In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [107]
“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.
62
It was eight-thirty on Friday night. Camelia was having his anniversary dinner with Claudia at Nino’s. He had brought her flowers, bold, scarlet-tipped pink roses; he had ordered the Antinori Chianti Riserva; and he had a gift for her, a diamond heart necklace. He knew that she thought all he had gotten her were the flowers, and he had the box in his pocket, ready to surprise her later. The evening was going well.
Mel had spent a long day at the hospital, by Ed’s bedside. Now she needed to take time out with Riley. She kissed him tenderly, told him she would be back in a couple of hours, said, “Wait for me, honey. Just don’t go anywhere, okay?” She kissed him again, squeezed his hand, stroked his hair.
Ed heard her leave, though somehow, now, the sound seemed more distant. No matter how he fought against it, the blackness was claiming him more and more often. . . . An endless gloom where there were no dreams to sustain him . . . no love to be felt . . . no words of comfort. . . . He was alone on a sea of endless night. . . .
Come back, my love, he wanted to yell after her. I know Riley needs you, and I’m being selfish . . . but I need you, Mel. . . . I want you. My body wants you, my head wants you, my heart wants you. . . . What’s that old song, “All of Me”? That’s about where it’s at between us, my love. . . . Only now I’m so tired . . . it’s getting harder and harder to fight it. . . . I’m losing this battle, and don’t want to leave you. . . . Only you are keeping me here, Mel . . . my honey. . . .
Mario was being careful to cover his tracks, and the jet he chartered from LA was from a different company. It landed at LaGuardia, the same location where Aramanov had bungled the hit on Ed.
This time Mario was traveling under the name of Michael Miller. Miller was his mother’s family name—Ellin Miller Rogan. And he had used his father’s name, Farrar, on the trip to LA. He didn’t know why he was drawn to using their names at this point, except somehow, with Ed finally about to join the rest of his murdered family, it seemed appropriate.
Mario had his foolproof alibi all set. From LA, he had called a doctor, complaining of cardiac problems. He had arranged to check in at the Manhattan hospital late that evening, ready for a complete physical the next morning, with a preliminary angiogram to check for arterial blockages, and the possibility of an angioplasty to destroy any clots they might find.
Mario knew the ropes. He had undergone both these procedures recently and understood what to tell the cardiologist to get immediate attention.
He checked into a private room and was asked to remove his clothing and put on a hospital gown. He did as he was asked, climbed into the narrow hospital bed, submitted to his temperature being taken, as well as samples of blood. Then he told the nurse he was going to sleep and asked her not to disturb him.
“Sure,” she agreed, “you have an early morning ahead of you, Mr. Miller. Best to get some sleep while you can.”
He watched her walk out of the room, waited ten minutes, then he got up and put his clothes back on: a black shirt, black sweatpants, and a thin lightweight Adidas jacket, purchased in LA. He laced up his sneakers, adjusted his clothing, combed his hair. He opened the small bag he carried. It contained only a neatly folded white coat—the kind that doctors wear—a couple of ballpoint pens, and a clipboard holding some official looking notes.
Zipping these items securely under his jacket, he opened the door and peered out. In the hospital, things had eased down into the night routine and the corridor was in semidarkness. At the end he could see the brighter glow of the nurses’ station and hear the murmur of voices.
The