In a Heartbeat (3 page)

8

“How’s he doing, Doc?” Brotski, the young duty cop outside the ICU, prowled, big-footed and out of place with his uniform and weapons, down the silent, antiseptic-smelling corridor. He was there in the hope that Ed Vincent would come out of his coma before he died and tell them who had shot him. “Any chance of him waking up?”

Jacobs buttoned his Armani jacket. He straightened his tie, wondering what to tell him. After all, Ed was in some other world; the name he had mentioned could be meaningless. But he had to do his duty. “Mr. Vincent opened his eyes for a minute, seemed like he wanted to say something.” He paused, remembering Ed’s crazy, urgent stare. “I asked him who did it.”

“Jeez. What’d he say?”

“
Zelda.
That’s all he said.
Zelda.
”

Art surely hoped he was doing the right thing, but that was what Ed had wanted to tell him. Anyhow, now the deed was done. If this woman, Zelda, had shot him, the cops would find her, and Ed would at least be vindicated.

As he walked away, thinking this might be the last time he saw his friend alive, the cop was already on the phone to Homicide Detective Marco Camelia. The wheels of justice were already in motion.

Camelia was at the hospital in minutes. And so was the media, who in true hack fashion had gotten wind of Ed’s identity and were all over the place. Tabloid reporters camped outside and attempted to sneak in, and TV units filmed the blank hospital facade, as though it were of importance. Ed’s shooting was now hot news.

Officer Brotski was waiting for him, self-important with his own news.

“Mr. Vincent has not woken up since he said that name, sir.
Zelda.
”

Camelia gave a disappointed grunt.

“Dr. Jacobs asked him specifically who did it. His answer was—”

“I
know
, I
know
.
Zelda.
” Camelia thought wearily that youth and enthusiasm could be trying on a man’s patience.

Zelda. Zelda had done it. She had shot him.
That’s what Vincent had told his friend Dr. Jacobs. But when Camelia had spoken to Doc Jacobs on the phone, he had told him he didn’t know of any Zelda. Besides, he’d added, Vincent could have been hallucinating, they shouldn’t take it too seriously. He was comatose, his brain out of sync, traveling off in some dreamworld, who knew where.

Still, Zelda was the only name to come out of his mouth. The only thing Camelia had to go on.

The following morning, he climbed into the police car and headed downtown to Ed’s office, where he had an appointment with Rick Estevez, Ed’s assistant and, he assumed, right-hand man.

Vincent Towers Madison speared skyward, a sheet of glass and rough-faced limestone reminiscent of LA’s Getty Museum, only without the sylvan setting. Arcades of bamboo and indoor plantings softened the echoing, streamlined triple-height atrium, arranged in serried geometric rows that Camelia found extremely pleasing, though he wasn’t one of your “modernists.” Surprisingly unbusy people lounged at small steel tables, sipping café latté under green umbrellas, just as though they were in a park, and shoppers wandered in and out of the smart boutiques.

Whatever else, Vincent had good taste, Camelia thought as he was whisked soundlessly up to the fiftieth floor and decanted, with not so much as a bump, into the reception area of Ed Vincent’s palatial offices.

The receptionist was a stunner, a sleek, elegant blonde with deep blue eyes that looked as though they had been shedding tears not too long ago. Could she have been crying for Ed? he wondered, surprised at such loyalty. Nah, more likely it was her boyfriend acting up.

She sniffed back a tear as she greeted him, said he was expected, and offered him a cup of coffee, which he refused.

“You’re upset,” Camelia said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, sir. We all are.” She mopped the tears hastily. “Mr. Vincent is not only a good boss, he’s a good man. I’ll bet there’s not one person in this office whose life history he doesn’t know, and most of whom he’s helped out in some way. You don’t find that too often—not in New York,” she added as she walked him down a corridor and flung open big double doors at the end.

Rick Estevez was Hispanic, probably Cuban, Camelia guessed. Medium height, stockily built, smartly dressed in a gray suit; a shock of thick silver hair, a permanent tan and intense dark eyes that, Camelia knew, took him in at a glance. No wonder he was Vincent’s right-hand man—Mr. Estevez was one sharp cookie. Not only that, he was sitting in what Camelia knew must be Ed Vincent’s green leather swivel chair, behind the slab of steel that was Ed Vincent’s desk.

Interesting, Camelia thought as he shook hands and took the seat opposite, watching as Estevez settled himself back in the green leather. He looked mighty comfortable there. For a man in the boss’s seat.
And,
the boss wasn’t even dead yet. Mmm, Camelia thought again, I wonder. . . .

“Bring coffee, Lauren, if you please,” Estevez said, and the receptionist nodded, yes sir.

“An efficient young woman.” Estevez fixed his full attention on Camelia. “But then, if she were not, she would not be working for Ed Vincent.”

“He’s a stickler for efficiency, is he?” Camelia searched his pocket for Winstons, then remembered where he was. He folded his hands in front of him, watching Estevez watching him.

“You might say he’s an efficiency nut.” Estevez smiled, showing, Camelia noted, perfect white teeth. “And I guess you might say that’s how he got where he is today.” He sighed. “And where we hope he will still be tomorrow and forever after amen. This has been a terrible shock to us all, Detective,” he added, leaning earnestly forward, clasped hands on the steel desk, dark eyes locked onto Camelia’s.

“I can imagine.”

Lauren returned with a tray containing a steel coffee flask and two sensible white mugs. They waited while she poured, and Camelia helped himself to three sugars and no milk thanks. Estevez took it black.

Lauren departed and Camelia began with a strong left hook. “You must know who did this, Mr. Estevez. After all, you are the one closest to Mr. Vincent.”

If the blow hit a tender spot, Estevez didn’t show it, and Camelia thought he was either a very good player or an innocent man. Meanwhile, he was as much under suspicion as the unknown Zelda. Business was business, and greed and envy were strong motivations for murder. Especially when the stakes were this high.

“I admit I know Ed as well as, maybe better than, anyone here.” Estevez took a sip of the hot black coffee, pulling a slight face as he did so. “Ahh, when will they learn to make a decent cup,” he sighed. Then he looked Camelia in the eye again. “But you’re wrong if you think I was ever his confidant. We never socialized. I’ve never had dinner with the man, unless it was business, and I’ve never visited his home.”

“Homes,” Camelia corrected. “I understand there is also a beach house near Charleston.” He also took a sip of the coffee. He thought it was pretty good, but then anything with that much sugar would taste good.

“Homes,” Estevez agreed. “And no, I’ve visited neither one.”

“But on a business level, you know everything there is to know.”

Estevez nodded. “Within reason. That is, I know as much as any boss wants to tell his assistant.”

Camelia nodded too; he understood that. A man like Ed Vincent would never trust anyone with the whole of his life story, his life’s work, his business deals. He would always keep something back, hold on to the secrets until he had negotiated his way through the deal.

“Happiness for Ed was a successful deal,” Estevez said. “A new Vincent Tower was— literally—the height of his dreams. And the next one was to be the supertower. He had the architect all lined up, knew exactly what he wanted . . . his dream was about to become reality. Until somebody threw a spanner in the works.”

Camelia sat up. “What works?”

“This is in confidence, you understand.” Estevez glanced around the sun-filled office as though it contained hidden spies. “Ed was involved in a big property deal that was going sour. He had put in a bid for airspace above a Fifth Avenue store. He had been assured that it would be accepted and that there was a deal. Then, a couple of days ago, some anonymous bidder claimed prior rights, saying he had bid higher and earlier. The deal was in jeopardy, and as you can imagine, Ed was pissed off. Especially since he did not know the identity of the other party.”

“He didn’t know who was bidding against him?”

“He believed it must be an overseas entrepreneur, Hong Kong, or Saudi, perhaps. Anyhow”—he shrugged his elegant gray-jacketed shoulders—“the lawyers for the other side claim they don’t know the true identity of the buyer. But the fact is, there was a definite offer on the table before ours. Or at least that’s the way they are telling it.”

“You mean you think the sellers are lying?”

Estevez thought about it. “No, I don’t think they are lying about the anonymous buyer. They don’t know who he is. But I think somebody is lying about that offer being on the table before ours.”

Camelia refilled his cup. “So you believe the gunman might be a business rival?”

“He might.” Estevez was back in his usual position, hands folded on the steel desk, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Camelia. For a second Camelia wondered uncomfortably who was doing the interviewing here, then he pulled himself together and out of the blue said, “So who’s Zelda?”

Estevez’s heavy black eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Zelda? I’ve no idea.”

“You don’t know if she was a friend of Mr. Vincent’s?”

“I’ve never heard that name before. But wait a minute”—he held up his hand—“let’s check it out in Ed’s book.”

He removed a thick address book covered in green leather from the single central drawer in the steel slab, and flicked through the Zs.

“Zelda, Zelda, Zelda . . . mmmm, no, nothing here. Of course it could be listed under the last name. But that would mean going through the entire book.”

Camelia held out his hand. “I’ll take charge of the book, sir.”

“Well . . .” Estevez was hesitant.

“We are trying to find out who attempted to kill Mr. Vincent,” Camelia said curtly. He glanced at his watch. “In fact, who might already have killed him. He wasn’t looking too good last time I saw him.”

“Jesus.” Estevez shoved the address book hastily across the desk. “Jesus, man, don’t say that.” For a minute his slick facade seemed to crack and Camelia caught a flicker of what appeared to be genuine pain in his dark eyes.

“Ed Vincent’s a good guy,” Estevez said, and this time there was a definite tremor in his voice. “He took me, a Cuban refugee, an immigrant, off the streets of Miami. I didn’t have a dime in my pocket, but we happened to be sitting next to each other on a bench, looking out at the ocean. He bought me a cup of coffee and I told him my life story, how my father was a cigar manufacturer, that I had been well educated, gone to business college. How I stayed all those long, weary, impoverished years in Cuba because my family refused to move. Even after they took away his business, my father hung on, he insisted that one day they would give it back. He believed in God and honor and he refused to recognize that there was no honor among thieves.

“The day came when I knew I would have to leave. I had a wife by then, and two kids. I had to make a living, offer them something better.”

His dark gaze met Camelia’s. “Do you know what it is to leave your elderly parents behind, knowing you will never see them again?” A frown furrowed his brow and he shook his head. “The pain is indescribable, the guilt overwhelming. But I looked into the eyes of my sons, and my father saw that. Life belongs to the young, Ricardo, he told me. Go in peace.”

“We left on one of those terrible boats, not knowing whether we would make it across that treacherous strip of ocean. But we did, and America, God bless her, took us in. But work was not plentiful for a Cuban immigrant and I was in despair when I met Ed on that park bench.

“We sat in that coffee shop for a long time while I told him my story. But you know what, Detective? Ed never told me his story. Not one word about his past. Only about what he was doing, his ambitions. He offered me a job, found me an apartment in New York, paid for clothing and plane fares. And ultimately, he put my boys through college.

“So you see, Detective Camelia, though I know you have been thinking maybe I was the shooter, you are definitely barking up the wrong tree. I love Ed Vincent. I wish it had been I who was shot, and not him.”

Estevez opened his arms, spread his broad shoulders wide. “Everything I am, everything I and my family have, is because of this man.”

Camelia shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. He hadn’t expected quite such a soul-baring experience, but he was glad Estevez had come clean. There was no doubt that every word he said was true, and he respected him for his openness.

“Then can you tell me of anything else unusual that might have happened recently, besides the deal going sour and the anonymous bidder?” He threw out the question, not knowing what to expect, and waited patiently while Estevez thought about it.

“There’s just one thing I noticed when I was going through the records recently. About a month ago, Ed transferred a large amount of the company’s stock to a Melba Eloise Merrydew. It was a shock to me, especially since I had never heard of the woman.” He shrugged. “But then again, I know very little about Ed’s private life.”

“How much stock?”

“As you know, Vincent Property Developers is a privately owned company. The stock division is like this: seventy percent is owned by Ed. Twenty percent is mine. And the remaining ten percent is divided among the employees. Ed figured he wasn’t only buying loyalty that way, but that everyone was getting a fair share.” He smiled, showing those perfect white teeth. “That’s just the way Ed was, Detective.”

“The way he still is, I hope,” Camelia said. “And exactly how much did he transfer to Melba Merrydew?”