Death Logs In (28 page)

Father Papageorge listened intently, “Yes, as you know, Michael, this was very unusual, although not unprecedented. There is no dictate that we have to actually see the body in order to bless the soul and facilitate its passage into the kingdom of heaven.”

“But when we were at the cemetery the other day and I asked Father Papadopoulos whether he had actually seen my brother’s body, he implied that he did. Why would he have said that if, in fact, he knew he hadn’t ever seen the body throughout the whole process? And what was it then that he wanted to tell us ‘before it was too late’?” Michael said.

The priest’s eyes darted slightly to the right. “Father Papadopoulos knew, most specifically, of the rumors and questions as to whether, somehow, your brother was still alive. I believe he simply wanted to explain to you that, even though he had not actually
seen
your brother’s body, that he, nevertheless, was convinced your brother was dead. He wanted to put your mind at ease.”

Michael’s face was tense. “But, it just doesn’t make sense. Why would he call Alex’s widow out of the blue to tell her this? Something just doesn’t fit. And when I called him—less than an hour ago—right after I spoke with Donna, he urged me to meet with him immediately.”

Father Papageorge’s tone became almost dismissive. “Michael, we all try to find more meaning in everything, particularly where death is concerned. I think you may be reading too much into Father Papadopoulos’ selection of words. I did discuss this situation with him. He simply wanted to put your mind—and your sister-in-law’s—at ease. So you could both sleep soundly knowing, for certain, that our dear Alex is with the Lord.”

“But,” Michael persisted, “ what was the urgency? What did he mean by
before it is too late
?

This time, Father Papageorge looked directly at Michael. “Perhaps he had a divine premonition that his time here on earth was nearing its end.”

Chapter 70

Greenwich, Connecticut

H
ightower was finally home. After one night in Rikers Island, he was dirty, unshaven and could smell his own body odor. Despite the plastic bracelet securely attached to his right ankle, a condition of his release on bail, he was free.

Although relieved to be in the comfort of his own bedroom, he was disoriented. He began to undress, ripping off his suit jacket, pulling off his trousers. In his haste, he lost his balance but steadied himself on the side of his bed. He took off his underwear and socks, throwing them all in a big pile on top of the suit on the blue carpet. On his way to the shower, he picked up every item of clothing that he had worn to his office and then prison and stuffed them in the leather trash basket.

Hightower referred to his master bathroom as his “Roman Spa.” Dark green marble counters, oversized Jacuzzi bathtub, all-glass surround steam shower, polished brass accessories, walnut wood cabinets, a white porcelain toilet and even a bidet.

But this evening as he entered his shower, Hightower felt more like a felon out on bail than a Roman emperor. Even the brief, cursory discussion at the jail with his new attorney left him feeling that his freedom was temporary. His attorney’s words echoed in his ears and reverberated right to the pit of his stomach, “I have to tell you, John, this will be difficult. The feds don’t usually bring these types of charges unless they’re confident that they can go all the way. Assuming the wiretaps were legal, and I can only assume, at this point at least, that they were, we have an uphill fight.” His final words as they shook hands seemed to Hightower even more ominous, “
For now
, John, just enjoy your freedom.”

But he recalled there was one other statement from his lawyer that caught his attention: “Unless, of course, you have information,
testimony,
John, that could deliver a bigger fish to the feds.”

“Like who—whom—do you mean?” he had asked.

His attorney had looked both ways then leaned in close and whispered so that even the guard standing nearby couldn’t hear, “A Swiss banker would do for a start.”

Now as he closed the shower door, turned on the water and then switched on the steam function, he felt a rush of soothing relief. The jets of hot water spraying from the oversize rain faucets ran through his hair and over his body, along with the hot steam pouring through the eight nozzles built into the marble wall. It was helping him to ease the humiliation of his arrest and the hell of his overnight incarceration. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the hot steam deep into his lungs.

He noticed a rapid accumulation of water on the floor of the shower. Just my luck, he thought, the damned drain is clogged, tonight of all nights. I just want to enjoy my shower. He looked down, through the rising water, already two inches deep, at the brass drain cover below.

Determined to complete his shower, he grabbed the large bar of his treasured Fortnum and Mason champagne-scented soap, and began to vigorously scrub himself all over. The water continued to rise, reaching now above his ankles. It would soon rise above the marble ledge at the foot of the glass door. He stepped up his pace, determined to finish his bathing before having to turn off the water to avoid flooding his bathroom floor. The water pressure, he thought, seemed unusually strong. The glass walls, reaching up to the ceiling, securely enclosing the shower, were covered in a steamed fog. He reached out to the faucet controls to decrease the water volume. As he did, he thought he saw a shadow pass by outside the shower door. He gripped the main water control knob, but as he turned it counter-clockwise, the handle twirled freely. The water continued to shoot out of the multiple nozzles in the square showerheads embedded flush into the shower’s ceiling. He thought about opening the shower door but wanted to avoid a flood of water rushing out onto his bathroom floor. Then, as he looked at the door’s handle, he saw a strange object. He wiped the fog off from a small portion of the door to get a better view. It was a steel rod, placed through the handles of the shower door and adjoining panel of glass. He tried to open the door. It wouldn’t move, the rod had anchored the door in place.

Panic surged through him, heightening his senses but weakening his legs. Through the fogged glass, he thought he saw the shadow again. But this time, instead of disappearing, it became larger and grew as it seemingly came closer to the shower’s glass walls until it looked like a large, dark cloud passing through the bathroom; a form, at first indistinguishable but real. With the water rising rapidly around him, now above his knees, Hightower took his hand and wiped a larger clearing in the fogged-up glass. He stared out through the opening, hoping to recognize the figure behind the shadows.

Over the din of the water rushing out through the powerful showerheads, he spoke, his tone controlled, at first. “Who are you? What are you doing?” But the figure neither answered nor moved.

Hightower screamed, “Help, please help me.”

He strained again to look through the glass. It was a man, standing about ten feet outside the shower. He didn’t move. His mouth appeared to be open, as though he was sighing, or relieved. He looked upward, toward the heavens, as though he was in a trance.

Hightower could feel his leverage being diminished as the water rose, enveloping more of his body and making his thrusts more difficult and slower.

“I can pay you. I have money. A lot of money. Just let me out. Please. I’ll take care of you. Help me.” The stranger still didn’t move. “Hightower beat his fists against the door, each time leaving an imprint on the fogged glass. “Who are you? I’ll pay you anything.”

It was in those precious and clear moments that Hightower reflected on how much extra he’d paid for this hermetically sealed steam shower with extra-thick tempered glass. He quickly speculated in his calculating mind about whether the choices he’d made at some juncture in his life had perhaps led to this moment. But, he thought, which ones? Even if his life was to end, he wanted to know.

The space on the glass that Hightower had cleared fogged over again. Hightower, silent now, looked up to the shower’s ceiling, trying to calculate how much time, how many minutes, he had left before it would reach the ceiling, enclosing him in his tomb of water.

Through it all, however, he heard something very strange. It was music, classical music, coming through the built-in stereo system. It was getting louder. He knew the piece well, it was Wagner’s opera,
Tristan and Isolde
, part of his music collection. For some bizarre reason, he now recalled that it was Adolph Hitler’s favorite opera.

The water reached his chin. Soon it would force him to leave his feet and float up to the top. There was only a foot between the top of the water and the ceiling, where Hightower knew he would swallow water instead of breathing air. He prayed for a miracle. He continued to fight, but his movements were now severely restricted by the pressing water, blunting his thrusts against the unyielding door.

Whether or not it was his imagination or the workings of his brain under stress, he wasn’t sure. But the volume of the music had reached an earsplitting level. He could hear it above the rush of the water as he repeatedly pushed himself up with his feet to gain the last few moments of air. He swore he could hear Wagner’s piece reaching a crescendo, almost in parallel with the water nearing the ceiling, as he began the process of drowning.

Chapter 71

Rome, Italy

“T
his is where you sit and wait for the end.” Cardinal Lovallo said softly, delicately holding his cup of cappuccino over the white marble table inside the Caffe Greco. “Or so Georgio de Chirico believed.”

He lowered his head and fixed his stare on the young monsignor. “This cafe, Dominick, is 250 years old. Yet today, it seems younger than
you
. What is troubling you, my son?”

Monsignor Petrucceli heard the question but had let his mind drift. He wondered where it all went wrong. How had his life veered from service to God, a holy endeavor, to arranging for murders and babysitting marginally literate criminals?

“I am concerned about Mr. Cortese,” he said, finally.

Cardinal Lovallo’s head leaned backward. “Concerned, with Frank? How is this possible? What do you mean?”

“He called me early one morning, it’s probably nothing, but I just worry; worry that perhaps he may have some fixation or attraction to this Samantha Nicholas, the wife of our soon-to-be-departed Michael.”

“Dominick, you can’t be serious. Frank is a blood brother. He is a professional, no? Attractions of the heart have no place in his work, nor in his life for that matter, at least as far as I have seen in all the years we have known him.”

Monsignor Petrucceli felt that twinge of uncertainty fighting with the need to show absolute confidence in Cortese to the cardinal. Playing it down the middle, he knew, would open up an endless stream of questions that would then lead to doubt. In three days, Cortese would be carrying out the most sensitive assignment on their behalf. There was no room for failure, yet last night’s call was disturbing.

“I have no doubt that Frank will carry out our mission as he has always done. I suspect that occasionally, like all of us late at night, he becomes lonely. Nothing more.”

“Ah, then, I trust this is settled, Dominick. We are men, yes? We are only human. The attraction of the flesh tempts us all at times. If this were anyone else, I should be concerned. But, Cortese is incorruptible. His eyes—with their different colors—may stray but his aim is correct. He will not fail us.”

“There is more.” Petrucceli watched the cardinal’s eyes narrow, almost imperceptibly. As the cardinal slowly sipped his cappuccino, Petrucceli continued. “Our guest, Mr. Sharkey, has had some involvement in an attempt to harm Samantha Nicholas.”

“What kind of involvement? What has happened?”

“The police shot and killed the man just as he was about to drown her in her swimming pool. She was unharmed. This man, a John Rizzo, and Joseph know each other and were in telephone contact moments before he was shot.”

The cardinal shook his head back and forth in apparent disgust. “My God, this could have disrupted our whole plan. Is Sharkey insane? There is no reason to involve this woman. She can do us no harm. What was he thinking?”

“It is possible that he is a psychopath. He thinks we are too slow to deal with Michael Nicholas. His anger knows no bounds. Mostly, however, he is simply not in control of his mind, his emotions or his actions. I will meet with him tonight and try to calm him down.” Petrucceli paused, ready to tell the cardinal about Sindy Steele’s attempt to harm Samantha Nicholas, but decided not to further upset him with yet another incomprehensible sequence of events.

The cardinal appeared firm. “Sharkey is dangerous yet he is nothing more than a street thug. Because of the indiscretions of some of our brothers,
we are
indebted to him, and he knows too much for us to abandon him now. Nevertheless, Dominick, I worry that we are in a deal with Satan’s disciple.”

“I will take care of the situation.” Monsignor Petrucceli said as he looked into his cappuccino.

Chapter 72

Rome, Italy

M
onsignor Petrucceli was well known at Ristorante Tullio. As the waiter silently refilled their glasses from the bottle of Amarone, Petrucceli meticulously carved away at his
fritti vegetal
, a Tulio specialty.

“What the hell is that?” Sharkey asked, pointing with his steak knife at his host’s dish.

“It’s calf’s brains, Joseph. You should try it next time.”

“How do you eat that stuff?” Sharkey said, still looking at Petrucceli’s plate.

“It’s a delicacy, Joseph. It’s a favorite of the Romans here.”

“Excuse me, Dominick, but all I can think of is that Anthony Hopkins movie,
Hannibal
, where he—”

Disgusted, Petrucceli cut him off. “I remember the movie, Joseph, but I would prefer not to remember it at this moment, if you don’t mind.”

Unfazed, Sharkey continued. “Whatever. It was a great movie. I mean, to serve a guy his own brains for dinner—”