In a Heartbeat (21 page)

47

Gus thought it was just his rotten luck that this guy had chosen tonight to rob the house. Now he would have to wait for Ed Vincent to return. He had to complete the job he had been assigned. Scooping up the stacks of hundred-dollar bills lying on the rug, some of them spattered with blood, he stuffed them in his jacket pockets. Why waste an opportunity to make a little extra—after all, now he was going to have to do extra work. No chance of getting back to Lila and the kids tomorrow as he had promised, he thought regretfully.

And then the doorbell rang.

Gus slid deeper into the space under the stairwell, the Sigma .40 cocked and ready. He hoped this wasn’t the sheriff, or a rescue squad come to check on the house.

“Hello?”

It was a woman.

“Is anyone here?”

He could hear her movements by the door, caught her outline, a black silhouette against the blacker night. Then the light went on, blinding him.

He flattened himelf against the wall, held his breath. The silly bitch was wandering around like she owned the place, eating jellybeans, for Chrissakes. . . . Next thing, she’d be in the library. This was not a good scene. He’d better get out of here.

The front door slammed behind him, caught by the wind. He stopped short, staring at the massive silver truck parked outside. He read the name on the side. MOVING ON. What the hell was she doing, driving a moving truck? Was Ed Vincent moving out? Tonight?

The wind threw itself at him like a prize wrestler, and he was breathless as well as soaked when he reached the rented Taurus. Jeez, what a night. What the hell was he doing here anyway?

Cursing, he turned the ignition. There was a choking sound, then nothing. He tried again. The car was dead. There went his quick getaway. How the fuck was he going to get out of here?

The stupid Cuban had ruined his night. It should all have been so easy. And now there was the woman to worry about. And what the hell had happened to Ed Vincent anyway?

His hand rested on the Sigma tucked into his belly band. This was getting complicated. He guessed he would have to kill the woman too. Later, he could dump both bodies in the ocean. With these waves, they would be dragged miles out to sea, maybe never found.

But that meant he would have to wait out the storm before he could get away.
And his car
wouldn’t start.

He suddenly realized that the only vehicle that could possibly make it across that bridge now was the big moving van.

He went back into the house. Clicked off the lights.

He grabbed the woman on the first scream, but she fought him. And she was strong, like a live electric wire, jumping all over the place. Big as he was, it was tough to hold her. She got away from him, but he moved quicker. He was in the truck first. And then he had her.

Or he thought he had, until she drove the goddamn truck right into that tree.

Gus thought his own end had come, but it was the woman who had caught the full force of it. She lay across the seat, blood streaming from her head, as still as death. And he was a man who had seen death enough times to recognize it.

48

Somehow, Gus had made it back to the hotel. His bedraggled, rain-soaked appearance drew no comment; after all, it was a hurricane and he surely didn’t stand out in the crowd.

Later, he had caught the news report, seen them remove her body using the Jaws of Life.

He had stared, fascinated, at the scene unfolding on the hotel room TV screen, wondering how the hell he had managed to get out unscathed from the mangled cab, with the tree still on top of it.
And then they had said she was still alive.

Stunned, he’d watched the ambulance rush her off to the hospital, where, they said later, she had been treated for a fractured skull and a concussion.
“Lucky,”
the news reporter said.
“Lucky
she wasn’t dead in such a terrible crash, when
the huge, old tree crushed the cab.”

Huh. They didn’t know how lucky. That tough bitch must have nine lives. Nine? Gus hoped it was only three and that the third time the luck would be with him. He sighed again. Right now, the odds were definitely not in his favor.

He had been clever enough to wait it out there in the hotel room. Late the following night, when the hurricane had finally blown itself out, he had rented a sport-utility vehicle and driven back to the beach house.

His heart had pounded and his palms sweated as he approached that bridge. The thought of attempting to cross it again was not good, but this time at least the crippled bridge was above water.

The cleanup had not been easy, either. He’d brought scrub brushes, cloths, stain remover. There was a lot of blood, but fortunately the dark Oriental rug didn’t show it too badly.

He’d cleaned up the mess, put the Cuban’s body in the big cooler he had bought. Then he had taken out the Europa, weighted the cooler with chains, pushed it overboard, and thrown the Sigma in after it. He had watched it sink beneath the swell. It had been rough out there, but he was okay, he knew his way around a boat and got it safely back to the wooden jetty.

Finally, he’d hitched the rented Taurus to the SUV and towed it back to the airport. He had left no traces, no clues. That beach house was as clean as a freshly detailed Mercedes when he left it.

So far, though, the woman had not said anything to the cops. He knew that from the news-casts, as well as from the North and South Carolina newspapers he had ordered from the big newsstand in San Diego. He was hoping the concussion had blanked out her memory. Still, it was a risk he did not care to walk around with. That woman could identify him.

He had summoned up the national telephone directory on his computer and searched listings in Charleston and Raleigh and the other main cities in the Carolinas for the name on the truck. MOVING ON. He had done the same with the neighboring states of Virginia, Georgia, Tennessee, and Alabama. And nothing.

Gus slumped back into his chair and took a swallow from a half-empty Smirnoff bottle. It had been ten days since he had finally shot Ed Vincent as he stepped out of his Cessna at LaGuardia. He’d pumped four bullets into the bastard. Anyone else would have been good and dead. Even the doctors were saying they didn’t know how he was hanging on.

If Vincent did not expire soon, he would be forced to go to that hospital and take him out. And that would be risky.
Real
risky. Besides, he was worried about the woman in the truck, though, thank God, Mario de Soto didn’t know about her. Or about the dead Cuban. And of course he didn’t know about the money from the safe. He groaned, his head in his hands. He’d give the cash back in a heartbeat, if he could just get rid of this problem.

The woman should have died in the accident. Ed Vincent should have died outside the hangar at LaGuardia. It would have been perfect, everything would have been clean. Now he had two people to kill. He was under pressure. And he was worried.

Goddammit, he had to find her.

49

On the other coast, in Miami, Mario de Soto pressed the End Call button on his Nokia. He was a big, bulky man, eighty or so pounds overweight, clean-shaven, with narrow eyes and dark hair streaked with gray. He was scowling as he stared out the window of his study in the pink stucco, Italianate mansion overlooking the ocean. Had he been interested, from where he stood he could have seen the spacious green lawns surrounding the house, and the tall rows of queen palms that delineated the property’s boundaries, as well as the blue-green Atlantic Ocean stretching to the even bluer horizon. But Mario wasn’t looking. He had other things on his mind.

He had made a deal. One of the conditions of his participation in that deal—the elimination of Ed Vincent—had to be completed by a certain date. He had given his word. Now his promise had been broken and he was deeply angry.

It was not difficult to hire a hit man. The trick was the quality. Gus Aramanov, a.k.a. George Artenski, was quality. He was the best. Except this time he had failed, and now time was running out. If Ed Vincent was not dead soon, something would have to be done about it.

Alberto Ricci had just been on the phone to Mario, speaking softly as he always did, telling him he had better take care of it. He didn’t say “or else,” but Mario got the drift. If he didn’t, the deal was off. These things passed on down the chain: Ricci’s promise to his investors; his promise to Ricci; and the hit man’s promise to him. Anything could go wrong. And it had. Thanks first to a goddamn hurricane, and second to Aramanov’s shaky hand.

He dialed the hit man’s business number on the West Coast again, pacing the cool marble floor, listening to it ring. There was no reply. There had been no reply for two days now. Angry, he dialed the man’s home number.

“Aramanov residence.” Lila’s voice sang out loudly over the phone. Her housekeeper was gone for the day, but she liked to answer as though it were the maid, just so people would know she had one.

“I’m looking for Gus.” Mario’s voice was impatient, rough.

“Try his office, out at the marina.” Lila sounded surprised. Gus never gave his home number to business acquaintances.

“I’ve tried him there. Been trying him for two days now.”

“Oh. Can I give him a message? Get him to call you?” Lila was uncertain now. There was something intimidating about the way the caller spoke. He wasn’t shouting, but there was something in his tone that frightened her.

“You tell him to call Mario.
Right away,
Mrs. Aramanov.”

Mario ended the call and went back to the window. He saw the view this time, but his take on it was different. He did not see the hot red and bright purple bougainvillea climbing the pink stucco wall; instead he saw the electric fence and the wiring that ran along the top of it. He didn’t see the sun sparkling like molten gold on the blue-green ocean; instead he saw the massive iron gates and the guard house and the two armed men with Uzi submachine guns at the ready. He didn’t see the cool, dark blue infinity pool and the immaculate red clay tennis courts; he saw infrared video cameras and motion detectors in the bushes, and attack-trained Dobermans patrolling his property. Mario de Soto saw a jail.

Sure, the Miami mansion was different from the jails he’d done time in; at least here he had his own chef. But lately he had lost his appetite and mostly he ate just grilled vegetables, with the occasional piece of fish. He didn’t drink anymore, either, since the heart attack that had almost finished him off three years ago—except for milk, always accompanied by a pack of Oreos. He never could resist them, and it wasn’t just a hangover from his childhood. He had never gotten to eat Oreos then.

He had a chauffeur and a black Mercedes SL900, as well as a red Ferrari and a deep blue Bentley Brooklands Trophy Edition. But he rarely went out anymore.

He had a girlfriend, blonde, attractive, bejeweled, and scented. She wore Versace and sexy lingerie. But he wasn’t able to get it up anymore.

Mario had lost his appetite not only for food but for life. Until Alberto Ricci had paid him a visit a few weeks ago.

Alberto was in the property business, via a Cayman Islands company known as Monster Development. He was in a high-stakes bidding war for airspace on Fifth Avenue, and had come up against tough competition. Ed Vincent.

Mario had made his own first fortune in property. He had also served his first jail term for defrauding investors in that same property deal, but had still come out a winner after just a couple of years—and with a well-hidden offshore bank account. He’d done time for other things, too, that he didn’t care to have talked about. And there were plenty of people who would like to see him dead.

But Alberto Ricci was squeaky clean and he intended to keep it that way: no fraud; no SEC scams; no murders . . . at least none that could be traced back to him. Ricci was a society gentleman and his new young wife enjoyed that. He used other people to do his dirty work and take the rap for him. This time was no different.

De Soto had struck a deal with Ricci. He would get to be a twenty-percent partner in the Fifth Avenue property at a reduced financial stake. In return for getting rid of the competition.

It was the thought of the “competition” that had brought him most pleasure, though. He had laughed himself sick over it. His nemesis had fallen into his hands quite by chance. Ed Vincent was the one man on this planet who had the knowledge to put him away forever—if only he had known him. But Vincent certainly did not know Mario de Soto.

He strode restlessly out of the big house and stood for a minute, hands behind his back, dark sunglasses hiding his narrow eyes, looking around at the property his fertile criminal mind had bought him. The men patrolling the grounds with the leashed Dobermans saluted him, and in an instant his assistant was at his side.

Mario ignored them all, striding down the steps and across the lawn to the back of the house and the helipad.

The assistant was alarmed. Mario had not been anywhere in weeks, he wasn’t well. He hurried after him. “Mr. de Soto, where are you going, sir?”

Still ignoring him, Mario climbed into the Bell helicopter. He strapped himself in and put on the headset. The assistant backed away quickly as the rotor blades began to whirl. Then Mario was up and away, heading for the Bahamas.

As he looked down on his vast oceanfront property, he thought how little pleasure it gave him. And how much pleasure the Monster deal would give him. That is, when he had completed his part of the bargain.

50

Lila Aramanov could not figure out why her husband was so obsessed with the news these days. He even ate in front of the TV, alone in the family room, dismissing the kids with a harsh
go
away,
or
play, why can’t you,
or
haven’t I bought
you enough toys, for Chrissakes.

Lila hovered by the door, watching him switch channels, jumpy as a Halloween cat. She could swear he caught every newscast. Sighing, she decided this was her moment to tackle him on the subject, find out what was wrong, get him to share his feelings with her.

Gus was sitting in his usual chair in front of the sixty-inch TV set. A ham-and-Swiss on a kaiser roll, piled high with tomato and onion—despite Lila’s refined comments about what the onion did to his breath—lay discarded on a plate on the floor. She noticed he had taken only a couple of bites. And next to the plate stood a line of empty Bud cans, which had now been replaced with Smirnoff vodka, which he was drinking from the bottle. Things were definitely not good.

She came up behind him, wound her arms around him, nuzzling his big neck. “What’s happened to my big teddy bear?” she whined. “He’s gone away from his little toy girl, left her all alone and lonely.”

Gus switched from NBC to
Headline News
. “Aw, for Chrissakes, leave me alone, why don’t ya” was his surly reply.

Lila flung away from him as though she had been stung. “So what the hell’s the matter with you?” She ran her French-manicured fingers distractedly through her stiffly sprayed bright-blonde hair, for once not caring that it stuck up ridiculously instead of settling in its usual carefully fluffed-out mop. “Y’know what, Gus Aramanov? You’re just not the same guy you used to be.”

Gus didn’t even turn from the TV to look at her. “Thanks for sharing that with me.
Sweetheart,
” he added maliciously.

“So what’s with the nerves? The depression? The bad temper? You even vent on the kids.” Her eyes filled with tears, remembering the way things used to be. “Poor innocent babies,” she sobbed.

“Lila, just give it a rest, why don’t ya.” Gus leaned forward, suddenly intent as the news-caster mentioned Ed Vincent.

“Mr. Vincent is still in a coma. It has been
over a week now and doctors report no improvement in his condition. Meanwhile, the perpetrator . . .”

“Y’don’t even listen to me anymore,” Lila yelled, frantic.

“Shuddup, Lila.” He turned up the volume.

“. . . or perpetrators, are still at large. The police say the investigation is proceeding as normal.”

“Bastard!”
Lila screamed. She flounced out and up the white-carpeted stairs. In their pink master bedroom, she grabbed her night things, snatched up her favorite pillow, and headed for the guest room. The miserable bastard could sleep alone tonight.
Forever,
for all she cared.

The guest-room door slammed forcefully, rattling windows, but Gus did not even notice. He was frantic. De Soto was not a man to pussyfoot around. And his message had been blunt and to the point.