In a Heartbeat (20 page)

44

Camelia checked them out of the Omni in Charleston, and they caught a late-afternoon flight back to New York, via Atlanta.

Mel lay back in her seat, looking drained and saying nothing, and after glancing at her, Camelia kept his own gaze straight ahead. She was lost in her thoughts, no doubt mulling over her lover’s life story. Was Ed a different man from the one she thought she knew? Perhaps, but Camelia knew it wouldn’t change her love for him.

The Atlanta airport seemed extra busy, and the New York flight was delayed. They took a seat at the bar and ordered a couple of beers.

“Of course Mitch did it,” Mel said, just as Camelia’s phone rang. He excused himself to answer it.

Mel glanced around the airport. She could remember coming here as a child, but then it was not this huge, grandiose edifice. Like everywhere else, the southern world of her childhood had expanded and turned into a monster.

She sighed and turned her attention to Camelia. He had finished his phone call. A wry smile lifted his stern mouth.

“We got the dossier on Mitch Rogan. Like good-old-boy Sheriff Duxbury said, he was quite a guy. He did steal from Michael Hains. Served time for it, too, when they finally caught him. But he was soon back in business. And with money in his pockets. Then Hains died . . . on a vacation trip to the Cayman Islands.
And
under suspicious circumstances. But again, nothing was ever proven. The rumor was that Mitch Rogan had had something to do with that, too. He had plenty more brushes with the law after that: fraud; property scams; drug deals; suspicion of murder. His rap sheet reads like a eulogy to the criminal mind. You name it, Mitch Rogan did it.”

“I told you so.” Mel shot him a triumphant look. “Mitch wanted to kill Ed because Ed knew he had killed his family.”

Camelia gave her a pitying look. “Mitch Rogan died ten years ago,” he said, “in a boating accident in the Bahamas. He was on a fishing trip. No one even cared enough about the bastard to bring him home. He’s buried out there.”

To Mel, the flight back to New York seemed interminable, and the ride from JFK to the hospital even longer. Depression dragged her down into the abyss. She had thought they had found the killer. And now—nothing. The trip to Hainsville and Charleston had proven fruitless. They were back to square one.

Not quite, though. At least now she knew Ed’s life story, and that was something she would treasure forever.
And it may be all you’ll ever
have,
a little voice somewhere inside her said ominously. Nervous, she willed the driver to go faster, faster. . . .

Filled with a terrible urgency, she shot out of the car almost before it stopped, racing up the hospital steps and through the automatic doors that barely had time to register she was there before they opened.

Camelia watched her go. She had forgotten he even existed. He sighed, but he knew that was the way it should be. He got on the phone and called home.

“I’ll be there in a couple of hours, honey,” he told Claudia, and heard her laugh at the unexpected endearment.

“You’ve been in the south too long,” she told him. “Since when did you ever call me honey? It was always
tesoro
between us.”

“And it still is.
Tesoro,
” he added softly.

But he thought she was right. He had been in the south too long. Mel Merrydew had grown on him, like kudzu. He remembered her kiss with a tired grin as he headed back to the precinct house, the place Claudia called the Permanent Detective’s Second Home.

Mel’s heart was in her mouth as she ran down the endless shiny corridor.... She should never have left him, she might be too late....

Officer Brotski was pacing the hallway, head down, hands behind his back, exactly like Camelia. Hearing her footsteps, he was instantly alert.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said by way of greeting. “Back again.”

“How’re you, Officer Brotski,” she cried, ever polite, as she headed for the door.

“Hey, miss, the doc’s in there. You can’t go in. . . .”

But it was too late. She was already in.

Art Jacobs was standing by Ed’s bedside, a sad expression on his face as he watched over his old friend. He glanced up as Melba shot through the door. He took in her mop of blonde hair, the huge anguished eyes, the long legs and short skirt, and the special aura that was all her own.

“How are you, Zelda?” he said, holding out his hand.

She clung to it like he was saving her own life and not Ed’s.

“Is he all right? Oh, please, tell me he’s still okay.”

“He’s still the same, if that’s what you mean.” She sank onto a corner of the bed, gazing at Ed, still inert, still with all those tubes and the ventilator. “Oh, thank the Lord you didn’t die on me,” she whispered.

The monitor blipped as Ed’s heart rate suddenly lifted a notch or two, and Dr. Jacobs glanced at it, astonished. There was no doubt he knew this woman was here.

You’re back . . . you’re back with me, baby.
Why did you go there? Why go to Hainsville? I
locked that part of my life away somewhere and
threw away the key. . . . It hurts, even now. . . .
And I have that permanent fault line in my
heart that reminds me that I still want to kill
my brother. I know it’s wrong, I don’t need Ma
to tell me that it’s a sin . . . but that hatred may
never go away. . . . I never saw Mitch again, you
know. Never, after that time at Duke . . . and
thank God for that, or he would have been dead
and for sure I would be the one in Rikers. . . .

Mel leaned close to him, whispering in his ear. Like a blind man, he would have recognized her anywhere just by her scent, it was inlaid in his senses forever. . . .

“Mamzelle Dorothea sends you her love. She loves you so much, Ed. She told me all about you, about how hard you worked. How she looked after you, then you took care of her. I’m so proud of you, my honey. So very proud.”

He felt the wetness of her tears on his cheek, and even had he been able to, he would not have brushed them away. He was happy that she was crying. It meant that she cared . . . that she loved him. . . .
Zelda, Zelda. . . .

“I’m going to have to leave you again, Ed,” she was saying, and the thought of it made him tremble inside.

“It’s Riley. I have to go to her. It’s been eight days now, Ed, since you were . . .” She couldn’t bring herself to say “shot,” after all he might not realize that he had been shot, it might scare him. . . .

Riley. That cute, sweet little girl, born of
Zelda’s lovely body. . . . I so wanted another one,
a matching set. My baby this time, too, though
Riley will always be my first daughter. . . .
He almost laughed at himself then.
Look at me, making plans for kids when I can’t even open my
eyes, let alone play the father role. . . .

“I’ll fly out, just for one night, honey,” she was saying, and her grip on his hand tightened. “Just one more night. But Riley needs to see her mom. She needs to hear about you firsthand, not just on the telephone. Who knows, I might even bring her back with me,” she added, inspired.

Of course you must go.
He was suddenly tired, so desperately tired. . . . He was drifting away . . . sinking into that black hole without even the glimmer of a light at the end.

Mel felt Art Jacobs’s hand on her shoulder. “Better let him rest now, Zelda,” he said, helping her to her feet.

She glanced up at the “Zelda,” but this was Ed’s friend. It was all right, she knew that now.

“I’m afraid I overheard your conversation,” Art said with an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him while you’re gone.”

“You promise he’ll still be here when I get back?” Her eyes had that urgent look again.

He nodded. “I promise to do the best I can,” he said.

And Mel knew that, after all, he could do no more than that.

45

Riley and Harriet were waiting for Mel at LAX, and their joy at seeing her positively shone from them, like the sunshine of this LA day.

Riley leaped into her arms, burrowing into her shoulder like a squirrel, smothering her neck, her face—any part of her she could reach—in kisses.

Oh, God, did her kid
feel
good, her string-bean legs, just like her own, wrapped tightly around her. And did her kid
smell
good: of freshly washed hair and a clean cotton T-shirt dried in the sun in the backyard, and of McDonald’s fries. And did she
taste
good. “Sweet as ice cream,” Mel assured her, returning the sloppy kisses vehemently.

“You smell of airplanes and you taste of old coffee,” Riley complained happily, and Mel laughed as she slid her back to the ground. Holding on to Riley with one hand, she flung her free arm around Harriet, who was even less complimentary, but still glad to see her.

“You look like hell,” Harriet said bluntly.

“Thanks a lot, friend.” Mel grinned happily back at her. “It’s nothing compared to the way I feel.”

“Mom, how’s Ed? Did he say he would come on our Sundays yet?”

“Ed is doing okay, honey. I spoke with the doctor and he promised me Ed will be fine while I’m here with you. I’m sure Ed understood your message, and, soon as he’s better, he’ll become a permanent member of our Sunday schedule.”

“What about me?” Harriet complained, hefting Mel’s old duffel and setting off for the parking lot. “What am I supposed to do on Sundays? All alone?”

“Oh, Harr.” Riley’s big brown eyes, so like her mother’s, looked suddenly stricken. She hadn’t meant to hurt Harriet’s feelings. “You can come too, if you really want to.”

“That’s okay, kid. I can take it. After a week of looking after you, you can be sure I’ll be glad for those Sundays off.
Alone,
” she said with a grin. “Just kidding, Riley,” she added, in case of any misunderstanding.

Harriet drove the old Volvo wagon and Mel snuggled in the backseat with Riley, their arms around each other, kisses being given and taken, promises of special treats being made, even an ice cream before supper, if she wanted. Did she want? Riley gave Harriet the important directions to the nearest Baskin-Robbins, whose location she knew by heart. Then, licking their cones—pistachio for Mel, coffee for Harriet, and vanilla-chocolate swirl lavished with sprinkles for Riley—they drove home.

Mel stared around her small, shabby house as though seeing it for the first time. It looked exactly the same. The same scarred wooden floors, the same funky mixed bag of furniture, the same old upright piano with the ivory missing from two keys and the bass pedal that stuck at Riley’s most important bits of music practice. The enormous sofa bought at a house sale that was more suitable for a mansion than a cottage, its bronze velvet draped now with creamy chenille throws; the kitchen painted a cheerful Mediterranean blue and yellow; the gauzy curtains billowing from the upstairs windows in the sea breeze; the porch with its usual clutter of childhood things; and the hammock piled with squashed cushions.

Lola pranced toward them on her hind legs. “Just like a circus dog,” Riley said proudly as Lola yelped and nipped ankles and generally caused mayhem.

In no time at all a bottle of wine was opened, food was being cooked, and they were all talking at once. Mel was bringing them up to date on the investigation; Harriet was bringing her up to date on Moving On business; and Riley was interrupting at every possible opportunity with her own important stories of school, and especially of Jason Mason, who was, she said scornfully, still shadowing her “like some two-bit private eye.”

Mel’s astonished eyes met Harriet’s, then they both looked at Riley. “Wherever did you learn that expression?” Mel demanded.

“On the Internet. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff on there.”

“I’ll bet,” Mel said grimly. “Okay, so it’s supervision time again, little girl.”

“I’m no little girl, I’m the tallest in my class.”

Mel sighed with feeling. “I know it, hon. It’s known as the Jack and the Beanstalk syndrome.”

Riley giggled as she took a seat at the old pine table. Then Lola jumped into her lap, and for once Mel didn’t tell her to get down. Tonight was special, and of course Lola was counted in too.

Happiness, Mel thought, looking around at her home and her small family, was where the heart was. Except that chunk of her heart that was still back in Manhattan. In that hospital. With Ed.

46

A hundred miles south of LA, Gus Aramanov was still in his office at the San Diego marina.

He was a yacht broker, and his wife thought he was surely good at his job because his family lacked for nothing. But then again, Lila wasn’t certain exactly how much Gus earned, because he never talked finances with her. Just told her to get whatever she and the two kids needed and to quit worrying.

They had been married for seven years and owned a nice four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath home on a pretty suburban street in San Diego, with white wall-to-wall carpet, a big-screen TV in the den, and her Lincoln Navigator and his Mercedes E350 in the three-car garage next to the kids’ bikes. Her closet was crammed with Nordstrom’s and Macy’s best; she had help in the house; her kids attended expensive preschools. Lila was not asking any questions.

Gus Aramanov was more than twenty years older than his fluffy blonde wife. Whenever they were alone together in bed—without one of the children tucked up with them, that is—he would whisper in her ear that she was his “little toy girl.” And Lila called him her “big teddy bear.” Gus was six-six and power built like a construction worker—thick neck, muscular shoulders, and long arms. He had dark hair and a jowly face and habitually wore dark glasses that hid the fact that his brown eyes had a kindly expression. A “teddy” was exactly what he was.

Still in the office, Gus switched on the voice mail and retrieved the single message. It was short and to the point. And he knew only too well who was calling.

“You fucked up twice now,”
Mario de Soto said.
“Either he’s dead by next week or you are.”

Gus felt a sudden stab in his chest. His eyes bugged. He struggled to his feet, clutching the back of his chair, thumping his chest with his fist. He was a man in acute pain.

It had been late in the evening a few months ago when Gus Aramanov, a.k.a. George Artenski, received the first telephone call about the Ed Vincent job. He could have lived without it. The weekend was coming up and he had promised to take the kids to Sea World. But business was business. He’d told Lila to pack a bag, he would be leaving first thing in the morning.

“Oh, but you promised” was on the tip of Lila’s tongue, but she had clamped her mouth tight shut. She knew better than to grumble.

The next morning, early, he had kissed Lila good-bye, driven his Merc to the airport, and caught the first flight out to New York. From there, using a different name and identification, he had taken a flight to Charleston. He carried only the small overnight case packed by Lila, and a briefcase.

In Charleston, he rented a Ford Taurus and checked in to the Marriott, using the name Edgar Forrest and giving his home address as Key Biscayne, Florida.

“I’m expecting a package,” he told the reception clerk. “It should be here by now.”

The clerk handed him the parcel, which he signed for, then took to his room.

Turning on the TV, he caught the local weather forecast. The rain that had plagued the area all day had been upgraded to a tropical storm, with the further possibility of being upgraded to Hurricane Julio. He glanced anxiously at his watch. He’d better get going.

Opening the parcel, he carefully unwrapped the Smith & Wesson Sigma .40 semiautomatic and fitted the suppressor. He strapped a Bianchi Ranger pocketed elastic belly band around his waist, then placed the pistol in the pocket in a front cross-draw position, just to the side of his navel. He patted it approvingly before buttoning his shirt over it. It was his favorite weapon for a small job like this one, and the body-belt position gave him a rapid draw.

Leaving the TV on, he hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the outside doorknob.

Windshield wipers slashing, he drove the Taurus carefully through the heavy rain. It would make him late and he cursed himself for not checking the weather earlier. It was almost nine-thirty when he crossed the narrow bridge linking the spit of land to the mainland.

Through the drumming of the rain on the car roof, he could hear the roar of the surf. He thought wistfully of his boys and the canceled trip to Sea World. Taking a black plastic rain poncho from the briefcase, he slipped it on, then pulled on a pair of black latex gloves.

Cursing the downpour, he climbed from the car and ran clumsily to the house. In the shelter of the front porch he took stock of his position, wondering if Ed Vincent was home yet. He knew the type of security system in the house. He doubted it was on, even though there was an emergency generator. He was a professional and it took him less than a minute to pick the simple lock.

Inside, the house was in darkness. He stood for a moment, getting his bearings. A big room overlooked the ocean. He had been told that the kitchen quarters were to the front left. That meant the library was on the far right.

His sneakered feet made no sound as he crossed the polished hardwood floor. He had eyes like a cat, could see in the dark, sense an object in front of him by some kind of personal radar. At the library door he stopped to listen. A faint clicking sound came from within. Gus smiled. He knew that sound: a lock’s tumblers.

Under his gentle push the door opened without so much as a squeak. A man was standing in front of an open wall safe. Gus doubted he even heard the five shots he pumped into his back; his legs just crumpled and he concertinaed to the floor. Like a puppet with the strings cut, Gus thought, amused.

He walked over and took a good look at him. The top of his head was blown away and his brains congealed messily on his face. Even so, Gus could see that his wide-open, blankly staring eyes were brown, that his skin was olive, and that he had a mustache and black hair. The man was Latino, probably Cuban.

Fat beads of sweat broke out suddenly along Gus’s receding hairline and dripped slowly down into his eyes.

He had killed the wrong man.