In a Heartbeat (27 page)

65

Sheer terror sent Mario de Soto stumbling back down those concrete emergency stairs faster than he had ever moved before. He paused for breath on the fourth floor. He had intended to return to his room, go back to bed, tell the doctor in the morning that he had changed his mind, didn’t want to go through with the tests, and leave. No one would have suspected him. He would have been just another difficult patient, one among hundreds in that hospital. But he knew there was no chance of using that alibi now.

He continued on down to the third floor; then the second; the first. He got out at the underground parking lot, dodged through the ranks of cars toward the exit. He tucked the Kahr back into the ankle holster and straightened his clothing. He was still breathing hard as he walked out onto the street, ducking into the shadows as he heard the scream of police sirens. He could see blue lights flashing, saw officers running into the hospital, guns drawn.

Anger burned in him, volatile as jet fuel. He was exploding with rage at Gus Aramanov for bringing him down to this. A cheap killer, hunted on the streets of Manhattan. And anger at Alberto Ricci, who had offered him the promised land, and whom he knew would now deny that he ever knew him. Ricci always came out the winner. But not this time.

He stepped out of the shadows and flagged down a passing cab. “East Sixty-fourth Street,” he said.

Camelia was already running down the emergency stairs, the killer’s only escape route. In the parking lot, he saw the discarded white coat, heard the scream of sirens as help arrived. He crouched, gun in hand, scanning the dimly lit lot.

He had never felt like this about a case before. The need to kill this man devoured him. If Mel was dead, he didn’t know how he would be able to handle it. He had death in his own heart as he summoned extra officers to the parking lot.

66

Julianna Ricci was giving a dinner party. It was an important occasion for her, because she wanted desperately to become co-chair of the grandest charity event of the year, in aid of developmentally challenged children. An event that would put her right up there alongside Manhattan’s biggest socialites.

Julianna was tall and blonde and elegant in a long, celadon silk-chiffon couture dress. With it she wore Alberto’s latest gift: a necklace of emeralds and diamonds and matching earrings.

She had just had the house redone by the latest decorator, and it looked a dream, with enormous displays of flowers wherever there was space for them. Her table was set with the finest Cristofle and Baccarat and Bernadaud; a butler and a houseman waited on them, and the chef had cooked for royalty.

There were twenty at the long table, with Alberto looking handsome and distinguished at the head, and Julianna at the foot. They were just eating dessert—wild strawberries flown in from the South of France over a soufflé with strawberry eau-de-vie, served with flutes of delicate pink Roederer champagne (the favorite, she knew, of her most important guest)—when the butler came in and whispered something discreetly in her husband’s ear.

Mario was waiting in Alberto Ricci’s hall. He looked around at the elegant surroundings. He had thought his own Miami mansion was the ultimate in luxury and class, but this was something else. The works of art on these walls looked like museum pieces, and the furniture had the exquisite patina of expensive antiques. Even the rug was magnificent, forty feet long and of faded silk that must have come from the Ottoman Empire. He felt sick to his stomach. He’d thought he had it all. Now he knew he had nothing.

He peered through the massive bouquet of flowers on the gilded console, into the tall Venetian mirror, at his own face. He hardly recognized himself. Was this shrunken, white-faced man really Mitch Rogan?

He turned as Ricci strode angrily into the hall.

Ricci dismissed the butler with a wave of his manicured hand. “What are you doing here?” he hissed. “I told you never to contact me, never to come to my house.” He already had Mario by the arm, pulling him toward the front door. “Get out, and don’t come back, you stupid bastard.”

Mario turned to look at him. He jammed the sleek little Kahr into Ricci’s gut. And he smiled as he pulled the trigger.

67

They had found no one in the parking lot: the suspect had gotten away, and an all-points was out on him. Camelia was outside the O.R. when his cell phone rang. There had been a shooting at Alberto Ricci’s home.

Camelia had always known, in his gut, that Ricci was at the bottom of the property deal. No matter whom he had used as hit men, Ricci was the true killer.

Sirens screaming, he was at the East Sixty-fourth Street townhouse in minutes.

Mitch Rogan, a.k.a. Mario de Soto, straddled Ricci’s body, where it lay oozing blood onto the priceless Ottoman rug. His gun was aimed at Julianna Ricci, standing on the stairs where she had attempted to flee, screaming her stupid head off.

“You’re not gonna have a head in a minute if y’don’t shut up,” he told her stonily. She clamped her mouth shut, but he could still hear her whimpering. Light from the immense crystal chandelier glinted off the diamonds and emeralds at her throat and reflected in his envious eyes.

He had been a fool, a great stupid fucking fool. It was men like Ricci, this
dead
man, who won all the big prizes. While men like him scrambled for the smaller pickings, thinking they were such big shots. His whole fucking life had been a sham.

He heard the police sirens and the cries of the terrified guests, still huddled together in the dining room. He almost laughed. They surely hadn’t expected this when they had donned their fancy designer outfits and pricey jewels for the Riccis’ dinner party.

The door burst open. That goddamn woman was screaming again. He turned to look . . . saw them coming. He knew this was the end.

He put the Kahr into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

68

Camelia was watching the coroner do his stuff, while police officers attended to Julianna Ricci and the dinner guests in the elegant sitting room. The sound of their hysterical sobbing faded into a background buzz of noise as he stared down at the two bodies.

Both had been evil men. Greedy men who would let nothing stop them in their race for more. More money; more possessions; more power. Now they were powerless. And more than likely facing their maker, who, he sincerely hoped, would send them straight down the chute to hell.

Activity swarmed all around him: print men; forensics; police photographers; detectives; uniforms. Ricci would certainly never have expected to see this in his fancy home.

Camelia wondered about Ricci’s wife. How much had Julianna known about her husband’s activities? They would soon find out, he was sure of that. And there went Julianna’s future on the charity circuit. She’d likely be trading in the pale green haute couture and the emeralds and diamonds for orange prison garb and an ID tag.

He took one last look at the bodies, then lit up a cigarette. To hell with the smoking rules, he thought wearily. Too much had gone down tonight.

It was several hours later. The twilight silence of the recovery room was soothing. They had removed the bullets from Mel’s left arm and leg and she was still in that hazy fog of postoperative sedation. A great lethargy consumed her and she wondered lazily if this was how Ed felt, hovering peacefully somewhere in limbo.
Ed!
She sat bolt upright.
She had to get out of there. . . .

She was at the door, wobbling rockily, hospital gown flapping, when Camelia came in and caught her. He felt the pounding of her heart, the softness of her.

“Where d’ya think you’re goin’, honey?” he said with a catch in his voice.

She giggled then. “I told you that honey thing was contagious,” she said, sliding back into oblivion, through his arms to the floor.

Camelia picked her up and carried her back to the bed, calling for the nurses. He waited while they checked her, grumbling that she was crazy to even have gotten out of bed, and anyhow they didn’t know how she had done it, and she only half an hour out of the O.R.

Camelia stood by Mel’s bed, watching her pale, sleeping face. He blamed himself for what had happened. He should have been on top of things, should have come down harder on the young officers when they goofed off. All it took was one slip, one tiny mistake, and it was all over.

Brotski was still in the O.R. He had taken a bullet to the chest. His career as a member of the NYPD might be over almost before it had begun.

Camelia always reverted to his Catholic roots at moments like this. He was praying for him. And for himself. The would-be sinner.

69

It was several hours before Mel was properly awake. She grabbed Camelia’s hand, wincing as the pain shot through her. “Tell me what happened.”

“No sudden moves,” he said as calmly as he could with his heart racing like a Thoroughbred at the winning post. “You’ve just had bullets removed from your left arm and thigh. I guess you were thrashing around so much, Mitch couldn’t get a fix on you. Or on Ed. Anyhow, you’re darn lucky to be alive.”

The question she couldn’t speak was in her eyes.

“And so is Ed,” he said.

She sank back, relieved. “Oh, thank you, God,” she murmured. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

She sat up again suddenly. “How . . .
alive
is he?”

“He’s gonna be as good as the old Ed.” Camelia grinned. “I was gonna say
good as new,
but I thought you’d prefer him just the way he was.”

She gave him that ear-to-ear smile. “When can I see him?”

He shrugged. “Better ask the doc. And you might want to look in on Brotski while you’re doing the rounds.”

“Brotski?”

Of course, she didn’t know. He told her about Brotski, that he was doing well and, like her, would suffer no permanent damage.

“Not such a good shot, our Mitch,” Mel said with a relieved smile.

“Good enough to kill Alberto Ricci. And then himself.” Her eyes were wide with astonishment as he told her the outcome. “So there’s no need to worry anymore,” he said finally. “You and Ed are both home free.”

For Mel, it was as though a great cloud had lifted. The worry; the stress; the fear for Ed, for Riley, for the lives of those she loved. She held on to Camelia’s hand and squeezed it. “Whatever would I have done without you?”

Camelia shrugged uncomfortably. “Some other member of the NYPD would have taken care of you, ma’am. We are only here to serve.”

“Oh, sure. Over and above the call of duty.” She squeezed his hand again. “Riley said to say thank you. She’s going to write you a letter.”

“I’ll have it framed. We don’t get many letters of thanks.”

A doctor appeared in the doorway. “You’re looking better,” he said to Mel. “We have a demand for your presence upstairs in Mr. Vincent’s room. Feel up to the trip?”

“Up to it?” She flung back the sheets, swung her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing with pain and laughing at the same time. “I can’t wait,” she said as they helped her into a wheelchair and wrapped her in a blanket.

Camelia watched them go. “Oh, by the way,” he called. Mel turned. “Tell Ed there’ll be a couple of good Bonnards on the auction block before too long.”

Her laughter floated back to him.

70

Ed was propped up in bed with a small mountain of pillows. There were no more tubes, no ventilator, no catheters. Just the ever-present monitor, marking his steady, even heartbeat.

It was ironic, he thought, that in trying to kill him, Mitch had succeeded in bringing him back from the dead. His brother almost qualified as Dr. Frankenstein, except now Mitch was the dead one. He sighed. It had been a long, hard haul. He wasn’t sure he could even remember those endless twilight dreams of the here, and the hereafter. It didn’t matter anymore. Zelda was with him.

The nurse wheeled her to the side of his bed, and for a long moment they looked at each other.

She was pale under that peachy golden tan, big-eyed with emotion, unable to speak. He shook his head, marveling at her. She had jump-started his heart, blown away the cobwebs of the past weeks. And she was knock-your-socks-off beautiful, in an oddly innocent yet sexy kind of way. He smiled as he reached for her hand.

Mel was lost in his gaze. She was so grateful to him just for living, she could have wept. Instead, she dropped a kiss on his hand.

Light as gossamer, he thought, remembering their nights of love together.

“You don’t look bad for a guy who almost didn’t make it,” she said tremulously.

“I made it because I needed to get back to you.” His hand gripped hers tightly and she flashed him that familiar smile.

“Flatterer.”

“You bet,” he said. “Just prepare to hear that kind of stuff for the rest of your days.”

“I was here for you, Ed.” She was wondering if he recalled anything, or whether it was all lost in the blackness of the coma.

“I know. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Suddenly shy, she didn’t know what to say to this newly alive person, and yet she had spilled her guts to him when he was unconscious. “I might have to get to know you all over again.”

He laughed. “Just think of what fun that will be.”

Their eyes locked again. Then Mel levered herself from the wheelchair onto the edge of the bed. She swung her damaged leg up first, and the rest of her followed. She rolled over until she was lying next to him.

His arm was around her, his mouth on hers. They clung together, never wanting to let go.

When they finally came up for air, she laughed. “Whatever will the nurses say when they find me here?” she asked with that contagious giggle.

He looked at her and grinned. “Frankly, my dear,” he said in his best Rhett voice, “I don’t give a damn.”