In a Heartbeat (22 page)

51

Harriet Simons had just dropped Mel off at LAX, en route once more for New York and Ed. Now she was on the 405 heading north.

It was tough, she thought, juggling three jobs at once, but she was coping. First and foremost came Riley, though sometimes Harriet felt that clever little Riley was looking after Harriet instead of the other way around. It was a pleasure, not a job, but it was also time-consuming. Who knew how mothers got through the days, she marveled as she maneuvered the big silver truck through the surging morning traffic.

She was on her way to her second job, packing up a condo in Marina del Rey prior to moving the stuff the following day to Santa Monica. An easy job, as jobs went, and as long as her helpers showed up on time. You could never tell these days, because, as Melba’s mom would have said, “The help just isn’t the same as it used to be in the old days.”

She grinned, thinking of Mel’s mom, and of the fact that Mel did not recognize that she was exactly like her mother. Harebrained, yet solid as a rock in her beliefs and in her friendships. Intelligent. Devoted. And southern.

Harriet’s third task of the day was an audition at noon in West Hollywood, which was a hell of a trek from the Marina and could cost her some real work time. She didn’t know why she bothered. She hadn’t nailed an acting job in two years, not even a commercial. Not even one where they covered you in a clown suit so nobody knew who you were and disguised your voice as a squawk so nobody even knew that you could act. Perhaps it really was time she
Moved On
; acknowledged that house moving was what she did, and forget she was ever an aspiring actress. She thought that whoever invented that word
aspiring
was a genius—“aspiring” covered almost the entire population of Hollywood. And she would bet on that.

She sighed as she contemplated her future. No man on the horizon, or at least none that she cared for sufficiently to place in the “permanent” category. Anyhow, come to think of it, she kind of liked her life. She and Mel had a good thing going, though of course if Mel married Ed, she would become a rich man’s wife and probably live in New York and leave her with the Moving On business. Shoot. She wasn’t sure she could cope alone.

Of course you can, you idiot, she told herself, impatiently flipping back her red hair. What the hell are you doing now, if not coping and running the business alone? Besides, what if Ed dies?

Her heart sank at that thought. Mel would be devastated. Defeated. Bereft. And so would Riley, who had come to think of Ed as part of her family. Of course, Riley knew nothing about Ed’s wealth and his business, only that he was a nice man who made her laugh and who, even she could see, loved her mom.

Harriet groaned as the freeway ground to a halt. Par for the course, this happened every day on the 405. Shoot, now she would be the late one. She sank back with a sigh, fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel. Nothing was moving and the idiot behind her was honking as though she could just shift over and let him zoom ahead. Road rage, she thought angrily. The fool. The left lane inched forward, then began to move. She groaned; just her luck, she was in the wrong lane again.

Gus Aramanov bulled his white Merc into the left lane, ignoring the honking horns and squealing of brakes in back of him. He scowled as he slid slowly forward. It would take him forever to get to Marina del Rey, but at least this lane was moving. He accelerated to pass the large silver truck on his right, glanced at it—and saw MOVING ON inscribed in lipstick-red script on the side.

Gus almost rear-ended the car in front. He stamped on the brakes, ignoring the blasting horns, slowing down until the truck came alongside again. He stared up into the cab to see if she was driving, but it was a skinny red-haired woman who gave him a drop-dead look as she caught his eye. He fell back, let her get ahead of him. As he thought, the phone number was on the back of the truck. He memorized it. It was a 310 area code.
The woman was right here in LA. She had
been here all the time.

He was grinning as he followed the truck down the Marina exit. He was suddenly a man with one of the weights off his shoulders.

He watched as the Moving On truck edged into a parking spot immediately in front of an apartment building. The red-haired woman got out, opened up the back of the truck, then hurried into the building.

He parked opposite, then took out his Ericcson and dialed the Moving On number. A computer voice informed him that no one was there and suggested he leave a message: press 1 for Mel Merrydew and 2 for Harriet Simons, it said. They would be sure to get right back to him and wished him a great day.

Cute, he thought, hanging up. Mel Merrydew and Harriet Simons. He wondered which one was his prey.

Directory Assistance gave him Mel Merrydew’s home number and address. He got back on the freeway, exited at Santa Monica, and found Ascot Street. Again, he parked on the opposite side of the street, staring at number 139, taking in the shabby craftsman bungalow with its wide front porch and overhanging gables. There was a hammock with a pile of kid’s soft toys in it, teddies and such, just like the ones that belonged to his own kids.

He stored that information for future reference, then drove back to the yacht basin at Marina del Rey. He dealt with the necessary business, then headed south to San Diego, and home. First he would take care of the woman. Then he’d figure out how to take care of Ed Vincent. One more time.

Lila was pleased when Gus arrived home with little gifts for the children. He presented her with a bouquet of roses and a gruff apology.

“Business problems,” he explained.

Back in the pink master bedroom again, she was surprised how amorous he was that night. It was like old times. She had her teddy bear back again.

52

As Mel’s United flight was landing at JFK, Marco Camelia was on Virgin Atlantic, en route to London.

He was leaning back in the red seat, eating a chocolate-covered ice cream bar and watching an old Sharon Stone movie on his personal little video screen. Again the actress reminded him uncannily of Mel. He heaved a deep sigh as he took the final bite of ice cream. He thought both women were equally remote.

The reality was that they had finally tracked down the owners of the Fifth Avenue property, a consortium of Arab investors who were saying nothing, except, via a spokesman, that they did not want to be involved. They were deliberately out of the country and difficult to reach, but this morning, Scotland Yard had advised that one of the group owned a house in London, and that he was currently in residence. And Camelia had gotten the first flight to Heathrow.

Early-morning London was gray, with a kind of damp mist that the English termed a “sprinkle,” but which Camelia thought was more of a chilling rain. He shivered, waiting for a taxi; it got to his very bones and he wondered how the Brits put up with it, day after day, year after year. Did they ever get spring, summer, a nice sunny day? He suspected maybe only in the movies. He definitely was not connecting with real life today.

He checked into a vast, impersonal hotel near the Strand, dumped his hastily packed bag on the bed, called his cohort, Inspector Macpherson at Scotland Yard, and arranged to be there “like right now.”

The traffic was snarled and it took him ten minutes longer than he had anticipated, and he was angry with himself for keeping Macpherson waiting.

When he finally entered the redbrick portals of the hallowed British institution known as Scotland Yard, he couldn’t help but think of Sherlock Holmes, but the reality was as modern and slick as Virgin Atlantic. And Inspector Macpherson was a lofty guy with a ruddy complexion, a beard, and a booming voice that carried down the hallway as he called out a greeting.

Unlike the NYPD, there were no teetering piles of old files, no stagnant cups of coffee and stale Krispy Kremes. Camelia took a seat and was offered hot coffee in a proper mug and a shortbread biscuit from Macpherson’s own private stash.

“I’m a Scot,” Macpherson said with a loud laugh. “Can’t get through the day without a nice bit of shortbread. Not as good as Mother used to make, I’ll admit, but good enough. Besides,” he added, “I’m addicted to the sugar.”

Camelia accepted the biscuit and listened while Macpherson explained what the deal was. One of the principals in the Arab consortium, Khalid al Sharif, had arrived in London two days ago. His house was guarded, but Macpherson had obtained a warrant, and the man would have to answer questions in connection with his property dealings.

He was Saudi, the eldest son, oil-rich and a bit of a mystery. Unlike many of his mega-rich contemporaries, Khalid kept out of the gambling clubs and the nightclubs, and whatever his preference and pleasures were, he kept them private. “They say he’s obsessed with business,” Macpherson told Camelia. “To him the true gamble is coming out the winner in a big deal. Like this one. Hence the possible double-dealing, playing one potential buyer off against another.”

“I know that scene.” Camelia remembered being outbid on the purchase of his house in Queens by a guy who just kept upping the ante another thou’ and then another thou’, until finally Camelia had called enough. It was just the same with Khalid al Sharif, only the stakes were higher. Business was business, he guessed.

A colleague drove the unmarked black Vauxhall auto through the maze of central London traffic. Bedazzled, Camelia closed his eyes; he thought he would never get used to driving on the left. Plus, he’d had a sleepless night and jet lag had tamped down his brain cells. Never in his career had he felt less ready for an interrogation. Especially one with a difficult, temperamental, and very rich suspect.

The house, on posh Bishops Avenue, in the smart suburb of Hampstead, was very grand. It took ten minutes of back-and-forth with the two burly bodyguards, complete with snarling German shepherds, with the guards on the intercom to the house and Camelia puffing urgently on a Winston and Macpherson becoming steelier and steelier in a very polite British way, before they were finally admitted.

The marble front hall soared forty feet, supported at intervals by fluted onyx columns, all the way up to an enameled blue dome laced with sparkling stars.

A male servant in a white robe held at the waist by a blue-tasseled sash showed them into the main salon.

Khalid al Sharif was seated by the window, alone on the gold silk banquette that ran the entire length and breadth of the room, piled high with jewel-toned cushions. Small crystal tables, placed here and there in front of it, held silver and gold dishes containing fresh dates, assorted nuts, and sugared almonds. The domed ceiling was again painted blue, with a tiny window at its apex, rich Oriental rugs covered the marble floor, and a vase of perfect Casablanca lilies on an immense circular table cast their intoxicating sweet scent into the room.

It was a movie set, Camelia thought, stunned. The sultan’s palace via Cleopatra. He had never known that people lived like this, even rich people. But this was really rich. This was
staggeringly
rich.

“Mind-boggling,” Macpherson muttered as they waited for Sharif to greet them.

Sharif did not get up. Nor did he offer them refreshment. “I did not invite you gentlemen here,” he said, picking a stem of fresh dates from the silver dish in front of him. “And I cannot think what it is you need to question me about. But you can make sure my ambassador will make a serious complaint to the Prime Minister.” He plucked a date from the stem and bit into it, staring balefully at them with big brown eyes.

He was a handsome guy, Camelia thought. In his late forties, with a lean bronze face, a mustache, and dark hair partially hidden under a red-and-white headcloth. He could see that he was fit, too, under that white robe he wore. His feet were bare and Camelia noted that his toenails had a sheen of clear nail polish.

Sharif spat the date pit into his hand and deposited it in a bowl. He plucked another date from the stem, saying nothing.

Camelia glanced at Macpherson and Macpherson nodded, giving him the lead.

“Mr. Sharif, sir, there is no need for alarm, and I apologize if you thought so.” Camelia was sweating with the effort at diplomacy. He was more used to scraping bodies off the streets after a shoot-out; he didn’t know from this sophisticated man-of-the-world crap. “We simply need an answer to one question.”

Sharif’s brows rose and he spat out another date pit.

“The question is,” Camelia filled in the long silence, “who else is in the bidding war on the Fifth Avenue air space, besides Ed Vincent?”

Sharif did not look at him, when finally he spoke. “I was, of course, sorry to learn of Mr. Vincent’s unfortunate . . . incident. However, I find it hard to believe it could have anything to do with the potential sale of my property.”

He had an impeccable British accent, upper to the limit. Educated at Harrow, Macpherson had told Camelia earlier, in the little bio he had given him.

“Sir.” Macpherson took over. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to answer Detective Camelia’s question.”

Sharif shot him a glance. “And if I do not?”

“Then I shall have to take you in for questioning.” Macpherson flashed the warrant. “Sir,” he added, carefully polite. “And of course I am aware of how unseemly that would be for you.”

Sharif tossed another date into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, then spat out the pit. “There were several potential buyers,” he said, apparently recognizing that the odds were against him and rejecting the gamble. “One of those men put an offer on the table that was initially not acceptable. Ed Vincent bid higher. His offer was accepted, though only provisionally, subject to contract and to the proper details being negotiated by my lawyers. Then the first buyer came back with a larger bid, subject, as before, to anonymity.”

Camelia had put his hands behind his back, head bowed in his usual stance before he commenced pacing. Pacing was a natural outlet for him, it enabled him to think, gave his mind breathing space. He said, “And you accepted that anonymous bid?”

“I was waiting for Mr. Vincent’s retaliatory bid, though he had sworn that he would not make one. He said that because we had shaken hands on it, he had a deal.”

Camelia had lost all patience now; he wanted to tell him to quit futzing around and tell them the truth. “So who
was
the other buyer, Mr. Sharif?” he asked, and there was something in his voice, a low, menacing, even tone that had Sharif looking apprehensively at him.

“His name is Alberto Ricci,” he said reluctantly, knowing he now had no choice.

“Ahhh . . .
Ricci
.” Camelia was surprised.

“Thank you very much, sir, for your cooperation,” Macpherson said.

And then they were out of there, hurrying thankfully down the steps, keeping a wary eye on the leashed German shepherds as they climbed into the car and drove back down leafy Bishops Avenue.

Camelia mopped his forehead with his white handkerchief. “I’d rather have root canal than deal with guys like that. It’s just not my scene.”

“You know Ricci?”

Camelia nodded. “Only by reputation. He’s as much a philanthropist as Ed Vincent, known as a decent guy with his money and in his lifestyle. And, as far as I know, he’s clean.”

“Then you don’t think he’s your killer?” Camelia shook his head. “My hunch is, it’s a whole lot trickier than just that.”

He said good-bye to Macpherson, phoned in a report, and, too hyped to fall asleep, took a taxi to Soho. He ate a decent margarita pizza at a place called the Pizza Express on Wardour Street, then he wandered into Ronnie Scotts’ and listened to an hour or so of jazz, sipping whiskey and smoking Winstons until his head felt so fogged that he couldn’t hear the music anymore. So he hailed a taxi, picked up his still-unpacked bag, checked out of the hotel, and headed to Heathrow. He drank maybe ten cups of coffee and was on the first flight out to New York. He slept like a baby all the way.