The Cleopatra Murders

by Mic Palmer

“I thought it was you.”

  “You and a lot of other people. Why don’t you clean up? You’re safe now. The police will be here any minute.”

  “I’m ok,” she responded, “but I think I’ll wait outside, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Susan kissed him on the cheek then headed for the shattered door.

  The Russian almost seemed proud. “So now you’re a hero. How does it feel?”

  While Jack would have never admitted it, it felt pretty good “Why would you do this?”

  “It appeared you could use some help.”

  “You call killing innocent women help? I should blow your brains out right now.”

  The big man sat down on the couch and crossed his legs. “Now now, is that anyway to talk? I did save your life – not once but twice.

  Jack frowned, disgusted with himself for what now seemed obvious. “I should have realized I was being followed right from the start.”

  “You get yourself into some situations,” chuckled the murderer. “What I still can’t understand though is how with everything else that was going on, you somehow managed to fall into the hands of a bunch of drug dealers. Can you explain that?”

  Jack couldn’t help but grin. “Just lucky I guess.”

  “What was fortunate was that you fired off that gun. To tell you the truth I had dozed off. Two more seconds and you would have been done for.”

  “Sorry to disturb your nap.”

  “The worst of it was that dam Pit Bull. My leg is still bleeding.”

  Jack looked at his watch. “What a shame.”

  “Don’t be like that. I’ve made you a star.”

  “I hope you’re not waiting for a thank you.”

  The Russian let out a deep baritone laugh. “Hee, hee, hee. Someday I think you might feel differently.”

  “So who are you really?” asked Jack, somewhat more relaxed. “When we first met you sounded like you were right out of the Kremlin, whereas now…”

  The killer affected an accent. “You want cigarette Yankee.”

  “There it is.”

  Tossing him a Capri, the murderer let out a chuckle. “After being away from home for so long, I actually have to think about it.”

  Jack lit the cigarette on the candelabra. “And where’s home?”

  “Rostov Valiky. Have you ever heard of Lake Nero? My family used to have a house by the shore, not far from the citadel.”

  “Too bad you didn’t stay there.”

  “I would have loved to. You know how hard it is to get a decent plate of pirozhki in this country, but things – how would you put it? – got a little hot, so I resituated to London. Wonderful town. Like Rostov it was invaded by the Norse and to this day you can still see it in a lot of the women – beautiful! The only down side was that I was never able to apply for a medical license. For that I would have had to produce my records from home, which as you might imagine was not going to happen. But I got by. I even managed a position at the university.”

  “So, why’d you leave?”

  The large man had long yellow teeth and lumpy black gums, much like a dog’s. “For the same reason I left Russia,” he bellowed; “the effect I have on women.”

  “Effect?”

  “Of course; you must see it. When they’re around me something just clicks; it’s all very chemical.”

  “Really?”

  Pushing himself up with the aid of the armrest, the murderer stretched out his back. “Ultimately, it’s just a bunch of electrical impulses originating in the hypothalamus, hypophysis, and limbic system, but for them…” Putting his arms out as if they were around a dance partner, he began waltzing.

  Jack looked at his watch, in anticipation of the police. “You’re really quite the Romeo, aren’t you?”

  “I’m a lover of people.”

  “Is that what it is?”

  “You doubt me, but look at you. Look at the decisions you’ve had to make, the choices; look at the suffering you’ve been through and the actions you’ve taken; you’re like a different person.”

  “To you maybe.”

  “Could have the old Jack tracked down Pelletier the way you did? I don’t think so.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Bravo, by the way. Truly a brilliant series of deductions, but now it’s time to finish the process, and for that we’re going to have to raise the stakes.”

  Jack perked up.

  “I’m going to make one final gift to you Jack; I’m going to allow you to hold on to what you’ve learned, but in order to do so you’re going to have to make a truly momentous choice.”

  “You don’t need to do this.”

  “Oh, but I do. The truth is I’m dying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lung cancer.”

  “That’s too bad, but what’s that got to do with me.”

  “When I first met you, you seemed frustrated, discomfited, lost, and I thought to myself, one last great humanistic gesture.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The hulking figure began lumbering toward him. “It’s either you or me Jack.”

  Jack pointed the gun at his face, “Stop!”

  Smiling all the way, the professor kept coming, until finally he got one of his hands around Jack’s neck.

  A shot rang out. The larger man had been struck in the chest. Nevertheless, he wasn’t through. “Nothing worthwhile comes easily,” he grunted. Grabbing the gun, he tried to point it at Jack’s face, but Jack managed to trip him. The professor fell backwards, pulling Jack down on top of him. With the gun buried between the two a second shot was fired.

  Mentally scanning his body for wounds, Jack rose to his feet.

  “My name is Josef Ulianov,” said the professor. His eyes were distant and his voice a mere whisper. “Remember me.”

  “What happened,” said Susan, cautiously peering through the door.

  “He came at me.”

  Again she was hugging him. “That’s so sad.”

  “Huh?’

  “He was sweet in his own way.”

  The Russian was sprawled out on his back, with an almost childlike expression on his face. Having placed his hand in his pocket before he died, he was reaching for a single purple tulip.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Holding Susan in his arms, Jack felt as though they were back in high school. “Perhaps things would be different,” he thought to himself.

  “Drop the gun,” said a voice from the other side of the shattered door.

  Jack complied.

  “Who’s this?” whispered Susan.

  Pelletier was smug. He seemed impressed with himself. “Who am I? Why I’m the winner, of course.”

  “There were two of them,” Jack commented. “He’s the other one.”

  Pelletier picked up Jack’s gun with a handkerchief. “This will come in handy when you’re finally captured, but until then it looks like I have a free pass.”

  Knowing that Pelletier was right, Jack felt as though he had swallowed a bag of nails. Not only were his finger prints all over the place, but he had called the police from Phil’s phone. Worse yet the bullets in the Russian’s chest would soon be matched to the gun he had stolen.

  “I’m screwed,” Jack thought to himself. Without even needing to produce the murder weapon, the police would quite naturally assume that he and the professor were in cahoots with one another, but that for some reason Jack had turned on him.

  “What are you going to do with us?” asked Susan.

  “With him I haven’t decided yet, but with you…” Looking her up and down, Pelletier broke into a lascivious smile.

  “How did you find us?” interceded Jack.

  “I checked your phone and sure enough found her work number. Women these days just can’t seem to stay away from their jobs, not even if their lives depend on it.”

  The killer then turned to Susan. “That one phone call you mad
e to your office was all I needed. Justin by the way says hello.”

  Susan appeared incensed. “What did you do to him?”

  “I don’t think you’d be so protective if you saw how quickly he gave up your number, but don’t worry, he paid for it.”

  “Why?” cried Susan, her legs collapsing from under her.

  “Move!” ordered Pelletier, waiving the gun toward the glassless doors.

  “Where are we going?” asked Jack, walking in front of him.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” said the killer.

  Suddenly, there was the distant drone of police sirens.

  Pelletier opened the trunk of his Mercedes. “Get in.”

  Susan hesitated, causing him to jam the gun into her ribs. “I said get in.”

  Jack’s mind was racing. With Susan missing it would appear that he had continued to follow the previously established pattern, meaning that he’d be blamed for not only the previous crimes but any that Pelletier committed in the future.

  Having finally gotten Susan into the trunk, he turned toward his patsy. “Your turn.”

  With the police coming, Jack figured that this might be his last best chance to do something. Once Pelletier got them home, or wherever he was taking them, that would be it, but before he could even generate the impulse to strike, Susan had already kicked Pelletier in the gut, causing him to turn toward her.

  Jack grabbed the hand holding the gun. “Run,” he told her.

  Leaping out of the trunk, Susan kicked off her heels and took off down the path.

  Pelletier pulled the trigger twice, landing two slugs in Jack’s shoulder.

  Having fallen to the ground, Jack shouted to Susan. “Head for the woods!”

  Pelletier appeared panicked. If she got away, he’d be done for. Jumping into his car, he took off after her. Another hundred yards and she’d be gone.

  Susan panted, but she wouldn’t slow down.

  Pelletier, however, wasn’t playing fair. Bumping her with his car, he maliciously watched as she tumbled to the ground.

  Gorged with adrenaline, Susan barely felt it and before long was back on her feet, only to be struck again.

  “Stay put,” Pelletier yelled, while flinging his door open.

  The tree line, however, was just a few yards away. Racing for it, she could hear Pelletier thumping behind her.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” he shouted, as he lunged for her leg.

  Susan could feel his hands around her ankle. “No,” she cried.

  Quickly he ushered her back into his trunk, at which point he turned to Jack, now about two hundred yards behind him. Just then, however, he espied the lights from the police car. At most, they were a minute away.

  “Merde!” he cursed, as he drove away.

  Still in shock, Jack managed to get up and stumble into the house, where he retrieved Phil’s gun.

  “Shit,” he muttered, having begun driving. For the fact was there was no way to make it back to the main road without running into the police.

  Spinning around, he took off for the forest, not having any idea whether he could make it through; fortunately, the cold weather had thinned out the foliage. With headlights flashing over the merry-go-round of trees, he soon found himself on a steep hill overlooking a dirt road, but he took it too fast, causing the front bumper to smash into the ground and his head to thump against the steering wheel. The car, however, survived, and before long he was back on the highway.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  THIS IS A SPECIAL REPORT announced Betsy Tanner. JUST MOMENTS AGO AT A COTTAGE IN GLEN COVE, LONG ISLAND, JACK LORENZ SHOT AND KILLED A MAN REPORTED TO BE JOSEPH ULIANOV. LORENZ’S FORMER GIRLFRIEND, SUSAN BARTLET, HAD BEEN STAYING AT THE COTTAGE, BUT AS OF YET, IT IS UNCLEAR AS TO THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN HER AND ULIANOV. WHAT WE DO KNOW, HOWEVER, IS THAT MS. BARTLET HAS GONE MISSING, AND WE WOULD ASK THAT IF ANYONE HAS ANY INFORMATION ON HER WHEREABOUTS THAT THEY IMMEDIATELY CONTACT THE POLICE.

  AS TO LORENZ, HE WAS SPOTTED BY STATE TROOPERS FLEEING THE CRIME SCENE AND A HIGH SPEED CHASE ENSUED.

  AT THIS POINT IT IS UNCLEAR AS TO WHETHER LORENZ IS STILL AT LARGE, BUT IT’S BEEN REPORTED THAT ROADBLOCKS HAVE BEEN SET UP IN THE SURROUNDING AREAS. IT’S THEREFORE RECOMMENDED THAT IF AT ALL POSSIBLE, VEHICLES SHOULD STEER CLEAR OF ALL ROADS AND THOROUGHFARES NORTH OF THE LONG ISLAND EXPRESSWAY, BETWEEN EXITS 39 AND 40.

  THIS JUST IN, declaimed the newswoman, FROM OUR CONFIDENTIAL SOURCES WITHIIN THE POLICE. JACK LORENZ IS DEAD. I REPEAT JACK LORENZ IS DEAD. IN AN ATTEMPT TO EVADE THE POLICE, LORENZ FLIPPED HIS VEHICLE THEREBY SUSTAINING MORTAL INJURIES. I REPEAT, JACK LORENZ, THE MAIN SUSPECT IN WHAT HAS COME TO BE KNOWN AS THE CLEOPATRA MURDERS IS DEAD.

  Chapter Eighty

  Parked up the street from Pelletier’s, Jack turned down the volume. “They really went for it,” he thought to himself.

  Somewhat feverish, he reached for his shoulder. Although the bullets appeared to have gone right through without striking any major blood vessels or bone, it was tender, maybe infected.

  Upon fleeing from the police, he had stopped at Pelletier’s, but after about a few minutes realized he wasn’t coming back – not with Jack out there. It was then that he decided to reinsert the battery and run a quick search with Phil’s phone; “This is crazy,” he thought to himself, but soon found himself heading back to Manhattan.

  By about 8:00 PM he was parking Cassandra’s red Volkswagen on 84th street, just off Fifth Avenue. Apparently, she had kept her mouth closed.

  Picking the lock to the service entrance of a rather posh condo development, he bypassed the doorman, and took the elevator to the penthouse.

  Creeping down the hallway, he heard the door of the apartment he wanted to enter, thereby causing him to hide behind a column.

  The man who exited gave a stealthy glance up and down the corridors. Straightening his tie, he patted down his rather mussed up silky white hair and began closing the door.

  Jack cracked a grin. For it was none other than the great Bill Butler. Flashing Phil’s gun, he told the journalist to get back inside.

  Having not yet pulled the door shut, Butler silently reentered the apartment, as Jack followed.

  “Oh my God,” said a comely blond in a terrycloth robe.

  “Not a word,” instructed Jack. “Now sit.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Butler.

  “Don’t worry, I just want to talk.”

  Positioning herself next to Butler, on a black leather love seat, Betsy Tanner’s robe broke around her thin but muscular thigh.

  The apartment was surprisingly cluttered, with an abundance of tables, lamps, books, statuettes, and baubles. On the walls were black and white photos of fleeing children, bombed out villages, and quite a few of the newswoman dressed in crisp new army fatigues.

  Sitting down across from them, Jack couldn’t believe his luck. “I was just looking for Ms. Tanner,” he told them, “but I’ll take it. The more the merrier, right?”

  “What do you want?” asked the woman.

  Jack became deadly serious. “You know Susan Bartlet?”

  “You’re old girlfriend,” said Butler.

  “Right, well the real killer’s got her, and if we don’t do something soon, she’s dead.”

  “The real killer?” commented Tanner.

  Finally, Jack got to tell his story, right up to the events at the cottage. He felt as though a load had been lifted.

  “The police were coming while you were still there?” inquired Butler. “Why didn’t we hear about it?”

  Jack didn’t like his tone. “It was only about an hour ago; maybe they want to keep it quiet for a while.”

  Bill Butler couldn’t hide his skepticism. “Are you telling us that two separate killers just happened to stumble upon the same modus operandi at exactly the same time?”

  “You see their methods as being the same?”

  “Of course not,” interjected the woman, “but you have to admit �
�� two unrelated killers decide to wrap their victims up in carpets and leave them out in the open, both within a few hours of each other? It’s a bit much to swallow.”

  “Maybe so, but that’s what happened. I mean look at the different carpets involved.”

  Butler wasn’t convinced. “But what about all those references to Cleopatra. You mean to tell me they came up with that independently of one another?”

  “That was your doing,” admonished Jack. “After the initial coincidence, which happened to involve the carpets, you guys went out of your way to create a name, which apparently they liked.”

  “They liked the attention,” offered Betsy, mostly to placate him.

  “Exactly,” responded Jack. “And once they had a narrative to work with, they did everything they could to reinforce it.”

  “I always thought there were two of them,” said Butler.

  Betsy Tanner, however, wasn’t so sure. “And you found the other killer, all on your own, based on the carpets?”

  “That’s right.”

  The female journalist seemed somewhat impressed. “This rug merchant, what’s his name, who is he?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” said Jack, now thoroughly saturated.

  The woman noticed a dark spot in the area of Jack’s left shoulder. “You’re still bleeding?”

  “Like I said, it’s just a flesh wound.”

  The female reporter appeared concerned, but Jack didn’t buy it. “Let me get you some peroxide.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “How is it he didn’t kill you?” asked Butler.

  “I told you, he wanted me alive, as an alibi.”

  “I have a fresh bottle,” said Tanner, beginning to stand up.

  “Stay where you are,” barked Jack.

  “What do you need us for, anyway?” asked Butler. “Why don’t you just go to the police, tell them what you told us?”

  “What are you kidding? With what just happened? They have enough evidence on me to fill a book. I can’t take the chance.”

  Butler seemed to be thinking.

  “I don’t know,” said Tanner.

  Jack, however, was insistent. “Look, the only way this guy’s going to go home is if he thinks I’m out of the picture. That’s it. Otherwise, Susan is as good as dead.”