In a Heartbeat (24 page)

55

Camelia was in his “office,” meaning the small space allotted him at the precinct house, swivel chair tilted, feet propped on his desk, lightly starched white shirtsleeves rolled, a Winston dangling from his lips.

He was trying to break the habit, God knew it wasn’t good for him, but every now and again when things were getting to him, like now for instance, he succumbed. He guessed he was as much an addict as the next man, and he took a final guilty puff before stubbing it out in the scarred green metal ashtray that must have been around for thirty years. By now, he guessed, it probably qualified as a genuine antique.

He shoved aside his brimming wire in-box and began one more time to look through the reports on the Ed Vincent case. They were now more than two weeks into the investigation, and apart from the Ricci tie-in to the property deal, they were getting nowhere.

Ed’s past history had offered nothing, except a clue to the man himself; to his strength of character, and perhaps to the reasons why he was so charitable and took it upon himself to help young people in need.

Absentmindedly, Camelia tapped another cigarette from the pack. He put it to his lips, then remembered. He flung it away, disgusted with himself. He had the willpower of a flea. He couldn’t even cure his addiction to cigarettes, so how could he expect to cure his addiction to Melba Merrydew?

The phone rang and he reached for it. “How’re y’doing?” he said to the detective from the LAPD, wondering what was up. He sat up, though, when he heard what had happened.

He glanced at his computer. “The information’s coming through now,” he replied tersely. “I’ll get back to you in five.”

He stared intently at the report on the machine, detailing the attack against Mel’s daughter and her friend and business partner. Harriet Simons was in USC Medical Center suffering from a concussion. Riley Merrydew was in protective custody. And the dog, Lola, was in the veterinary hospital.

His heart sank to the pit of his stomach.
The hit
man had been looking for Mel.

The child had given what description she could: a big man, really big, wearing a black woolen mask. And he had a funny accent.

LAPD thought it might be George Artenski, and Camelia had no doubt they were right. His leaden heart ached as he thought again about how the hell he was going to tell Mel.

He adjusted his shirtsleeves and put on his coat. This wasn’t something you could just tell a woman over the phone. He had to go back to the hospital and face her.

First, though, he got back on the phone, told the detective he believed the perp was George Artenski, and said that they were releasing a composite photo ID of the suspect, to be run immediately on national TV.

The hunt was on.

Rick Estevez was sharing the bedside vigil with Mel this morning. He had brought a copy of the
Wall Street Journal
and was reading the latest stock deals out loud, hoping to stimulate Ed’s silent brain.

Mel was stroking Ed’s arm. Her eyes had not wavered from his face, but she glanced up as Camelia entered.

She shot him that ear-to-ear smile and his heart seemed to drop even lower. “I need to speak to you.” He beckoned her out into the corridor.

She hurried after him. “Something’s wrong.” She searched his face anxiously. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“There’s been an incident.”

She stared at him, not understanding. “What does that mean?”

“Harriet was attacked at the house. We believe it was the hit man.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, she stared at him, horrified.

“She’s okay, and Riley’s okay. It’s a concussion with Harriet, and apart from bruises, Riley wasn’t hurt.”

Mel looked about to faint, and Camelia put his arm around her and lowered her into the chair outside the door, where the uniform usually sat. It occurred to him that the duty officer was not there, and he glanced impatiently up and down the corridor. He guessed the officer had gone to the bathroom, but he shouldn’t have left without getting the relief guy up from downstairs. He would remember to reprimand him about that.

Estevez emerged from Ed’s room. He stared, surprised, at them: He could see something was wrong.

“Where is she?” Mel clutched at Camelia’s hand.
“Where’s Riley?”

“Don’t worry, she’s safe. She’s in protective custody.”

“You mean she’s in a
police station
?” Mel’s voice was a panicked squeak. “Harriet’s in the hospital and my daughter’s in jail. Oh my God . . . my poor baby. . . .”

Estevez’s eyes met Camelia’s. “What happened?”

Camelia told him, while Mel just sat there, staring blankly into space. She had put her child in danger. And her friend. She had almost lost them. What was she doing in this nightmare? What terrible thing had Ed done, that someone wanted him dead so badly they were willing to kill children? She felt her faith beginning to waver. Nothing was more important than Riley. The child of her body, her blood. Riley
was
her life. She was almost catatonic with shock, and Camelia was about to call the doctor when Estevez bent over her.

“Melba, you need to be with your child and your friend. You need to go now, right away. I will have the company jet ready and waiting for you at the airport. The limo will take you there. Are you ready to leave now?”

Mel’s blank eyes connected with his. She came to life again. “Yes,” she whispered.

“Good. I will arrange it immediately.” As Estevez strode off down the shiny corridor, Mel looked up at Camelia.

“Come with me,” she said.

56

The flight to California on the Gulfstream IV passed like a bad dream. Mel might have been on the worst commuter flight for all the notice she gave her luxurious surroundings. Strapped into a gray leather seat, she barely noted the passing of time, except to complain of its length.
She needed
to be there now. Five minutes ago. She should
never have left.

Guilt lurked behind her eyes, clouding her vision. It was her the hit man had wanted. If she had been there, he would have shot her, left the others alone. This was somehow all her fault. How could she ever have exposed Riley to such danger?

Camelia knew what she was thinking, but he said nothing. What could he do? Tell a mother she was wrong, that no matter what, the gunman would have come after her? And that maybe he still would?

There was no doubt George Artenski was losing his touch, though. He had turned out to be the world’s most inept hit man. Camelia was still wondering why, when the phone rang, and he had his answer.

George Artenski had been traced. A.k.a. Gus Aramanov, he lived with his wife, Lila, in San Diego. And he was the father of two young children.

So it was the child who had stayed Aramanov’s hand, Camelia thought. Gus had broken the unbreakable rule by which men like him plied their trade. He had allowed emotion to interfere with the job. He thanked God for the corner of mercy that had been left in Aramanov’s black soul.

Camelia glanced at Mel. Her eyes were closed and she appeared to be sleeping, but he knew she was not. Her mind, like his, was churning, going over and over the same scenario, searching for answers. Or loopholes.

He grinned, remembering the story about W. C. Fields, the famous comic actor and well-known atheist. Fields had been told he was dying, and a friend came by to visit. He found him reading the Bible. “What on earth are you doing?” the friend asked, stunned. “Looking for loopholes,” Fields replied.

The story had always struck Camelia as funny, and he wondered if that was what Artenski/ Aramanov was doing now. Looking for loopholes, a way out of the mess he had created. He did not wish him luck.

A limo was waiting when they landed at tiny Santa Monica Airport, and they drove immediately to the safe house where Riley was being cared for by social workers.

She flung herself into her mother’s arms, but there was no gappy smile this time. “Oh, Mommy,” she gasped, “he was so awful. He hit Harriet and he almost killed Lola, and he kicked me. . . .”

“I know, I know, honey.” Mel stroked her daughter’s curls back from her teary face. “It’s okay now, though. I’m here.”

The power of a mother’s love, Camelia thought, remembering Claudia and his own brood. How she had cared for them, protected them, on those long days and nights when he was working twenty-four/seven on a case, leaving all the responsibility to her. What would the world be without a mother’s love? he wondered. He guessed it would produce men like Gus Aramanov.

Riley went with them in the limo to the USC Medical Center. Harriet was sitting up, looking alert, though with a bandage wrapped around her head.

“Glamorous, huh?” she said by way of greeting. “I can always get a job as an extra on
E.R.
The one they wheel in on the gurney on the verge of expiring. At least I look the part.”

“Oh, stop it, Harr.” Mel smiled through her tears. “This was no joke. You were in terrible danger. And all because of me.”

“True,” Harriet agreed equably. “I’ll probably have to call Johnnie Cochran and sue you.”

They hugged each other, and Riley climbed onto the bed next to her.

“You saved our lives, kiddo,” Harriet said proudly. “Tackled that big bag of lard like a football pro. Couldn’t have done it better myself.” She saw Camelia outside the door, head down, hands behind his back, pacing, immaculate in steel-gray from head to toe. His brow was furrowed, his black hair sleeked back, and he looked somehow familiar.

“You’ve brought the mafia with you,” she said loudly. “Or else he’s from central casting.”

Mel’s laugh rang out, and Camelia glanced up. Thank God, there was laughter again.

Mel waved him into the room. “Detective Marco Camelia, this is my friend Harriet.”

As he shook Harriet’s hand, he thought, surprised, how petite she was. Somehow, her being in the moving business, he had expected a strapping woman, capable of lifting and carrying. She didn’t look as though she could lift a cup of coffee. He knew he was wrong, though, when he felt her grip, and he guessed it was a question of mind over matter.

“You look pretty good, considering,” he said, smiling.

“So do you, considering you’ve had to put up with Mel these last few weeks.”

Mel liked it that they grinned at each other; she could tell they were on the same wavelength. She liked her friends to like each other. Meanwhile, she wasn’t about to let Harriet or Riley out of her sight.

“When are they letting you out of here?” she demanded. “I’ve got a private jet waiting at Santa Monica Airport to take us all to New York.”

Riley’s eyes popped. “Wow, a private jet.” She had rarely traveled on a regular flight, and that only in coach. “And
New York
!” She had never been there. Suddenly the world seemed a pretty good place again.

“A private jet?”
Harriet repeated.

Mel nodded. “A Gulfstream IV.”

“I’m out of here,” Harriet said with a huge grin.

They picked up Lola from the vet en route to the airport. Like Harriet, the dog’s head was bandaged, and she wore one of those big circular plastic collars that made her look like a mutt from an Elizabethan painting. They didn’t even bother going back to the house. Instead, Mel promised them both a trip to Bloomingdale’s for new clothes. They simply piled into the Gulfstream and were off.

Safe again, Mel thought. For the moment.

57

Estevez was waiting for them at the airport in New York. “Since Ed cannot do so, I must take responsibility,” he told Camelia. “I have arranged for them all to stay at Ed’s penthouse. There are two armed bodyguards, day and night. They will accompany them whenever they go out.”

But when they arrived at Vincent Towers Fifth, Estevez declined to go into Ed’s home. Ed had never invited him there, and he felt it would be an intrusion on his privacy to enter now. He said good-bye and promised to telephone later to check on them and see if they needed anything.

“All the expenses will be paid for by Vincent Properties,” he told Mel. “Please take care of whatever they need, and see that the little girl has a good time. She has earned it.”

The two guards were waiting, tall young men in conservative dark suits and ties, with broad shoulders and alert eyes. Riley was very impressed. “Just wait till I tell the kids at school,” she marveled. And then she almost flipped when she saw the penthouse.

Watching her run from room to room, window to window, Mel thanked the Lord that her daughter was still with her. Then she sent out for pizza, arranged Harriet comfortably on the rather lumpy old sofa, planted Riley in front of the TV, and left in a hurry to check on Ed.

There and back to LA in a day, she marveled. Oh, the power of big money. And much good it’s doing you, Ed, she thought with that familiar pang at her heart.

She held Camelia’s hand for comfort on the ride to the hospital.

58

Mario de Soto stood in front of the bank of TV screens in his media room. Each screen was tuned to a different channel and Gus Aramanov’s face appeared on every one. Mario’s hands were clenched into fists, his back rigid with anger.

The hit man had blown it. The police had ID’d Aramanov; his picture was in every newspaper, all over the TV. He knew it was only a matter of time until they found him and that Gus would plea-bargain. Aramanov would tell all, in return for his life.

He left the media room and walked through the marble hall to the front door. He leaned his bulk against the pillared portico, looking around at his beautiful and hated prison. His vision of a brave new world for himself was collapsing.

When Mario had bought his big new house in Miami, he had filled it with the best the expensive decorator could buy: expensive furniture; art; silver; books. He was an avid reader and liked to boast that he had read every book in his library, which of course he had not. But then, he had always been a liar.

Mario de Soto was not the name he had been born with. Or even the only name he had used. There had been several others before he had fortuitously availed himself of the name Mario de Soto, when the real Mario—whom he had invited on a fishing trip in the Bahamas—“accidentally” drowned.

It had been easy to switch identities. Nobody there knew either of them, and he had chosen the man carefully for his purpose, knowing he was a loner. A Cuban of about his own age, build, and appearance whose family was still in Havana with no chance of getting out.

He had killed Mario de Soto, taken on his identity, buried “Mitch Rogan” in the Bahamas, and sailed home to Miami, a new man.

No one, not even the cops, had taken much notice when he took up residence in one of Miami’s most exclusive areas. He was just another Cuban of suspect background, most probably a drug dealer who had struck it rich and gotten out of the business.

Then he was seen splashing his money around on flashy cars and expensive women, and the cops began to take an interest. No one knew exactly where his money came from; no one could keep track of him or his multiple companies and business deals. Stories began to circulate, about financial maneuvers gone wrong; a real estate deal where Mario’s two partners had suddenly disappeared. He was clever, though, and there was never anything the law could pin on him. But his enemies could. There were those who wanted Mario dead; men who wanted revenge, men who wanted their money back.

It was those men Mario was afraid of. He had turned his house into a fortress, never left it without a couple of armed bodyguards. Until now, he almost never left it at all.

That was when life had lost its flavor, and when Alberto Ricci had come along with his offer. The deal had been Mario’s final chance to go legit. It would put him back in the real world as a real estate magnate. He saw himself becoming the socialite, like Ricci, maybe even with a classy blonde wife. Plus, it gave him the opportunity to get rid of Ed Vincent. That was the greatest bonus of all time, the one that he laughed himself sick over.

But of course Ricci had not put his offer in writing. It had all been done on a handshake, and with the proviso that Mario take care of his part of the deal first. So now Ricci was free and clear, and it was Mario who was in the hot seat.

Mario looked at his guards, who were pretending not to watch him as he stood on his palatial front portico. He wanted to kill Ricci. But he wanted Ed dead more. Only now he was forced to take care of his baby brother himself.

Lila Aramanov sat in Gus’s favorite chair in front of the 60-inch TV set, looking at her husband’s mug shot on the eleven o’clock news. Her blonde hair was dragged hastily back from her unmade-up face, and tears trickled slowly down her pale cheeks. Lila was destroyed. Her world had fallen apart.

The media were camped outside her door. There were TV camera crews with enormous trucks, and perky female reporters in red suits and short blonde hairdos, with the ever-present microphone ready to thrust under her nose should she even stick her head out the door. Which she did only when the pizza delivery truck arrived. The high school kid who delivered had loved every minute of his “fame.” He had posed for the cameras, telling them exactly what her order was, grinning like a soap star.

Gus had simply disappeared; hadn’t even said anything to her, just never came home. He’d left her to find out from the TV “breaking news” that she was married to a hit man, the suspect in the attempted murder of Ed Vincent, and the attacker of a woman and child in Santa Monica.

At first she couldn’t believe they were talking about
her
Gus.
Her teddy bear. A guy who loved
his children.
But it was true, and the good life that had been hers was hers no longer. This house, the smart cars—everything would have to go.

She walked to the window, inched back the heavy silk drape. She could see a uniformed cop standing in her front yard, and knew there was another outside the front door, and yet another in the back. They were staking out her home, waiting for Gus to return. But Lila knew he never would. He had left her to face the music, alone.

She would kill Gus herself if she could only get her hands on the lying, evil bastard.