In a Heartbeat (23 page)

53

Ed heard her come in, he knew the special sound
of her heels on the hard vinyl floor, the movement of her skirt against her legs. . . . Her scent
was in his nostrils again, in his head, in his
heart. . . . Or what was left of his heart by now.
He felt as though it were on a downward slope,
each beat slower than the last, each breath
tougher than the last . . . each thought more effort than the last. It would be so much easier to
stop this fight, just to let go and slide effortlessly
into oblivion . . . into a never-never land where
there was no more jagged pain; no more disturbing dreams that were half-reality; no life. No
Zelda.

It was unthinkable, life without her. . . . Unbearable, that he might never hold her again. . . .
Unimaginable, that he might never hear her call
him honey one more time. . . .

“Honey,” she said, and her soft voice was like a caress. “I’m here with you, and this time I’m not leaving. You’ve got me for good, Ed Vincent, like it or not.”

Oh, I like it, I like it all right. . . .
He would have smiled if he could, but all he could manage was the next breath the machine gave him.

“Riley sends her best love and she’s looking forward to our Sundays together again. I don’t know whether it’s you or the Beluga, but this kid is anxious to go to dinner with you. You may have started something bigger than you thought.”

I can’t wait. Can’t wait to hear Riley laugh
again, that hearty rollicking little-girl laugh that
comes from her gut. . . . She can have an ounce
of Beluga all to herself, even though I guess it’ll
make her sick. . . . I just love that kid.

“And Harriet sends love, too,” Mel said. “She’s coping with Moving On, in my absence.”

He heard the grin in her voice and wanted to
smile too.

“Although of course she has to admit it’s not quite the same without me. . . .”

I’ll bet.

“And I love her to pieces, too,” Mel added thankfully. “She’s just the best friend, taking care of Riley and Lola—who, I know, would send you a great big ankle nip if she could only get at you. . . .”

Oh, that darn little dog . . . I guess I’m just
gonna have to live with it. Lola is a big part of
Riley’s life . . . that is, if I can only get my own
act together and live. . . .

“I’m going to be quiet now,” Mel said softly. “Let you rest, gain some strength back. Just know I love you, Ed Vincent, that’s all.”

She was kissing him, oh so gently, on the lips.
Or whatever part of his mouth she could get to,
with all the tubes and the ventilator and all. . . .
It was a happy thought to drift out to oblivion
on, to a peaceful place, out there in the blackness. . . .

Once again, Camelia was waiting to interview a man. This time it was Alberto Ricci, and the location was a sumptuous townhouse in Manhattan on East Sixty-fourth, with Bonnards and Picassos on the silk-paneled walls and swagged brocade draperies at the tall windows. Pacing impatiently back and forth, Camelia surveyed the priceless antiques and thought the place must have cost more than he would ever make in his lifetime. Yet, as Ricci came smiling toward him, hand outstretched, he did not envy this man one bit.

Inquiries had revealed nothing. Ricci was as clean as a whistle. No record, no black marks against him. Yet, there was something in his eyes, an emptiness that belied the warmth of his smile and the firmness of his handshake, his friendly slap on the back and his apologetic words.

“Of course I know Ed,” Ricci admitted now.

“Though not intimately. We often met at the same functions. You know what a generous contributor to charity Vincent was.
Is,
” he corrected himself hastily. “Like myself, he believes in helping others.”

I’ll bet you do, Camelia thought, glancing around at the plush surroundings.

“I just didn’t realize that my property dealings had anything to do with Ed’s misfortune. Even now, I still can’t believe this involved the deal. Jesus, Detective, do you think I wouldn’t have given up bidding for the property in an instant, if I’d thought there was any trouble?”

No, Camelia thought as he walked slowly back down East Sixty-fourth Street, hands thrust in the pockets of his dark suit. I don’t think that, Mr. Ricci. I think you know something I don’t know.

Mel glanced up as Camelia entered the hospital room. He looked the way she felt. Exhausted.

She got to her feet to embrace him, then held him at arm’s length, inspecting him.

“You look terrible,” she said.

He grinned. “Makes two of us. How about a cup of coffee?”

She glanced at Ed. The green lines on the monitor blipped calmly, endlessly.
Infinitely,
she prayed.

It wasn’t Brotski on duty outside the door, but a new uniform, a replica of the skinny kid in an oversized cop outfit with a shiny new badge. He got smartly to his feet as Detective Camelia emerged, and Mel thought tenderly that the poor young man looked bored. She guessed he had expected more excitement from police work than just long hours outside a closed hospital-room door.

She linked her arm companionably with Camelia’s as they stepped out of the hospital and headed for their usual deli.

“Where have you been?” she asked, sitting at the tiny plastic table opposite him. “I missed you.”

“Oh yeah, like the chicken pox you missed me.”

“It’s true, though.” She took a sip of coffee and smiled at him. “Anyhow, I kind of enjoyed chicken pox. It meant I didn’t have to go to school.”

“School? That means you were a very late chicken poxer. My kids had their fix in kindergarten.”

“I was always a little retarded, I guess.” She laughed and took his hand. “Really, though, Camelia, I missed you. It seems ages since Charleston and Mamzelle Dorothea.”

“It does. And since you asked, I was in London,” he said, ordering two toasted bagels with cream cheese.

“That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Your unhealthy pallor. All that gray rainy weather. And that hint of a British accent I’m hearing.”

“Bullshit,” he said with a grin.

“Okay, so what were you doing in London, besides losing weight and not sleeping?”

She was astute, he had to give her that. She noticed every darn thing, even that he had been awake for more than forty-eight hours now. “I was on the trail of our shooter.”

Her eyes grew round, but she said nothing, waiting. He told her about Scotland Yard and Khalid al Sharif, and about Alberto Ricci, while they munched on the bagels. They were not toasted well enough for his liking, but he was too spent to argue with the waiter.

“Ricci,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve read about him. Very rich, always at charity events with a glamorous wife in designer dresses. Quite the man-about-town.”

“Yeah, but the question is, how did he get there? His business dealings seem aboveboard, but they still don’t seem to account for that lifestyle. I mean, a Picasso costs. And so does a Bonnard.”

Mel’s eyebrows rose interestedly. “You recognized a Bonnard?”

He saw that she was impressed, and he grinned. “Like y’mean any old slouch can recognize a Picasso, but how about that Bonnard, huh?”

Mel blushed and he enjoyed the sight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it quite like that.”

“Sure you did. But that’s okay.” He shrugged. “I’m just a Sicilian cop, what do I know? Except I happen to love art. I take my kids to the Met and MOMA every chance I get. Which isn’t as often as I might like.”

“I saw my daughter yesterday,” she told him wistfully. “God, how I miss her.”

“Funny, isn’t it, how those scrappy yelling little babies grow into kids, and then into real people. And how they grow into your heart.”

“Like kudzu,” she agreed, remembering. It was such a relief to see him, to be with him, that the stress simply lifted from her aching shoulders. Like the aftermath of a great massage, Camelia simply made her feel good. Maybe too good, she thought guiltily.

Oh, God, Camelia was thinking, as he walked her back to the hospital. Am I glad to be back here. With her. It’s like coming home.

54

Gus Aramanov cruised slowly down Ascot Street in a silver Camaro, again rented using a fake driver’s license. Light shone from the downstairs windows of number 139 and he glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost eight. Surely the kid would be in bed by now. His own certainly would be, Lila made sure of that. She was a good mother, no doubt about it, and his boys were good boys. Like any father, he was proud of them.

It was unfortunate that the child would be in the house when he took out the mother. The idea disturbed him; he liked children. But he had no choice, he couldn’t shoot the woman at work, too many people around. So it would have to be in the home.

He parked the rental car in a strip-mall lot two blocks away, then walked back to number 139. This was a residential street and there was no one about. There rarely was, in LA, and besides, he had already staked it out and knew the movements of the neighbors; knew when the quiet time was, with everybody in front of the TV or out for the evening. Eight was the best time. Only the thought of the girl nagged at him, and he hoped again that she was already in bed.

The one streetlight was at the very end, and leafy trees cast a welcome extra shadow as he walked, unhurriedly, just in case anyone was watching, to number 139. He paused on the porch to pull on the black ski mask, then tried the door. It was unlocked. Of course, he thought. She was exactly the kind of woman who would leave her doors unlocked.

He stepped directly into the living room. It was lit by a couple of fringed lamps and was empty. From upstairs came the blare of a TV, and from the room to the left came the familiar smell of Chinese takeout. The kitchen, he guessed.

Gus palmed the Sigma .40, fitted with a silencer; this would be easy, it would be over in seconds. . . .

He listened for sounds of life. Nothing. Except . . . wait, what was that? He strained his ears, heard a faint scratching sound. Then a deep, heartfelt sigh.

Riley was sitting at the kitchen table, doing her homework, which tonight consisted of writing an essay on the merits of dogs versus cats. It was tough; she was so definitely a dog person because of Lola, who was, of course, dog perfection, and therefore she was having a hard time being totally fair to cats, which she liked a lot, but in her view they couldn’t compete with dogs. She shoved her hands through her bronze curls, glaring despairingly at the single paragraph she had written.

Dogs are better because cats don’t go
for walks with you, and they don’t play
catch at the beach, and they don’t like
chicken chow mein, and Lola likes all
three. And I like Lola because she is
my dog, even though she bites. Just little bites though, and I know she really
doesn’t mean it, it’s just her way of saying hello. Mom says she should learn
better manners, but somehow, she just
never does.

She was wondering if she had spelled “chow mein” right, when she heard the footsteps. She glanced up, expecting to see Harriet, who was in the back bedroom watching TV, with Lola asleep on the bed next to her. Harriet had said she was beat tonight, after a long day moving stuff, and Riley was running late with her homework, due to a TV program Harriet had allowed her to stay up and watch, plus the takeout Chinese, which was one of her favorites.

When she saw Gus, her eyes bugged and her mouth dropped into an O of surprise.

Gus stared, shocked, back at her. Then she reacted.

“Harriet!” she screamed. “Harriet, there’s a man here. . . .”

Gus heard Harriet’s feet pounding down the stairs and the yap of a dog. He stepped quickly behind the kitchen door, the Sigma cocked. He hated to do it in front of the kid, but he had no choice.

Harriet burst into the kitchen, preceded by Lola, and Riley just stared at her, frozen with shock. But not Lola. The dog sniffed Gus out, took a running jump, and got him in the thigh.

Gus flung the dog off him and backed up. The gun wavered for a second, and, instinctively, Harriet grabbed Riley. She thrust the child behind her, edging toward the door. Her heart was in her throat and her eyes were wide with terror. All she knew was she had to get out, run to the neighbors, call 911.

The dog still had its teeth in Gus’s leg and he slammed the gun on its head and watched as it fell back with a whimper.

Riley dashed from behind Harriet and flung herself onto the floor next to the inert dog. “You’ve killed her,” she screamed at Gus. “That’s my dog, mister, and God will surely punish you for this.”

Sweat rolled down Gus’s neck. He was out of his league. This wasn’t the way he had planned it. But then, he had never had to deal with a kid and a dog before, or at least not this dog. Attack Dobermans he could handle.

He pointed the gun at Harriet. Riley’s horrified eyes followed.
“Ohh noooo!”
she screamed. And then she tackled him like a Green Bay Packers fullback, taking him by surprise and bringing him down.

Gus kicked her away. He was dripping with sweat. This was turning into a farce. He hadn’t even seen the woman he was meant to kill.

Harriet leaped at him. She wrestled for the gun, he gave her a chopping blow to the neck, and she dropped to the floor.

“Oh no,
oh noo,
” the kid was yelling. “Nooo, Harriet. . . .”

Gus got to his feet. He backed to the door, the gun pointed at the child. “One move, kid, and you’re both dead,” he said. His accent was thicker than usual because he was so disturbed. This was all wrong. He was a professional hit man, one of the best in the business. Or at least he had been, until this Ed Vincent debacle. What the fuck was he doing, waving a gun at a kid?

“Stay right where you are,” he warned Riley. “I’ll be in the next room. You move, and I’ll kill you both. Got that?”

Her mouth trembled, but she nodded. She kept on watching him, big-eyed, as he backed out the door.

Then he was racing down the street into the car, gunning the engine. And he was gone, looping onto the Santa Monica Freeway, heading to the 405 and Marina del Rey, praying that the kid did as she was told until he had time to get away.

For a minute, Riley stayed frozen in place. She was too terrified even to breathe loudly in case he heard her. She stared anxiously at the unconscious Harriet, and at Lola sprawled next to her, bleeding from the head. She could bear it no longer. Let him shoot her, she had to get help.

Scrambling to her feet, she reached for the phone and dialed 911.