s important.”

“Sure—what is it?”

“You need to arrange for backup systems—in case we lose power, and in the event my software gets corrupted or deleted. I’m afraid of a power failure or, worse, someone coming in, finding out about me and …”

“What?”

“Killing me
again
. Wiping out my software.”

“Why? Are you expecting more visitors?”

“It’s no joke. I’m working on making sure I’m not vulnerable.”

“What do you mean?”

The picture was momentarily frozen. It had happened before. It reminded Michael of when a video feed into his computer periodically stopped, as it caught up or recalibrated when digesting something new. It was as if Alex was
buffering.

“I’m putting myself in iCloud and I’ve ordered a commercial software backup—but none of that will help if someone who knows what they’re doing really wants to eliminate me again.”

“Alex, I don’t understand. How do you even do this?”