In a Heartbeat (26 page)

62

It was eight-thirty on Friday night. Camelia was having his anniversary dinner with Claudia at Nino’s. He had brought her flowers, bold, scarlet-tipped pink roses; he had ordered the Antinori Chianti Riserva; and he had a gift for her, a diamond heart necklace. He knew that she thought all he had gotten her were the flowers, and he had the box in his pocket, ready to surprise her later. The evening was going well.

Mel had spent a long day at the hospital, by Ed’s bedside. Now she needed to take time out with Riley. She kissed him tenderly, told him she would be back in a couple of hours, said, “Wait for me, honey. Just don’t go anywhere, okay?” She kissed him again, squeezed his hand, stroked his hair.

Ed heard her leave, though somehow, now,
the sound seemed more distant. No matter how
he fought against it, the blackness was claiming
him more and more often. . . . An endless gloom
where there were no dreams to sustain him . . .
no love to be felt . . . no words of comfort. . . . He
was alone on a sea of endless night. . . .

Come back, my love,
he wanted to yell after her.
I know Riley needs you, and I’m being selfish . . . but I need you, Mel. . . . I want you. My
body wants you, my head wants you, my heart
wants you. . . . What’s that old song, “All of
Me”? That’s about where it’s at between us, my
love. . . . Only now I’m so tired . . . it’s getting
harder and harder to fight it. . . . I’m losing this
battle, and don’t want to leave you. . . . Only
you are keeping me here, Mel . . . my honey. . . .

Mario was being careful to cover his tracks, and the jet he chartered from LA was from a different company. It landed at LaGuardia, the same location where Aramanov had bungled the hit on Ed.

This time Mario was traveling under the name of Michael Miller. Miller was his mother’s family name—Ellin Miller Rogan. And he had used his father’s name, Farrar, on the trip to LA. He didn’t know why he was drawn to using their names at this point, except somehow, with Ed finally about to join the rest of his murdered family, it seemed appropriate.

Mario had his foolproof alibi all set. From LA, he had called a doctor, complaining of cardiac problems. He had arranged to check in at the Manhattan hospital late that evening, ready for a complete physical the next morning, with a preliminary angiogram to check for arterial blockages, and the possibility of an angioplasty to destroy any clots they might find.

Mario knew the ropes. He had undergone both these procedures recently and understood what to tell the cardiologist to get immediate attention.

He checked into a private room and was asked to remove his clothing and put on a hospital gown. He did as he was asked, climbed into the narrow hospital bed, submitted to his temperature being taken, as well as samples of blood. Then he told the nurse he was going to sleep and asked her not to disturb him.

“Sure,” she agreed, “you have an early morning ahead of you, Mr. Miller. Best to get some sleep while you can.”

He watched her walk out of the room, waited ten minutes, then he got up and put his clothes back on: a black shirt, black sweatpants, and a thin lightweight Adidas jacket, purchased in LA. He laced up his sneakers, adjusted his clothing, combed his hair. He opened the small bag he carried. It contained only a neatly folded white coat—the kind that doctors wear—a couple of ballpoint pens, and a clipboard holding some official looking notes.

Zipping these items securely under his jacket, he opened the door and peered out. In the hospital, things had eased down into the night routine and the corridor was in semidarkness. At the end he could see the brighter glow of the nurses’ station and hear the murmur of voices.

The emergency-exit sign glowed green over a door to a stairwell at the opposite end of the corridor from the nurses’ station. Keeping close to the wall, he hurried toward it.

The fire door was heavy and he had to be careful not to let it clang shut behind him. He eased it back into place, then took stock of his surroundings.

He was in a concrete stairwell lit by harsh overhead lights. A red-painted number indicated he was on level four. He knew that the intensive-care unit was on level ten.

He put on the doctor’s coat and stuck the ball-points into the pocket. It made him look more official, as did the small clipboard with the sheaf of “notes.”

His sneakers squeaked on the metal treads at the edges of the steps, and the stairwell smelled strongly of disinfectant. He pulled a face; he hated that smell. And it was a long way up to level ten. He was out of breath and the muscles in his thighs were burning by the time he pushed open the tenth-floor fire door, just a crack.

He could see that the layout was the same as on the lower floor, with the nurses’ station in the middle. And there was no cop on guard. He guessed maybe by now they had given up on Ed. He smiled. Finally, he was in the right place, and at the right time.

He slid the Kahr K9 from the Alessi ankle holster. He loved that small gun, it fit into his hand like it was tailor-made, and because of its slim shape it was easy to conceal. A full eight-shot 9mm Parabellum, it used +P+ ammunition and had a low recoil. It reminded Mario of his first gun, an old Browning, with which he had killed his first man, a business competitor. Things didn’t change much.

Sweating heavily, he stepped out into the long, shiny, antiseptic corridor.

63

Camelia was in the middle of his main course, osso buco, a favorite, when his pager beeped. Heads turned; there were glares of annoyance and he coughed to cover his embarrassment. He had deliberately left his cell phone in the car so they wouldn’t be disturbed, but the pager was his umbilical cord to the department. He couldn’t live without it.

He apologized to his wife, got up, and walked into the foyer to answer it. He was discreet and noncommittal in his replies, and when he was done, he walked back to their table and sat down again. Claudia knew what was coming: it was the story of her life.

Camelia told her that there was a break in the Ed Vincent case. He had to get back, things were happening fast. She understood, but it hurt.

“I promise you we’ll celebrate all over again,” Camelia said as he paid the check. “Next week,
tesoro.
” He had just put Claudia into a cab and watched it drive away, when he realized she had forgotten the roses.

Camelia called Mel at the hospital. She wasn’t there, so he called her at the penthouse.

“What’s wrong?” She got the sudden feeling he was the voice of doom, come to impart some terrible news.

“Nothing’s wrong. Can you meet me at the deli in about fifteen minutes?”

She didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be there,” she said.

They ordered coffee and a danish. Mel was looking at him, big-eyed, waiting for him to tell her what was going on that was so urgent. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and a baggy white sweatshirt that said LAKERS on it, and her short hair was shoved under a baseball cap.

She was, Camelia thought, a ray of California sunshine on a dark Manhattan night.

“Sorry to drag you out so abruptly.” He took a bite of the cheese danish. It was soggy, obviously from this morning’s batch, and he put it back on the plate, disgusted. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Just stressed.

Mel ignored her coffee. “So, what’s doing?” she asked.

“We got our hit man.”

She lifted her head, their eyes locked. She said,
“Oh my God. I don’t believe it.”

“You can believe it. LAPD found him, out at the marina, on his boat. Dead.”

She drew in her breath. “Dead?”

“A single shot to the temple. Looks like suicide, but they’re not sure. They’re checking it out.”

It was the first time he had ever seen her speechless.

“The final irony, huh?” he said. “The hit man blows his own brains out.”

She shuddered and covered her eyes with her hands. He suspected she was crying, and waited awkwardly, not knowing what to say.

Mel took a deep, shaky breath. “Okay. I’m okay now. It was just a shock, y’know. The relief of knowing it’s all over. Finally.”

He hated to be the one to disillusion her, but he had to say it. “It’s not all over yet, Mel. We have our hit man. But we still don’t have the guy who hired him.” He put his elbows on the small table, leaned close. “He’s our true killer.”

Her malt-whiskey eyes widened as they stared into his. He saw the pupils expand and knew he had shocked her. Her face was so close that he could have kissed her.

“Oh,
Marco,
” she said in a trembly voice. “Ed is still in danger. I have to go to him.” And she was on her feet, grabbing her purse from the chair where she had slung it, spilling its contents.

He guessed this was a frequent occurrence and he wasn’t the first guy to get on his knees and help her pick up her stuff: the sunglasses; the spiral-bound pads; the pens; lipsticks; keys; old store receipts; unpaid bills; a couple of McDonald’s little giveaway toys that belonged to Riley; stray coins; an ancient wallet; a small leather photo frame with a picture of Ed.

She clung to his arm as he walked her back to the hospital. “I’d better get back to the precinct,” Camelia said as they strode up the steps into the lobby. “Will you be okay now? On your own?”

She nodded, but he could tell from her face that she was nervous. It was as though, with the death of the hit man, she now thought Ed might be dead too.

He watched her walk to the bank of elevators, then stood on the steps, contemplating the night. Cool, misty, unseasonable. He felt in his pocket for the Winstons and his fingers touched the little velvet box. He groaned. Claudia’s anniversary gift. Would she ever forgive him? He guessed so. Didn’t she always?

Not that that’s any excuse, he told himself, lighting up the forbidden cigarette. He glanced back through the glass doors, saw Mel still waiting for the elevator. Her head was down, and she was staring at the floor—lost, he knew, in her own sad world.

She lifted her head as the elevator came, then stepped into it. There was something about her tonight that made him uneasy. An overwhelming sadness. He had never seen her like this; she was always so cheery, so brave about everything, but tonight, even though Gus Aramanov was dead, she seemed destroyed.

He wondered whether he was right to have reminded her that the real killer wasn’t dead yet.

He paced the front steps, puffing on the Winston. Something about the whole scenario troubled him.

64

Ed heard the door close. He hoped it was Zelda,
he missed her so. He listened for her familiar
footstep, but there was only silence. Then he
heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. A man,
he thought.
Probably a doctor. He could hear him
breathing now. Hard, as though he had been running. . . .
He wanted to shout,
Hello, who’s there?
but he could not. . . .

He was so close. Ed could smell him . . . a
musky, sandalwood odor. But there was something else, something puzzling. An
alien
scent.
The smell of
danger.
The archetypal reaction of
fight-or-flee sent adrenaline surging through his
veins, jolting his heart to new peaks on the
monitor.
Dear God, they were going to get him after all
. . . . He felt a final thrust of energy. . . .
Life
—like
he hadn’t felt it in weeks.

His eyes flew open. And he was looking at his brother. . . .

Mitch did not speak. He did not smile. He simply stared back at him. Then he yanked the ventilator from Ed’s throat, and the drips and the catheters.

He was smiling as he did so, but now the monitor was going crazy, alarms were sounding. He had to get out of there.

Mel didn’t know why she was so nervous. After what Camelia had just told her, she should be feeling more secure. But someone out there still wanted Ed dead. Instinct told her she had been away from him too long. She covered that shiny corridor like a star quarterback with a winning touchdown.

She stopped, puzzled. There was no uniform on guard outside Ed’s room. She was still wondering where Brotski was as she flung open the door.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. There was no hum of machinery.
The machines
that kept Ed alive.
She saw the unfamiliar doctor and the tubes and catheters spilling their vital liquids onto the white sheets. And the monitor, with an ominous flat green line.

“Oh my God, no, nooo!”
she screamed.

The doctor swung around, looked at her.

She saw the gun in his hand, felt her own heart tremble. A giant shudder rippled through her.
Ed was dead. This man had killed him.
Howling with rage, she launched herself at him. All six feet of her.

Mitch hadn’t expected it. He sank to his knees, staggered to his feet again, and made for the door.

Ed’s eyes were wide open. Mel scrambled up, bent over him, desperately trying to insert the ventilator into the tracheotomy opening.

“Ed, oh, Ed, honey, hold on,” she sobbed. “It’ll be all right, I promise. . . .”

His eyes flicked beyond her, over her shoulder. She caught the warning in them and swung around. The killer was back.

Instinctively, Mel flung herself on top of Ed to protect him. And felt the stinging heat as the bullets entered her.

Returning from his coffee break, Brotski saw the man come running out of Ed’s room. He sprinted after him, excited as a warhorse at the scene of battle. This was what police work was about. The guy was overweight, he couldn’t run so well, and Brotski had his own gun drawn now.

“Stop,” he yelled. “Stop or I’ll shoot.”

It was a mistake to give a killer like Mitch Rogan—a.k.a. Mario de Soto—fair warning. He turned and fired. In the fraction of a second it took for Brotski to know he had been hit and fade into unconsciousness, Mario was gone.

Simultaneously, Camelia stepped out of the elevator, saw Brotski, and ran to him, bypassing the screaming nurse. Through Ed’s open door he saw Mel lying on the floor. Now other people, doctors, nurses, were coming running. He was thrust out of the way as the doctors placed Mel, bleeding badly, onto a gurney. He knelt by Brotski, who looked like a dead man. Camelia felt the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Poor young kid, poor little bastard.

He watched for a second as they rushed them both to the elevator en route to the O.R. And that part of him that belonged to Mel went with her.