Death Never Sleeps (7 page)

“Samantha and I are locked inside the master bedroom.” Michael moved toward the other end of the room. “I’m looking out the front window. I see the patrol cars out front. But, Fletcher, someone’s inside the house. He actually called us, first from the library downstairs and then from the bedroom right next to us here upstairs.”

“Okay, Michael. Just stay where you are. Don’t leave the bedroom. I’m on the radio with my men now. They’re going to enter the house through your front and back doors. We’ve got officers all around the house. They know you’re in the master. Just stay there. I’m pulling up to your street myself. Just don’t leave the bedroom and don’t open the door until I tell you to.”

“Fletcher, there’s something else—he spoke to us, from
inside
our bedroom.”

“What do you mean, from inside your bedroom?”

“I don’t know, Fletch. We could hear his voice like he was right here in the room. But I don’t see anyone. The doors to the dressing room and the closet are open, but I haven’t gone in there to look.”

“Don’t. Don’t go into the closet or the dressing room. We’ll do that. Stay put until I tell you otherwise.”

“Fletcher, another thing.” Michael looked again in the direction of the blue illumination. “There’s a strange blue light, like an LED or laser or something. It’s coming from the other side of the room. I didn’t notice it until the power and the lights went out. It’s very small. I haven’t gone near it yet.”

“Is it flashing?”

“No, it’s a steady blue glow.” Michael felt like he could read Fletcher’s mind.

“Michael, is it ticking?”

“Jesus, Fletcher. No. There’s no sound that I can hear from it. And there are no little digital numbers counting down, if that’s what you mean.”

“Okay, Michael, we’re just turning down Imperial Road, we’re a minute away.”

It seemed like a very long minute before Michael could hear a commotion downstairs as half the Westport police force, led by Chief Fanelli, entered the house.

“Police! Don’t move,” the command repeated as officers moved throughout the house. The police radios were abuzz with chatter and static. Looking out the window, Michael saw the lights from the surrounding homes, one by one going on. He recognized several neighbors standing on their front porches. He realized too that this was the second police scene he had been in the middle of in less than four hours.

But as he retrieved his cell phone from the night table where he had left it, he noticed something unsettling: the screen was still lit up, indicating the last digits Michael had tapped in when he had begun dialing 9-1-1. And only a flashing 9 appeared.

“How did Fletcher know?” Michael said to Samantha.

“What do you mean?”

“How did Fletcher and the police know to come to the house?”

“You called him, didn’t you? On your cell, I saw you.”

“Samantha, the call never went through. I only got as far as the 9—see?” Michael watched as Samantha stared at his cell phone screen, the 9 blinking, a stark reminder of the unfinished call.

Chapter 12

S
amantha was trembling. She looked stunned by what was happening but alert to every sound, her eyes darting from the blocked bedroom door to the opened doorways leading to the dressing room and closet. While keeping an eye on the strange blue light, Michael took her again in his arms. “Don’t worry. The cops are here. Fletcher’s here too.”

“But, Michael, how did they find out? What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

“We’ll deal with that later. Right now, let’s be thankful they’re here.” He handed Samantha her robe and put on his trousers and a sweater. “Come on, let’s get dressed.”

The bedroom lights came back on. Michael looked at the spot where the blue light had been. It was nearly impossible to see now. His cell phone rang. “Michael, it’s Fletcher. We’re outside your bedroom door.”

“Did you find anyone in the house?” Michael asked anxiously.

“No, not yet anyway. You can open your door now. We’re going to secure you guys and search the rooms off your bedroom—and check out that light. Samantha must be crazy in there.”

Michael pushed aside the bureau as he unlocked and opened the door. Samantha, in tears, hugged Fletcher as four uniformed policemen with guns drawn walked swiftly by them and proceeded to check out the rooms off the bedroom.

“Oh my God, Fletcher. He was here, on the phone, in the house, and then … We heard his voice—and that laugh, that horrible laugh, here in the bedroom.” She looked around the room, as though she was now unsure of what she had seen and heard. “Somewhere here. But I don’t understand.”

“Where’s this light?” Fletcher asked, his eyes scanning the room. Michael pointed to the far end of the bedroom, to a spot near the door to the bathroom.

“Over there, around the sculpture,” Michael said, pointing to a white polished-marble sculpture at the other end of the room, near the door to the bathroom. “But once the lights came back on, I lost it.”

He watched as Fletcher walked to the spot and stared at the Picasso-like cubist rendition of a woman’s head sitting atop a glossy white wooden pedestal. It was twice the size of a normal head and distorted, with only one giant eye. Michael could see that Fletcher had spotted something else. It appeared to be a small white box, about the same size as a pack of cigarettes. It was cleverly camouflaged, wedged securely inside the white marble cubist sculpture. Fletcher cautiously moved to within inches of the mysterious box, pulled it out of its crevice and then examined it, turning it over in his hand.

”It’s one of those home monitoring devices. It’s got a camera, a speaker, and a microphone all built in. It connects to someone’s computer through the Internet. They can see everything going on and even carry on a conversation with you. If the light level gets too low, as it did when your power was cut off, it has an infrared blue light that kicks on, enabling it to see in the dark. I’ve seen these used by law enforcement to monitor people on home confinement or early release programs.”

“So someone actually broke into our house, planted this monitor in our bedroom, connected it to his own laptop through the Internet, and then went around the house and called us on the phone?” Michael said. His mind wandered back to Russell’s murder earlier in the evening, and in another part of his brain, he wondered when to break that news to Samantha.

“You got it,” Fletcher said. “But he must have come into your house earlier to plant the device. He then either left and returned, or …” Fletcher stopped, looked at Samantha, and took a deep breath, “he stayed in the house and hid out waiting for the right time.”

Samantha let out, “My God, I was out most of the afternoon. Do you mean he may have been in the house for a while, just watching me and waiting? He was here while I was alone, before Michael came home?”

Fletcher and Michael exchanged concerned glances. “Right now, Samantha, we’re not sure exactly what happened here.” Fletcher said as he watched the faces and signals of the parade of officers as they approached after checking out every corner of the house. He stepped aside and conferred with the one who appeared to be his next-in-charge. The officer spoke, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s all clear; no one’s in these rooms, Chief.”

Fletcher resumed speaking with the officer and then turned back to Michael and Samantha. “As he said, everything’s okay now. But not only didn’t we find anyone hiding, we can’t even find any indication of a break-in. The doors to the outside were all locked, although with most of your locks, they could have been relocked easily by someone on their way out. Except for some damage we did to your doors getting in, nothing appears to have been disturbed.

“We’ll let you look yourself in just a few minutes in case you see something out of place that we might have missed. Other than the monitoring device, there’s no trace that an intruder was here. For all we know, he came in, planted the electronic devices, left the house, and controlled everything, including your phone system, from a car a block away.”

“Maybe, but we heard someone actually trying to turn the door handle,” Michael said, pointing to the bedroom door.

Fletcher appeared stymied until he appeared to have a revelation. “It was probably a clever sound effect that they piped through the system.”

“But, Fletcher, we
saw
the knob turning,” Michael said.

Fletcher’s face tightened. “Listen, I have to admit this is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Even from my days in New York.”

The unfinished 9-1-1 call was eating away at Michael and, he guessed, at Samantha, too. He was sure Samantha understood that he was perhaps treading carefully, waiting for the right time to pose the question to Fletcher as to how he knew there was an emergency at their home.

But before Michael had the chance to ask, Fletcher posed his own question. “Michael, when did you get a police scanner, you little devil?”

“What do you mean?”

Fletcher smiled, a sarcastic look on his face. Michael recognized the look, the one Fletcher used when he was sure Michael was trying to put something over on him. “Come on, how do you think we got the emergency call? It came through to headquarters on a two-way transmitter, the kind they sell with the police scanners.”

“But, Fletcher, I don’t have a scanner or transmitter, whatever the hell they are, and I never sent any message to you guys. I did start to dial 9-1-1 on my cell phone, but you called on the house line before I ever finished dialing. I’m serious.”

Fletcher appeared confused. “That’s impossible. Who called in then on our police frequency?”

Michael thought for a few seconds, unable to process another strange occurrence. “I don’t know. I can only imagine,” he said.

Fletcher looked totally perplexed.

Michael was silent, his mind now wandering back to Queens. He was hesitant to bring up Russell’s murder now with Samantha already in shock.

“This is just too bizarre,” Fletcher continued. “You know all we get in Westport are either burglaries or kids causing trouble. But this doesn’t fit either of those. Samantha’s jewelry here wasn’t touched, and no burglar is going to call you on the phone and install an expensive monitor in your bedroom—and I can’t even begin to think about how we were notified. It’s all too dangerous and sophisticated for a juvenile prank. This guy was a pro. Who would want to do that?”

Samantha looked at Michael and said exactly what he was thinking from the moment he realized the alarm system had been disabled, “This has to be connected to your brother.”

Fletcher jumped in, saving Michael from having to speak. “Michael, you always purposely stayed clear of anything to do with Alex’s business though, didn’t you?”

Michael knew Fletcher was in a delicate position as both his close friend and a local law enforcement officer. Not that Michael had done anything illegal, at least not yet.

After an awkward silence, Michael looked at Fletcher, then at Samantha, and said, “We need to talk. There’s another murder I need to tell you about.”

Chapter 13

New York City

November 13, 2009

T
he Carlyle had hosted presidents, dictators, kings, queens, divas, and princesses, but tonight it sheltered Donna Nicholas in a junior suite and her private security guard in an adjoining room.

Michael stood in the lobby and watched as Donna emerged from the elevator, each step loudly announcing her arrival as her heels seemed to prance to a silent marching band on the white marble floor. All she needed, Michael thought, was a baton or a stripper’s pole.

She was dressed to kill—another short black dress showing off her long, slim legs and thigh-high leather boots with six-inch black-and-silver stiletto high heels. A diamond necklace drew the eye to the center of attention: Donna’s perfect breasts, a triumph of silicone technology and Dr. Simonetti’s genius. As always, she showed just enough cleavage to attract every male set of eyes in the lobby. Her Chanel No. 5 preceded her by just a few seconds and followed her for much longer. Michael took in her scent.

Until now, he felt he had never really noticed her before. She looked enticing, even seductive. He put that thought quickly out of his mind.

“Donna, you look great.” As he said it, Michael wasn’t sure he was comfortable with how it came out. He helped Donna put on her full-length mink coat, which she was carrying over her arm.

“Well, thank you, Michael. That’s unusual for you to say. I’m flattered.”

Michael was unsure how to take that remark and decided he really didn’t want to know. He figured it would have something to do with the distance he had always kept from his brother and any of his wives. “Let’s get out of the hotel. How about Cafe Boulud across the street? I have a reservation for us.”

“Michael, that’s perfect.”

Fortunately they didn’t have far to walk. Manhattan was bitter cold, made worse by a strong November wind blowing through the streets. As they crossed Seventy-Sixth Street and then Madison Avenue, the entrance to the discreetly elegant restaurant was just a few doors ahead on the left. As they entered under the green canopy and into the small reception area of the restaurant, a breeze of warm air enveloped them. It felt comforting and secure. They were both efficiently relieved of their coats and shown to a quiet and private table in a cozy alcove off to the left.

The waiter, obviously assuming they were a couple, politely offered to seat them side by side. It was a favorite choice for Michael when he dined here with Samantha. Besides the natural intimacy of the arrangement, they both enjoyed the view of the room and the ongoing show of New York nightlife that paraded by. Before Donna could respond, however, Michael quickly interjected, “No thanks, we prefer to face each other.”

The restaurant had a full house of well-heeled and smartly dressed New Yorkers. Michael watched as Donna took in the room. “Michael, that’s Regis Philbin and his wife, Joy, over there on your right. Oh God, I see Mayor Bloomberg and Oprah sitting in the back. This place is unbelievable.”