Murder in the North Tower Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PART I- September 2001

  CHAPTER 1: THE WANDERER

  CHAPTER 2: THE JOGGER

  CHAPTER 3: THE RUSSIANS

  CHAPTER 4: THE DISTRAUGHT BROTHER

  CHAPTER 5: THE LOST SOUL

  CHAPTER 6: THE TRAPPED MOBSTERS

  CHAPTER 7: THE GUILTY ONE

  CHAPTER 8: THE DUST MUMMIES

  PART II - THREE YEARS EARLIER

  CHAPTER 9: SPRING 1988

  PART III - AFTER THE FALL

  CHAPTER 10: THE JOGGER WORKS THE PILE

  CHAPTER 11: NADIA'S STORY

  CHAPTER 12: THE STRANGER - THREE DAYS' REST

  CHAPTER 13: GRIGGOR TAKES REVENGE

  CHAPTER 14: THE STRANGER AWAKENS

  CHAPTER 15: DRAGOS VASILYEV

  CHAPTER 16: THE STRANGER LANGUISHES

  CHAPTER 17: CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

  CHAPTER 18: THE JOGGER TAKES A BREAK

  CHAPTER 19: THE TWIN GAME

  CHAPTER 20: SIGNS OF COGNIZANCE

  CHAPTER 21: BADGER AND BAGS

  CHAPTER 22: THE STRANGER’S TATTOO

  CHAPTER 23: ALEKS AND STEP GET “TATTED”

  CHAPTER 24: THE STRANGER SPEAKS

  CHAPTER 25: TONY “OAK” KOWALSKI

  CHAPTER 26: THE JOGGER AND SHEILA CAHILL

  CHAPTER 27: JILLS

  CHAPTER 28: SEPTEMBER DRAWS TO AN END

  CHAPTER 29: OAK’S PROPOSAL

  CHAPTER 30: ALEKS AND SHEILA RECONNECT

  CHAPTER 31: SUCCESS AT STRATTON OAKMONT

  CHAPTER 32: MY NAME IS ALEX

  CHAPTER 33: A HEARTRENDING VISIT FROM FATE

  CHAPTER 34: I HAVE A TWIN

  CHAPTER 35: DEATH EMPTIES CHAIRS

  CHAPTER 36: THE STRANGER IMPROVES

  CHAPTER 37: ALEKS DESPAIRS

  CHAPTER 38: AT GROUND ZERO

  CHAPTER 39: On THE ROAD WITH OAK

  CHAPTER 40: JILLS REMEMBERED

  CHAPTER 41: STEPAN AND CONNIE

  CHAPTER 42: ALEKS VENTURES OUT

  CHAPTER 43: ALEKS MEETS STEP’S FIANCEE

  CHAPTER 44: “B” IS FOR BAGDASARIAN

  CHAPTER 45: THE STANTON-BAGDASARIAN WEDDING

  CHAPTER 46: GRIGGOR AND THE OMSK BOAR

  CHAPTER 47: A ONE-NIGHT STAND

  CHAPTER 48: THE MUSKOLOVS

  CHAPTER 49: THE AFFAIR

  CHAPTER 50: ALEKS COMES CLEAN

  CHAPTER 51: IN BED WITH THE RUSSIANS

  CHAPTER 52: ILYA'S BAGMAN

  CHAPTER 53: A FALLING OUT BETWEEN BROTHERS

  PART IV - STEPAN ERMERGES

  CHAPTER 54: PAST LIVES REVISTED

  CHAPTER 55: A SURPRISING REVELATION

  CHAPTER 56: ALEKS IS DEAD

  CHAPTER 57: STEP TAKES CONTROL

  CHAPTER 58: FACE-TO-FACE WITH THE BUTCHER OF BALABANOVO

  CHAPTER 59: STEP PAYS WINS STANTON A VISIT

  CHAPTER 60: THE PAYOFF

  CHAPTER 61: A GETAWAY GONE AWRY

  CHAPTER 62: HERE LIES DRAGOS VASILYEV

  CHAPTER 63: A NEW BEGINNING

  PART V - ALEKS BUILD A NEWS LIFE

  CHAPTER 64: THE JOGGER AND SHEILA

  CHAPTER 65: DINNER WITH THE CAHILL GIRLS

  CHAPTER 66: SHEILA LEARNS THE TRUTH

  CHAPTER 67: A SEED TAKES ROOT

  CHAPTER 68: AFTER THE HOLIDAYS

  CHAPTER 69: OLD FRIENDS REUNITE

  CHAPTER 70: ALPO AND OAK CATCH UP

  CHAPTER 71: a telltale reunion

  Chapter 72: THE BROTHERS ZOGU

  EPILOGUE - A NIGHT TO FORGET

  AUTHOR’S PAGE

  PART I

  SEPTEMBER 2001

  CHAPTER 1

 

  Nadia Nicolescu didn’t normally show much compassion toward strangers. Living in New York City for the past thirty years had calloused her. But, something about the tall man shuffling down the middle of Bleecker Street in the somber September dawn aroused her curiosity. And her sympathy. The way he had inexplicably materialized out of the dusky morning haze. The look of total loss in his vacant eyes. The dry creek bed of caked blood painting the side of his long, handsome face.

  Broom in hand, Nadia looked about her Village neighborhood. The few people who were out weren’t paying any attention to the injured man. Were too intent on getting from Point A to Point B. Wherever that may be. Work, most likely.

  Nadia felt compelled to act. She called out to the dazed man.

  “Sir? Sir! Do you need help?”

  Showing no indication he’d heard her, the injured man lumbered on. He shuffled slowly, in a daze, staring straight ahead. Nadia could see he was no vagrant. He was well groomed, stylishly dressed.

  She leaned the broom against the doorway to her restaurant, approached the tall man. Called out again.

  “Sir!”

  When the bewildered wanderer didn’t respond, she grasped him gently by one arm.

  “You need help.”

  She led him to a chair at one of the tables arranged neatly on the small patio in front of her brownstone bistro. A red neon sign in the window of the brick building spelled out the name of her restaurant. Nadia’s. Below it, in white letters, Serving Authentic Romanian & Hungarian Cuisine established the eatery’s niche. A smaller, non-neon sign presented an intriguing invitation, hinted at an inordinary talent waiting just beyond the door. Psychic Readings, Inquire Within.

  “Sit here,” Nadia said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She disappeared inside the restaurant. Returned moments later with a damp washcloth. Which she used to dab at the man’s head wound.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  The wanderer didn’t answer. He simply stared blankly. Unblinking.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  The tall man remained unresponsive.

  “You were mugged,” Nadia ascertained with certainty. “Damn negri (blacks)!” she spat. “They’re animals!”

  She glanced furtively about. As though checking to see if the guilty parties might still be lurking nearby. Or, perhaps, making certain no one had witnessed her outburst.

  Nadia’s was wedged between a realtor’s office and a currently empty storefront that had last been a used clothing boutique. Mr. Lucarelli, the realtor, was rarely seen. Never before noon.

  Nadia continued cleaning the stranger’s wound, examined it.

  “It’s clotted. But you need stitches. Griggor will sew you up.”

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 2

 

  A tall man jogged through Lower Manhattan as he habitually did nearly every morning. North from Tribeca through SoHo, the West Village. Looping through Greenwich Village, NoHo, Little Italy, Chinatown, the Civic Center. Five miles minimum. He preferred seven to eight.

  Athletic and fit, he breezed along smoothly. He was tall. Nearly six-and-a-half feet. And slender. He was dressed in a navy blue nylon workout suit. The long-sleeved vinyl jacket moving rhythmically with matching pants. He ran in size fourteen cross trainers.

  Ordinarily, his morning jog served to clear his mind. Help him relax. Prepare him for his day’s work at A/S/B Financial. Today was different. His pace was quicker. His route erratic. His thoughts on the night before. On the fight with his brother. On Connie.

  He stopped running in Washington Square Park, found a bench, sat with his head hanging between his long legs. Sitting suddenly upright, he spread his arms wide, raised his face skyward.

  Fuck! Fucking fuck fuck!

  He mentally screamed the words.

  That fucking bitch Connie! Goddamn her!

  But, he hadn’t been able to resist that fucking bitch.

  Now, Connie was dead.


  And Binyak (bin • yock). Dead as well.

  He couldn’t believe he’d killed his own brother. His twin.

  He’d never seen Binyak in such a rage. Could still feel his brother’s fingers crushing his throat. He unconsciously touched the tender, achy spots on his neck. Binyak had nearly strangled him to death. He’d merely reacted in self-defense. Grabbed the statue. Swung. Intending only to stop his brother. He hadn’t meant to harm him. Let alone kill him.

  It was all Connie’s doing. That teasing little whore.

  “I can’t believe I killed you, Binyak,” the jogger sobbed. “I can’t believe you’re dead!”

  He deliberated over what to do next. Call the police? Turn himself in? Or do nothing. Let them be found. Leave it for the police to puzzle out. Hadn’t he arranged things in hopes they’d think his brother and Connie had killed each other in a lover’s spat?

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 3

 

  Three men dressed in black stormed through the glass doors of Suite 8998 on the eighty-ninth floor of the World Trade Center’s North Tower. The offices of A/S/B Financial resided just beyond the glass partition separating the suite from the hallway. On the center wall, above a reception desk, the A/S/B logo conspicuously demanded all attention. “A/S/B,” in large black letters, arched above the strange silhouette of a black, two-headed eagle. “Financial,” also in large black letters, curved u-shaped beneath the eagle. The wall was painted bright red. In sharp contrast to the black logo. On either side of the reception desk, separate doors led to inner offices.

  The smallest of the three, a bald-headed man wearing a turtleneck, nodded at his two much larger underlings. The thugs flipped chairs, swiped several items and pamphlets off the reception counter. The bald man tipped his shiny head, directing the men to the door on their right. They entered, ransacked a neat, uncluttered office, didn’t find whatever it was they were searching for. Back in the reception area, they opened the door on the left, entered that office.

  Neither of the two thugs reacted to the sight of the woman’s body slumped against the wall. As though Death was someone they were accustomed to chancing upon. The bald man only grunted. Seeing that the woman was mostly undressed, he peered close for a better view, noted the gold letter opener protruding from her left thigh. He glanced at her face. The woman, a blond, was good-looking, attractive.

  “Shame,” the bald man muttered, pushing out his lower lip.

  He stooped, picked a heavy metal sculpture off the carpet next to the dead blond’s body. Though an uneducated man, he recognized Rodin’s work. The Thinker. He considered the statue’s heft.

  Two-and-a-half, three kilos, he thought. Heavy.

  He examined the statue, saw there were several strands of dark hair caked in blood on the base. He scrutinized the carpet more carefully. Almost missed the stain in the dark pattern in front of the desk. It wasn’t a lot of blood, but it was a significant amount.

  Someone besides this blond was injured here, the bald man determined. Badly injured.

  He pictured the blond swinging the statue with both hands. Crushing her assailant’s skull.

  Anger can be helpful ally. But where is other body? Maybe we check hospitals.

  It was imperative that he find Ilya’s Bagman. The boss would not be happy if Pavel returned empty-handed. Finding some money would help. But mostly, Ilya wanted blood. The bald man dropped the statue, stood.

  “They are not here, Pavel,” one of the two thugs muttered.

  The bald man pantomimed surprise.

  “You are certain, Dmitri? They are not hiding under piece of paper maybe?”

  Pavel spoke with the same heavy Russian accent as his underling. He lifted a sheet of paper on the desk to peek beneath it, then motioned as though to slap the larger man on the back of his head. He stopped without making contact. A framed photo on the desk had caught his eye. In it, two identical men, standing one on each side of the eagle logo on the wall in the lobby. They were tall men. Handsome. Their resemblance to one another remarkable.

  “Dvoynyashki (twins),” Pavel observed. “Identichnyye bliznetsy (Identical twins).”

  He quickly decided, given the opportunity, he would take either one. It wouldn’t matter to Ilya.

  The Russians found nothing else of any consequence in the second office, strode back into the reception area.

  All three heard the high-pitched whine. Overhead and growing louder. It was a noise none of them could place. The whine ended with a thunderous crash. The building shook. And the entire glass front of the A/S/B Financial office abruptly shattered.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 4

 

  The troubled jogger sat in Washington Square Park. His arms stretched across the back of the bench. His head back. His face tilted to the sky.

  Time to deal with this, he sighed. Still not certain what his next move would be. Return to the office. Call the police. Find a good lawyer.

  He slowly bent forward, stood to go. In the distance, the Twin Towers loomed. Like a pair of matching beacons. Summoning him.

  The tall man watched in astonishment as a ball of smoke and fire suddenly erupted high up from one side of the North Tower. Dark smoke instantly began billowing out of the building, blowing toward the sister tower. Though the smoke obscured any flames, it was obvious the North Tower was on fire. The damage to the upper fourth of its north face.

  As he considered what could have caused the explosion, the jogger was anxious, concerned. There were people in the Tower. They would be in danger. He tried to calculate which floors were burning. The explosion appeared to have occurred close to the eighty-ninth floor. The floor their office was on. The floor Binyak – and Connie – were on.

  The tall man instinctively reached into his pocket for his phone.

  Dammit! Don’t have it, he remembered.

  In his haste to leave the office the night before, he’d grabbed the wrong coat. Which meant he’d left his own coat behind. With his phone and his wallet in the pockets. He had his brother’s wallet instead. The twins having shared the habit of carrying their wallets in a pocket of their coats rather than in a pocket of their pants. Binyak’s phone had not been in his coat, however. The jogger assumed it had fallen out somewhere in the office. He’d planned to stop by after his run to retrieve his own belongings.

  And give Binyak his wallet back, he reflected morbidly.

  He looked toward the Towers again. Dark smoke continued to surge out of the north face of the North Tower.

  Who would I call anyway? he considered. Binyak’s not answering his phone today.

  Watching the Tower burn, the jogger grew nervous, panicky. A fire meant emergency response. Possible evacuation. Probably an office-to-office search. Someone was sure to find the bodies of his brother and sister-in-law.

  As if to confirm his thoughts, the sound of a lone siren could be heard wailing in the distance. Like a solitary coyote. It was soon joined by a chorus of others.

  The jogger was already distressed about his situation. He grew even more distraught. He knew he could never get to the Tower in time to prevent someone from discovering the two dead bodies in Suite 8998. Besides, authorities would never allow him inside the burning building.

  He visualized his brother and Connie lying on the floor. An emergency crew breaking down the door to move the tenants to safety. Only to find two who were beyond help. It would be a lucky detective fortunate enough to pull this case. With its convenient trail of evidence. His coat. His phone. His wallet.

  He hoped the statue with Connie’s fingerprints would throw them off.

  Around him, people on the street were pointing toward the burning tower. Commenting about it, aiming their phones toward it to snap pictures, video the event. The jogger heard someone say the Tower had been hit by a plane.

  Despite the early hour, and despite having drunk half a bottle of Scotch the night before, th
e tall man felt the urge for a drink. He trotted to the Bleecker Street Bar. One of their favorite drinking holes when attending nearby NYU years ago. He ordered a shot of bourbon, downed it quickly. Tapping a finger on the countertop, he spoke impersonally to the bartender.

  “Another,” he instructed.

  He downed the second shot. The bartender set a third on the glossy wooden surface. The tall man rolled the shot glass between his long fingers, peered into the dark liquor.

  He couldn’t stop thinking about his twin brother. About Binyak.

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  “Where are you, Binyak? Why are you hiding?” Stepan called out.

  “Shhhhh. Binyak. Shush. Baba will find us,” Aleks replied.

  They were eight years old. They were in the basement of the house of one of their parents’ friends. The friend had died. He’d been very old. Born in the old country. He’d fought in WWII against the Nazis. As was the custom in his village, the man’s corpse was seated in a chair in his backyard, dressed in traditional Albanian clothing. Sheepskin pants. A white tunic. A dark sheepskin vest. A qeleshe (kell • YER • shay): a white brimless felt hat. His rifle was cradled in one arm. A silver flask sat in his lap. His favorite pipe dangled from one corner of his mouth. A few carpentry tools had been placed on the ground near his feet. Along with bottles of his home-made beer and wine.

  Stepan had been terrified by the sight. Aleks intrigued.

  As the twins tagged along with their parents that day, many of the women in attendance had marveled over them. They pinched their cheeks, kissed them fully on the lips, leaving streaks of lipstick on their faces. Something both boys found revolting. The strong odor of perfume was overpowering. Nauseating. The women mourners wore their clothing inside out. Another custom from the old country.

  Most people attending the wake spoke shqip (shkeep). Albanian. The boys could pick out individual words here and there. Nene (nuh-nuh: mother), baba (father) and vella (brother) were all very familiar. But, they kept hearing the word “bin-yock-uh.” It was a new word. One they didn’t know, but one they enjoyed hearing.

  Finally taking the time to respond to the insistent tug on his sleeve, Baba had explained.