In a Heartbeat (25 page)

59

Santa Monica Airport was a well-trafficked little place, accommodating everything from single-engine Cessna Skylanes, like Ed’s, to Gulfstream jets carrying rock-and-roll stars and media executives. Plus the hundreds of small private planes whose owners flew short hops around the state, and the charter companies with their own fleets of aircraft.

Maybe it was being so near the ocean, but it had a jolly, holiday-style atmosphere about it, with people drinking martinis on the roof terrace of the restaurant, watching the beautiful little aircraft swoop in, red and green lights twinkling in the dusk, amid the subdued roar of powerful engines.

There was still something glamorous about jet flight, Mario de Soto thought, as his pilot landed the chartered Lear and taxied to a stop. The steps unfurled, the attendant opened the door, and the pilot emerged from the cockpit to bid farewell to his only passenger.

“Enjoy the golf, Mr. Farrar,” he said to Mario de Soto, who had chosen his father’s name as his alias.

His Vuitton suitcase and his golf bag were already waiting and he wheeled them himself to the rented silver Lincoln Town Car. Nothing could disguise his bulk, but he wore a silver toupee, silver-rimmed glasses, and a mustache. In a golf shirt and chinos, he was a mild-mannered, bespectacled, aging golfer, lugging his bag, on his way to play a round or two with his pals.

He got in the rental Town Car and headed for San Diego. Of course, the last place Gus would be was at his home. And with half the world looking for him, he would hardly be at his office either. But the San Diego marina was a starting place in his search. He checked into the Marriott, ate grilled pompano in the coffee shop, then went to bed. Tomorrow was another day. He hoped it would be Gus Aramanov’s last.

There was a cop on guard outside Gus’s yacht-brokerage office the next morning, plus a couple of newshounds hoping for a break. And more cops hovered by the slip where Gus’s own sleek Hatteras was moored.

Mario knew this was not going to be easy.

He spotted a Starbuck’s, went in, ordered an iced mocha latté, and sat sipping it through a straw, thinking. His criminal mind worked the way Gus’s did and he put himself in Gus’s place, pondering his next move.

He finished the iced latté, got back in the Lincoln, and headed north on the 405, back to LA. It was late afternoon by the time he checked into the Ritz Carlton at Marina del Rey.

60

Mel was with Camelia in the deli around the corner from the hospital. They were regulars by now and the waiters knew them. They always sat at the same table, the one near the window with a view of the passing traffic and, if they were lucky, a shaft of sunlight that Mel badly missed in her long vigils in the darkened hospital room.

“
Our
table,” she said, smiling at Camelia.

“I wish it could be somewhere grander,” he said ruefully.

“Like the restaurant in Charleston,” she remembered.

He smiled as their eyes met. “You and I are beginning to have a history together.”

“People will talk.”

He laughed then. “About what? How I buy you a coffee? A bagel with cream cheese, and extra jelly if you’re lucky.”

“Don’t forget the bacon and egg on a kaiser,” she reminded him, and then they were both laughing.

She was just so used to him now, Mel told herself, watching Camelia pile sugar into his mug. He had become part of her. Somehow, now, it was hard to imagine that he would not always be there for her. They were buddies, a team, united in their efforts to help Ed. But was that all there was to it? Mel stared into her coffee, wondering.

“My bet is it won’t be long now.” Camelia stirred his coffee. “When a guy is as hot as Gus Aramanov, there’s no place to hide.” He was remembering the Versace murder in Miami. “Even Cunanan finally knew there was only one way out. He took it. Shot himself on that houseboat.”

Mel shuddered. “Are we hoping that Aramanov does the same thing?”

“Not hoping, but I’m not sure he’ll see any other route.” The toasted bagels arrived and he spread hers with a thin layer of cream cheese, just the way he knew she liked it, then handed it to her. It was an intimate gesture.

“Of course, there is
one
way out,” he added.

“He could always plea-bargain. He tells us the name of the man who put out the contract, in return for his life.”

“A life spent in prison.” Mel shuddered again, at the thought.

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.” Camelia took a bite. “He’s a paid assassin. This wasn’t the first man he killed.” He held up his hand at her look of alarm. “Sorry.
Attempted
to kill.”

Their cell phones rang simultaneously, and they glanced guiltily at each other, then at the other customers, but the place was so noisy, no one noticed the irritating trill of the phones.

“Hi, Riley,” Mel said softly, her lips close to the phone. “I’m fine, honey. You’re going where? Oh, Radio City, the Rockettes . . . with Hamish?” Hamish had become Riley’s own personal bodyguard, and after a couple of days together they were firm friends. Hamish put himself out to entertain her, but his job always came first, and that meant Riley’s safety. Mel was comfortable with the situation, and she said have fun and see you later.

Even with the rowdy crowd and the rattling of dishes and calling out of orders, the hiss of steam and the sizzle of the grill, it was impossible for Mel not to overhear Camelia’s conversation.

He was talking to Claudia. “Forgotten?” he said. “How could I? Yeah,
tesoro,
a lot of years together. But you can cut that in half if you remember all the weeks I was working and was never around. . . . Okay, then, so okay. Yeah. Dinner Friday night. At Nino’s. And when did I not get you an anniversary gift?” He was smiling as he said good-bye.

“How many years is it?” Mel asked.

“Twenty-six. Nope. I tell a lie. Twenty-seven on Friday.”

She nodded, wondering what it felt like to be with the man you loved for that long.

“Tell me about your wedding,” she said.

“Weddings are a woman thing. Y’know, it was all flower girls and maids of honor and Claudia looking . . . beautiful.”

He suddenly remembered quite clearly the way she had looked, her cloud of dark hair pinned up with a circlet of flowers, and the long, spreading veil that had half hidden her from him as they faced each other at the altar and made their vows.

“The party was good.” He changed the subject. “The uncles and aunts flew in from Italy and Sicily. They arrived in a big bus looking like a movie–Italian family. Roberto Benigni should have filmed it. The wine flowed and the women had baked Italian cookies and the little kids ran around and got under everybody’s feet. Aunt Sophia slipped on the dance floor and waved her legs in the air, showing more than she should, and everybody laughed.”

He grinned at her. “We had a great time. Family, y’know.”

Mel laughed, but she didn’t know. She had never had a family like that. She had hoped to create one of her own, be the founding member, so to speak. But now she wasn’t sure it was going to happen.

She frowned as she thought of Ed. He was not responding. He was still fed through a tube and had lost so much weight she hardly recognized him as the big, burly man she had fallen for. This morning his hand had remained perfectly still under hers. There was no movement, no flicker of response, just the endless whir of life-support machines and monitors as his life ticked slowly on.

She pushed the chair back abruptly. “I have to get back.”

Camelia looked up at her, surprised. She had that urgent “if I’m not there he may go and die” look, which he knew too well by now.

Mel paid the check this time, in line with their unspoken agreement that they would take turns, and Camelia walked her back to the hospital and said good-bye at the door. He had to get back, see what was doing, if anything, on the Aramanov situation.

Brotski was on duty again. Mel shook her head in disbelief as she walked toward him down that long corridor. “Don’t they even allow you to read a book?” she asked.

“I’m keeping guard, ma’am. Got to be alert at all times.”

“You’re a good cop, Brotski,” she told him, and saw the color rise in his fair-skinned baby face.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he replied with a pleased grin.

Mel took her usual seat at Ed’s bedside. She lifted Ed’s hand to her lips, waited for a response, an undercurrent that told her he was there. Nothing. She had lost him to the blackness. Yet the monitors bleeped on, telling her he was technically still in the land of the living.

Oh Ed, she thought, when will this nightmare end?
How
will it end?

61

Marina del Rey was a huge yacht basin with thousands of boats. Mario had never been much of a sailor, though he had done his share of sportfishing and could manage a boat when he needed to. Like he had with the man whose identity he had stolen after he shoved him over the stern.

There were boats up on slips and monster seagoing yachts in deep moorings with Panamanian and Bahamian registry; old boats and new boats; sailboats and power boats and fishing boats. You name it, you could find it at Marina del Rey. Mario guessed Californians were like Floridians: they lived on the ocean, therefore they felt they needed a boat.

He wandered the slipways, contemplating the wealth sitting out there on the murky water doing nothing, and thought how infrequently each boat was probably used. He mentally amortized the cost for each outing. It added up to a tidy sum. He figured a good-looking woman worked out cheaper than a boat: dinner, dresses, a little jewelry. A woman was a better investment, plus with some expected return for your money. In his view, a man was better off renting a boat when he needed it. Owning one was a mug’s game.

He strolled into the office of a yacht broker, where he expressed interest in a power vessel, and found out that quite a few guys lived on their boats. Mario thought a man could easily hide out there. But even a killer had to eat. And, knowing Gus, he also had to drink.

He drove around the immediate neighborhood in search of the nearest food and liquor stores. Within walking distance was a mini-mall with a 7-Eleven, and next to it, a small, nondescript liquor store with iron bars on the windows. There were other stores nearby, bigger, brighter, more open. He knew Gus would avoid those.

Mario was not a patient man, but he parked his car in that mini-mall and settled down to wait. He was in this for the long haul.

It was dark when Gus walked out of the marina and crossed the road to the liquor store to buy vodka. He had no appetite, but he needed liquor to numb his befuddled brain. He picked up four bottles of Smirnoff and half a dozen candy bars and walked back out again. He hesitated outside the 7-Eleven, then he went in, chose a couple of chicken tacos, waited uneasily in line to pay, then hurried back.

It was ironic, Mario thought, that Aramanov’s disguise was pretty much like his own: the mustache, the glasses, only instead of the silver toupee, Gus had shaved his head and was now completely bald. Somehow, it only served to emphasize his pit-bull appearance.

The Town Car slipped out of the lot, the engine idling, just keeping Gus in sight, but staying far enough back so he didn’t notice. Mario had a lot of experience at this game; he was an expert. At the marina, he parked and followed Aramanov on foot.

Gus let himself into the slip and climbed aboard an old, rust-stained twenty-eight-foot Bayliner in bad need of a paint job. It was owned by a man who no longer existed, having been carefully eliminated by Gus due to the fact that he owed money to the wrong people. Gus had kept the boat for himself, using it as a kind of floating bachelor pad when he was in LA on business. There were plenty of singles’ apartments at the marina and a lively bar scene. It wasn’t difficult to pick up a woman, especially when you had a Mercedes and a boat, and at night, in the dim light, the old Bayliner didn’t look half as bad as it really was.

He stumbled down the few stairs into the cabin, slumped onto the stained blue canvas banquette, and placed his Smirnoffs on the table in front of him. He opened the first one and took a long drink.

The vodka didn’t make him feel better, only slowed his brain down a bit. He was screwed and he knew it. He had been going over the scenario and there was only one chance. Even that was risky, and meant a life in prison. The choice was not a happy one.

He pulled the wrapper off a Snickers bar and devoured it in a couple of quick bites, washing it down with more vodka. He wondered what Lila was doing, but he couldn’t even bring himself to think about his children. They were no longer his. He had forfeited any right to them, he understood that. He wouldn’t have felt half so bad about it, though, if he had come out of it with a stash of money and a new passport, plus a one-way ticket to Europe, or South America. But it was too late for that.

He was sitting there, contemplating his mistakes, when he heard a noise. He lifted his head, sniffing the air like the dog he so resembled, testing the wind for the presence of a stranger. The wind had come up and he felt a movement under the boat. There it was again. It must be the rigging tapping against the masts outside.

He was thinking that if at least he had to kill a guy and inherit a boat, it should have been a worthy seagoing monster that could have had him out of there and en route to Fiji before the news broke, when he heard the noise again. His eyes swiveled and he saw feet descending the four steps. There was no time to reach into his belly band. Mario de Soto was already pointing a Kahr K9 at him.

For a moment, they stared at each other, acknowledging that they knew one another.

Then, “Have another drink, Gus, why don’t ya,” Mario said.

Gus just kept on staring at him. He knew this was the end and that he was powerless to do anything about it. He thought of how many men he had faced, exactly like this, only then he had been the one in the power position. Now he knew how it felt to look down the barrel of a gun, at the end of the world.

The Kahr followed Gus’s movements as he picked up the vodka bottle, took another long swig. He offered it to Mario. “Care to try some? It’s the best.”

Mario shook his head. “I’m an Absolut man, myself.”

Gus nodded. He took another slug.

“Might as well die happy,” Mario said with a tight smile.

Gus felt the heft of the half-empty bottle in his hand. There was just one chance . . . one last chance.

Mario saw it coming. As the bottle arced through the air, he stepped nimbly out of the way, or as nimbly as a man of his bulk could. The vodka splashed on his pants and his narrow eyes tightened into angry slits.

“It’s always been my theory that hit men were stupid,” he said. “Why else would they risk their lives doing other people’s dirty work. Surely the rewards are not enough to compensate for the risk.”

Gus felt the comforting bulk of the Sigma in the belly band under his shirt. It was a Hawaiian shirt, bought on some carefree island vacation with Lila, and was worn untucked, and therefore gave him quick access. Mario was the stupid one, getting his jollies by talking to him, making him squirm before he killed him. It was giving him time to think, to regroup. He could still win.

Mario had his own schedule, though. “Get up.” He indicated with the gun where Gus should stand. “Hands over your head,” he commanded.

Gus obeyed. A cheap metal chair stood between them. They were of equal height, and he was fitter than Mario. With a sudden movement, he thrust the chair at Mario and reached for the Sigma.

But Mario was quicker. He pressed the Kahr to Gus’s head, forced him to the ground. He had him where he wanted him now.

Gus was on the floor, staring up at him. Mario wasted no more time. He slammed the gun down and Gus’s head snapped back.

Mario knelt beside the unconscious hit man. He hated getting his pants dirty on the filthy boat, but he had no choice. He had put on plastic surgical gloves, and now he took Gus’s Sigma out of the belly band and placed it in the unconscious man’s hand. He held that hand up to the temple and pressed Gus’s finger on the trigger.

The bullet left a ragged hole in Gus’s head and powder burns on Gus’s hand. This time it was Gus’s glazed eyes staring into nothingness, and Gus’s brains leaking messily onto the floor.

Mario waited a moment, listening. Of course, the Sigma was fitted with a silencer, there had been only the merest pop, a sound too muffled to travel, even across water. Outside, the wind rattled the rigging against the masts again, shifting the boat slightly.

He got to his feet and walked back to the steps. He turned and took one last look at the man who had fucked up his life. Then he was out of there.

The rain was just starting, that strange LA rain that showed up suddenly and came down in solid sheets that sent you running to find the Ark and Noah. He remembered this was Hollywood: it was possible you might find Noah, or some other nut, ready to save you from the end of the world. But not Gus Aramanov. He was a goner.

There was no one to see Mario slipping through the shadows and the rain. No one to notice, in the torrential downpour, as he ran to the parking lot and drove back to the hotel.

A short while later, he was standing under a hot shower, soaping away the grime of Gus Aramanov’s boat. He stayed in there a long time, then he got out, wrapped a towel around himself, and called room service.

“A vodka martini, straight up,” he said. “And make that Absolut. Yup, with an olive. Ahh, what the hell, make it a double. And send up some fried chicken while you’re at it. Yeah, with french fries.”

He was grinning as he slammed down the phone. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

One down, and one to go.