In a Heartbeat (13 page)

Ellin opened the old iron stove and poked the coals into a hot glow before throwing on another couple of logs. “There,” she said, satisfied, letting the door clang shut, “at least we’ll be warm tonight.”

All except Mitch,
Ed thought, lying warm and cozy in the bunk, built into a sort of cupboard near the stove. Ellin slept with her daughters in the bedroom, and he and Pa and the boys slept in the main room. The others were soon asleep, but Ed lay awake, worrying about Mitch.

Why had he done what he’d done? Mitch didn’t have to sell his birthright, like Esau, to get a job. He was clever, he’d educated himself, he was a whiz at math. Mitch could do anything, get a job anywhere. Not just there in Hainsville.

Ed tossed and turned, agonizing over what Mitch had done to their father. When he could stand it no longer, he got up, slipped on his old denim shirt and boots, and put on Pa’s black oilskin slicker. He hesitated, thinking how muddy and bedraggled he would be by the time he reached his destination. Realizing he would make a sorry sight, he quickly thrust his new jeans and shirt into a backpack. He would change into them when he got there.

He crept past his sleeping brothers to the door. It creaked as he opened it, but they were all sound asleep and anyhow the roar of the wind in the treetops drowned out any other sound.

Slipping and sliding in the mud, he began to jog down the lane. He was heading for Hainsville. He had to find Mitch, confront him, try to reason with him. He would help Mitch any way he could, but he couldn’t allow him to destroy their father, no matter how all-powerful Michael Hains might be.

30

Mel had been in a precinct house only once before, when Camelia had taken her there for questioning. From what she saw now she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to again. Gray walls, steel filing cabinets, worn-looking chairs, cheap tables serving as desks, paper coffee cups, the odd box of doughnuts, piles of thick files, wire baskets brimming with paperwork, shrilling phones, yelling felons, wailing relatives, crackling tension, and a lot of tough-looking guys in blue wearing weaponry that scared the hell out of her. She knew the world was a safer place because of them, but she preferred to keep that side of the world at a distance, thank you very much.

Camelia took her elbow and shepherded her into a tiny room, already occupied by a handsome Hispanic with the build of a weight lifter and the liquid dark eyes of a Casanova. Except now he was all business.

He shook her hand, took a seat at his computer, and got right to questioning her, boosting partial images of a man’s face onto the screen as Mel described what she’d seen.

“I’m sorry I’m not being very helpful,” she apologized nervously. “It’s just that I’m not sure what I
really
saw—and what I
think
I saw.”

“Just give it your best, ma’am,” he replied. “I’ll try to fill in the rest.”

So Mel scanned the separate images carefully. Yes, that was exactly the way his forehead had looked, exactly like a pit bull, kind of brutal, half hiding his eyes. Narrow eyes, she thought, but that could have been from the glare. No, she didn’t know the color. And so it went on.

She gasped when he finally showed her the finished composite.
It was the killer.
She gulped back the nausea, twisted her clammy hands nervously, bit her lip to stop the tears that she wasn’t sure were tears of fear or of joy, because at least now they had someone to hunt for.

“It may not be exact,” she said, still worried that she had gotten it wrong. “I mean, I think this is who I saw.”

“Good enough, ma’am. We’ll run it through the national computer, see what we come up with.”

“Thank you,” she said gratefully, edging out the door. “Thank you so much.”

She wanted out of there so badly, she almost made a run for it, but Camelia hadn’t finished with her yet. Next she had to sit in another gray windowless room, listening while an expert played various tapes for her, all of men speaking with foreign accents. The coffee in the paper cup tasted like it had been sitting in the machine for a week, and even the Krispy Kreme doughnut offered by Camelia couldn’t tempt her.

They must have been on the thirtieth tape, her head was whirling and she knew she had lost it, when suddenly a voice rang a bell. A smooth voice, but with that low guttural sound, throaty, harsh . . .

“That’s it.” She was out of her chair, excited. “That’s exactly the way he sounded. Oh, thank God, I’ve finally gotten something right.”

“Ukrainian,” the expert informed them. “From the Caucasus region, near the Black Sea. A lot of real bad guys drifted into that area, got out of Russia via the Bosporus and Turkey, took on new identities, came into the U.S. as political refugees along with the decent folk.”

“Terrific,” Camelia said. “We’ll add it to the file, see what comes up.”

And then they were out of there, walking along in the sunshine, breathing the fumes that in New York passed for fresh air, sighing with relief as they headed back to Vincent Fifth to pick up Mel’s duffel, and then on to the airport.

Camelia had already seen Ed’s home; he had personally gone through the place with a finetooth comb and found nothing. At least nothing personal that could lead him to a killer, or even to a motive for killing. He waited downstairs in the lobby for Mel, thinking that the only scrap of a motive so far was the fight over buying the expensive Fifth Avenue airspace. His team was working on that but so far had failed to penetrate the myriad layers of corporate identities that masked the real buyer. The investigations now involved the state police and the FBI, and, given time, he knew they would come up with the answer.

The elevator
ping
ed and Mel emerged, pink-cheeked from having just washed her face to clean off the smoke and smell of an alien world, unsmiling because she was about to leave Ed, and with an anxious look in those whiskey browns that brought out the protective animal in Camelia.

She strode toward him on those ridiculous heels, towering over him as she slipped her arm through his. “Let’s go,” she said determinedly.

And they were off to the airport in Camelia’s police car, a Crown Vic, hustling through the thick traffic to make the afternoon flight to Nashville.

31

Mel slept on the plane, then slept through the long drive to Hainsville in the rented Ford Explorer, curled up on the backseat with her head pillowed in her arms and Camelia’s jacket slung over her for warmth.

“Didn’t you ever think of bringing socks, or a sweater? Y’know, something warm?” Camelia said, astonished that she had shown up, bare-legged, in the tank top and black leather jacket. “This ain’t California, y’know what I mean?”

She did know—now. It was cold and it was also raining. “Feels to me like there could be snow flurries,” she muttered, half asleep, and he sighed. She was a true Californian, despite her southern background. Come to think of it, that was another good reason she was with him on this investigation. That good ol’ boy southern accent might go down a sight better with the locals than his own Bronx twang. Of course it wasn’t the only good reason she was here, and he knew it.

It was late, but as a kind of penance, instead of driving straight to the inn, where he had been looking forward to a leisurely dinner with her, he drove to the local sheriff’s station.

Redbrick low-rise with a dark slate roof, it sat squarely on the corner of Main Street, immediately opposite the grandiose town hall, the white-columned portico of which was trimmed with red, white, and blue bunting, topped with a medallion showing a man’s head in silhouette. The name MICHAEL HAINS was strung in separate scarlet letters over the lofty double doors.

“No doubt who owns this town,” Camelia said dryly to Mel, who by now was sitting up and taking notice.

It was a small town of flower-filled window boxes and white picket fences; of stern warnings against littering and don’t even think of parking here and of the need to clean up after your dog, with the mention of substantial fines for violators. The streetlights were copies of iron-filigree lamps from the turn of the century, a time when, Mel suspected, this had still been a one-street town with wooden sidewalks, and the only lighting had been the moon. Bedding plants were laid out in perfect circles on the velvet lawn outside the town hall. There were white-painted store-fronts with cute Dutch doors, and the immaculate redbrick-and-white-clapboard houses had gingham café curtains on gleaming brass rods at their windows. And though it was only 9:00 P.M., there wasn’t a soul in sight.

“Oh, my God, it’s Stepford,” Mel whispered, awed.

“Or Disneyland.” Camelia was already out of the car and striding toward the sheriff’s station. She hurried after him.

There were two guys manning the station, both big burly fellows, both wearing cream Stetsons with their sand-colored uniforms, even though they were indoors, and both drinking coffee out of mugs with Michael Hains’s silhouette on them. They glanced up in surprise as Camelia swung through the door. They took in his smart gray suit, his silver tie, and his big-city look. An expression of distaste spread over both their faces, followed by matching false smiles.

“How can I help ya?” the taller one asked, without getting up. “Sir,” he added, with a knowing smirk.

Camelia got the feeling that if you didn’t come from Hainsville, you didn’t count. Then Mel raced into the room, and he heard the squeak of chair legs on wood floors as the two beefy red-necks lumbered to their feet. She might be different, but Mel was all woman, and even these lurches recognized it.

He flashed his NYPD badge and saw them take a mental step backward. “Detective Marco Camelia,” he said smoothly, knowing he had thrown them for a loop. NYPD was light-years away from the Hainsville cop department. “And this is Ms. Melba Merrydew, my . . . er, my assistant.”

Mel flashed him an amazed glance that he deliberately ignored. Getting the message, she stuck her hands deep into the pockets of her leather jacket and tried to look as butch and cop-like as she could, though remembering poor little pink-cheeked, carrot-haired Brotski, who looked as though he were still in high school, she had to hold back a giggle.

“Yeah, er, well . . . and what can we do for you, Detective?” They shook hands cautiously across the counter.

“A quiet night here, huh?” Camelia glanced around the immaculate room, nothing out of place, no teetering piles of paperwork on scuffed-up desks, no Styrofoam cups of cold coffee, no Krispy Kreme crumbs. And not a sound to disturb the silence, except his own voice.

“Hainsville’s a quiet place.”

“Law-abiding, huh?”

“Yes, sir. And proud of it.”

The redneck’s steely blues met Camelia’s Sicilian browns in a hard stare.

“Er . . . coffee, ma’am?” The cop waved a hand toward the smart chrome Coffee Master.

“No, thank you.”

Mel flashed him her beaming smile and Camelia swore he saw the guy’s knees go weak. He watched him sink back into his softly padded office chair as though he’d been poleaxed. Camelia grinned. “I could sure use a cup of coffee, it’s been a long trip.”

No one moved a muscle, and he leaned both arms on the counter, unsmiling. “I said I’d appreciate that cup of coffee,” he repeated softly, but there was something about the way he said it that suddenly had them both jumping.

“Yes, sir. Won’t you please come into the office, take a seat. Jeb, see if you cain’t rustle up some cookies. Or Ma Jewel’s muffins. Ah believe there’s still some left in the box on top of the refrigerator.”

The counter flap was lifted to allow them through, the frosted-glass office door thrown open, chairs pulled back, coffee quickly placed in front of them, with sugar in a bowl that matched the Michael Hains mugs and proper cream in an identical pitcher.

“Smart,” Camelia commented. “We don’t run to matching tea sets in New York.”

“Hainsville is a tourist destination, Detective Camelia,” the burly one said. “We aim to keep it looking real nice, even down to the cops.”

“Right to the last detail,” Mel said, ignoring the coffee, which she was far too tired to drink anyway. She was, as they said, past it. She wondered anxiously how Ed was, and she longed to get out of there so she could call the hospital. But then she reminded herself that she was now Camelia’s assistant, and Ed was the reason they were there. She sat up and began to take notice.

“Ah’m Sheriff Duxbury, and this here’s Deputy Higgies. Now, sir, how can the Hainsville police be of help to the New York PD?”

They sat on the opposite side of the table, looking, Camelia thought, as interchangeable as twins. Both still wore their hats, both had wide red faces, both had pale blue eyes and blond mustaches. If you put black Stetsons on them instead of the cream, they could have been the bad guys in any old western.

“You ever hear of a guy called Ed Vincent?”

“Vincent?” Duxbury answered for both. “No, sir, cain’t say as we have. Ain’t nobody with that name lives ’round here, though of course we do get a fair number of tourists, for the golf and all. One of the best par seventy-two courses in all Tennessee,” he added proudly.

Camelia nodded. “I’m not a golfing man, myself. Ed Vincent claims that he was brought up here, in a two-room shack in the foothills. Had a big family, brothers and sisters. This man is in his forties. He lived here before Mr. Hains developed the town.”

“Ah don’t recall the name,” Higgies said, puzzled.

“So, here’s a picture of him. Maybe it’ll help jog your memory.”

Mel watched as each man studied the picture. Her heart was in her mouth. Surely they must know him. How could they have missed him, growing up? He was so tall, like them; God, they must grow them all big around here. . . .

Duxbury handed it back to Camelia, shaking his head. “He some kinda New York big shot?”

“Kinda.” Camelia put the photograph back in his wallet. “But you guys never heard of him, huh?”

“Ain’t no big shots ’round here, Detective. I guess Michael Hains was the biggest shot we know. Been dead ten, eleven years now. Still carry his picture on everything, though. Kind of like a symbol. Like a coat of arms, that old family-tree stuff in England. Yes, sir, Michael Hains had no title, but he was surely Lord of the Manor around here. Without him, there’d be no Hainsville.”

“I resisted saying ‘and who would miss it,’ ” Mel said to Camelia as they hurried back through the rain to the Explorer. “This place gives me the creeps. I can’t even imagine Ed living here.”

“He didn’t. He lived in the old Hainsville, before it became Stepford.”

Camelia looked grim. He had gotten exactly nowhere. He needed to regroup, rethink his tactics. Goddammit, he had thought it would be so easy. He glanced at Mel, slumped next to him in the passenger seat. She looked as dispirited as he felt. “What we need,” he said, “is a drink. And then some food.”

“Yeah,” she said in a small, frozen voice. “I can go for that.”

The Hainsville Inn & Country Club looked like the rest of Hainsville. Pristine red brick with white clapboard, verdant lawns, and soldierly rows of flowers that, Mel thought, must be too scared even to droop their heads in the torrential rain, for fear somebody might annihilate them.

Camelia checked them in and then they headed for the bar, a cozy red-plush-booth affair, with a faux log fire blazing as merrily as a faux fire could in the massive river-rock fireplace.

They ordered drinks from the bland-faced young man behind the bar: she a cosmopolitan, he a beer. Perched on stools, each contemplated his or her own thoughts.

Mel took a sip of the cosmopolitan. The young bartender had gotten it right, exactly the way she liked it: light on the cranberry juice and even lighter on the lime, and the vodka was Belvedere. It was the first good thing to happen that day and she gave him a smile. Then she got on the phone and called the hospital. And Camelia got on his phone and called the precinct.

No news on either count: Ed was status quo, neither worse nor better. And no progress on the Ed Vincent–killer situation.

Camelia downed the beer and ordered a single malt. He stared moodily into the glass. The color reminded him of Mel’s eyes and he stole a glance at her. The purple shadows were back and she was yawning. She looked beat and he heaved another sigh.

“I’m too tired to be hungry,” she said, nibbling on a handful of peanuts. “All I want is to fall into bed and sleep.”

He nodded. “Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.”

She didn’t say anything, but he knew she was hoping so too. She finished her cosmopolitan, slid off her stool, dropped a light kiss on his cheek, said good night, and was halfway across the room before he realized it.

“So? What time should I wake you?” he called after her.

“Wake me? Oh, whenever you’re up. You call the shots here, Camelia. I’m just your assistant. Remember?”

He was smiling as he watched her lope fluidly across the hall to the elevator. He wished she had stayed and had another cosmopolitan. He sighed as he ordered another single malt, just so he could remember the color of her eyes again.

Then, pulling himself together, he quickly dialed his home number.