Death Logs In (31 page)

Dietrich was a slight man, like Ulricht in his seventies and impeccably dressed, but possessing a hyper-active, nervous persona. He sat, smiling again, twitching and endlessly moving or rearranging himself in the plush, rich leather chair.

“What a tragedy for Germany that our Fürher never had children. Germany—and the world—would embrace such a man today,” Dietrich said, his attention also seemingly drifting to another time.

Ulricht, sensing the drama going on in his friend’s mind, nodded in agreement.

Dietrich continued, “I must say that, spiritually, I always felt a special bond with the Fürher. I believe, in the absence of any natural heirs, he would have eventually wanted me to seize the mantle of his leadership. At the right time, of course.”

Ulricht stared at Dietrich, who was twitching once again in his seat, and pondered how the two of them could both feel the same sense of divine destiny propelling them to be the natural successor to his revered Uncle Adolph. In fact, Dietrich’s revelation left him momentarily speechless.

But Ulricht knew that this was not the time to argue over succession. After all, it was too late for both of them; right now, he needed Dietrich’s help, again.

Dietrich continued. “We must stick together, Hans. It is not the life our fathers envisioned for us but we must make do until our country and our party can re-emerge and we can reassert our natural dominance. We are already witnessing a great resurgence of the party in France and Greece—and, of course, in our homeland. And this time, we have even stronger friends inside the Church.”

Ulricht felt relieved by Dietrich’s tone but still troubled. “I am in your debt, Claus. This Hightower could have led the U.S. authorities to my door.”

Dietrich smiled, once again shifting his short, lean legs. “Your father and my uncle were good friends, both patriots. The reach of the people loyal to my society is vast. As you can see, our steel hand can reach a degenerate and touch them, even while they shower.” Dietrich laughed, his face alive with excitement. “I understand the authorities in that town in Connecticut—Greenwich—are still trying to understand an apparent plumbing problem in a certain home there. I marvel at the creativeness and superior intelligence of our followers. Who would have guessed that Nazis make such good plumbers?”

“I may still have a problem, Herr Dietrich. I hesitate to seek your assistance again, however.” Ulricht looked sheepishly at his drinking partner.

“No, please, Hans. I would like to help you. You must trust me.”

“It may not require such a drastic remedy. Perhaps, initially at least, just a threat will be sufficient. But there is a Jewish financier, an American, who may have knowledge, second-hand, of course, from Hightower, which could be damaging. His name is Jonathan Goldstein.”

Dietrich smirked. “Of course it is.”

Chapter 80

Bronx, New York

“T
his is a big game today,” Deacon Dan said.

Deacon Dan had been Michael and Samantha’s occasional personal driver for eight years. He was a friend and spiritual adviser to Michael, Samantha and Sofia. Although sixty-seven, he worked more than ever, first as a deacon at the Holy Rosary Church in Westport, as a guidance counselor at the high school, and also as the owner of Dan’s Driving Service. He presided over Sofia’s baptism and would likely do the same whenever she married. Michael had not utilized Dan very much recently since Sindy Steele was serving as both bodyguard and chauffeur. Michael was happy to be back in Dan’s new black Cadillac for the one-hour trip from Connecticut to the Bronx.

“Yeah,” Michael said, “It should be great weather too. I just hope the Yanks get out alive. They’re not playing that well lately.”

“I know, I’ve got Jeter, Hughes and Posada on my fantasy baseball team roster. They’re killing me.”

As they pulled up to the entrance to the stadium gate, Michael laughed, “Dan, you’ve got three jobs and a big family, but you never miss a beat with your fantasy team. And, I’ve noticed that every year you bitch and moan about your team—and then you wind up winning.”

“Well, not this year.” Dan said. “Where’s Miss Steele meeting you?”

Michael paused, wondering whether Dan’s highly developed intuitive powers had figured out the nature of his relationship with her. “She’s got her ticket. I’m meeting her at the seats—figure we could leave any time after the seventh inning. I’ll call you on your cell when we’re ready to go. What are you going to do?”

“I might catch a bite to eat up the road.”

Michael knew exactly where Dan was going. “So you’re heading up to Aqueduct?”

“You know, Michael, I do these things so I can avoid the
major
vices.”

Michael knew that the Deacon was a regular at the racetrack. “Have a great time, Dan. We’ll meet you at the entrance to the Hard Rock Cafe when we get out.”

Fletcher would be at the game, watching, but had promised to stay out of sight. Michael knew he’d be leaving the stadium alone. Fletcher had taken his own car and would come and go separately. With Samantha and Angie safely away for the long weekend, he knew what he needed to do. His stomach was already in knots.

After today, Sindy would be out of his life forever.

As he walked down the aisle toward the seats, the playing field with its magnificent bright green expanse of perfectly manicured grass came into view. It was as much of a surprise today as it was the very first time he had been to a major league ballpark. He still could recall that first time, as a child, holding his father’s hand, leaving the entrance tunnel to the stands at Yankee Stadium and coming upon the field, a green pristine stage, seemingly out of place surrounded by the monumental stadium.

Now, as he approached his seats, Michael remembered being in these same seats with his brother. For as long as Michael could remember, Alex had Yankee season tickets; four front-row seats in right field. They were typical of Alex’s tastes. He would never want to be in the “corporate” seats near home plate with all the “suits.” Yet, his seats were only 250 feet from home plate and, being in the front row, he felt like he was playing right field.

Today, nearly fifty-thousand people packed the stadium for the big holiday afternoon game with the Yanks’ bitter rival, the Boston Red Sox. An additional three million viewers sitting in their recliners in their family rooms and drinking beer and eating nachos at sports bars would be watching the big game on television. It was an exciting and festive atmosphere, Michael thought, as he greeted Sindy Steele, who was already seated on the aisle.

She greeted Michael with a peck on the cheek as she stood up, allowing him to take the inside seat on her left. For a brief instant, he thought it was odd that she didn’t simply move over and allow him to take the end seat. Maybe, he hoped, she felt he would be more protected with her on the aisle.

“Aren’t you a little hot?” Michael said, noticing her windbreaker, despite the ninety-degree temperature.

“I don’t know. It just feels a little breezy to me, I guess.” But Michael noticed that her attention seemed to be elsewhere. Her eyes canvassed the surrounding seats.

“Looking for someone?” he said.

She turned her attention back to him, grasping his arm. “Just you, Michael. Just you.”

As they rose for the national anthem, a man wearing a burgundy golf jacket and Yankee cap came down the aisle and settled into the seat directly behind him.

Chapter 81

Bronx, New York

A
t the end of three innings, the Yankees led the Red Sox 3-0.

Sindy Steele scanned the faces of the other spectators. Since she and Michael occupied the first two seats of the front row, she only had to look behind them and on their flanks. As they faced the playing field in front of them, the New York Yankee right fielder stood less than fifty feet away. The stadium crowd, always so diverse, was a difficult one in which to seek out potential problems. The only individual who caught her attention at all was the man seated directly behind Michael.

It was time, Sindy thought, to prepare. She reached into her right windbreaker pocket, felt for the subcompact Glock and gripped it with her index finger on the trigger. It was ready. She then placed her left hand into her left windbreaker pocket and massaged the smooth, surprisingly cool handle of the stiletto. If all went according to her plan, however, she would use neither of them. Then she reached below her windbreaker, into the pocket of her skin-tight jeans until she touched the small plastic wrapper containing the two cyanide capsules. She knew she’d only need one but brought the second in case the first became damaged or accidentally dropped. Using her fingers, just as she had practiced so many times, she slit open the top of the wrapper and pushed one of the capsules out and into her fingers. She glanced to her left at Michael. He was watching the game. She could feel the distance between them.

“Beer here, beer here,” the stadium vendor called out in his unmistakable New York accent. “Beer here, beer here.” Sindy turned around and could see that he was quickly approaching their aisle. She clutched Michael’s arm, tenderly, and said softly, “I’ll treat you. What could be better on a hot day than baseball and a cool beer?”

“Sure, thanks,” he answered, his attention riveted at the play on the field.

She got up to meet the vendor, who was serving the row of fans just one row behind them. She purchased two beers, and as she turned around to walk back to their seats, swiftly dropped a cyanide capsule in one of them. The natural white foam head on the beer covered up any reaction of the liquid to the lethal capsule.

Chapter 82

Bronx, New York

D
espite an underlying tension, Michael settled comfortably into the convenient preoccupation of watching the game. He planned on suggesting to Sindy that they leave their seats around the sixth inning and dine at NY Steak within the stadium where they could talk.

The low roar of over forty-thousand people nearly obscured the ringing of his cell phone. Annoyed at the interruption, Michael nevertheless fumbled through his pockets until he found it. He looked first at the phone’s screen; it read “Private.” Tempted to ignore the call, his eyes focused on the red and white uniformed batter at home plate and the big Yankee pitcher beginning his windup, he pressed the green button on the cell and placed the phone against his right ear.

“Michael, your killer is with you now.” The voice was Alex’s.

Michael looked around him. He saw a group of men behind him, what appeared to be couples on his left, and Steele, twenty feet away, approaching with two beers in hand to his right side.

“Alex, Jesus, where are you? How are you doing this? Who is this guy, where’s he sitting?”

“Michael,
it’s not a guy
.”

“What do you mean, it’s not a guy?” Michael whispered, fearing the answer but apparently knowing it as he subtly turned his body to the left, away from Steele, and trying to do so without drawing her attention.

“It’s that woman you’ve been screwing around with—she’s there with you, isn’t she?” Alex’s voice was rising.

“Yeah, and the Yanks are up, three-nothing,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant. He could feel her eyes on him.

Michael looked at Sindy approaching with the beers. He wondered whether she had brought her pistol with her to the game. It wouldn’t have been unusual since she usually carried it for his protection as part of her job.

She sat down in her seat, still holding the two beers, apparently waiting for him to get off the phone.

“Michael, I need to tell you something.”

“Hold on, I’ll be off in a second.” But just at that moment, Michael heard a strange sound coming through his phone. He looked at the screen; the connection was gone.

Michael looked back at Sindy. She held onto the beers. “Michael, I need to tell you something. In Paris, as I was leaving Rosen’s apartment, a woman entered. She had her own key.”

Michael was confused. Did he hear her correctly, he wondered? It came out of nowhere.

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” He reached for one of the beers. Sindy held them both away from him, just out of his reach.

“I didn’t tell you everything. I hid in a closet when I heard someone enter his apartment. Rosen had just gone out the window,”

“So? I don’t understand?” he said, thoroughly perplexed. The crowd cheered wildly in the background. Michael heard it but it sounded now like just background music to the main event that was happening between him and Sindy.

“It was your wife. She entered Bertrand Rosen’s apartment as I was trying to leave. She had a key. He was expecting her, Michael.”

As she spoke, he noticed that she held onto to both cups, watching his face, as though she was waiting for his response before allowing him to drink. He sensed the importance of the moment. He knew his words and his body language might have critical consequences. He suspected those consequences were in Sindy’s pocket. He looked for her Glock but, deep down, doubted whether even she was crazy enough to shoot him there in front of all these people in such close quarters. He thought about Alex’s words. And she was waiting for an answer.

“Sindy, why are you telling me this
now
? Why
here
? What’s going on? Are you telling me that Samantha was having an
affair
?”

She stared back in icy silence. “Does it make a
difference
to you? Does it matter that your wife was with Rosen?”

“Jesus, Sindy. Of course it makes a difference. But I need to find out what all this is about?”

“What do you mean, ‘find out what it’s about?’ What the hell do you think it was all about? She was
fucking
him.” She said, anger edging into her voice and contorting her face.

“Why didn’t you tell me before? I don’t understand what’s happening here,” he said, searching her face for clues. He looked around him for help, from what exactly he wasn’t sure, yet.

“I was trying to protect you. I wanted to deal with her first, to try and settle it with her. It didn’t work out the way I planned, so I’m telling you now.”