In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [108]
The fire door was heavy and he had to be careful not to let it clang shut behind him. He eased it back into place, then took stock of his surroundings.
He was in a concrete stairwell lit by harsh overhead lights. A red-painted number indicated he was on level four. He knew that the intensive-care unit was on level ten.
He put on the doctor’s coat and stuck the ball-points into the pocket. It made him look more official, as did the small clipboard with the sheaf of “notes.”
His sneakers squeaked on the metal treads at the edges of the steps, and the stairwell smelled strongly of disinfectant. He pulled a face; he hated that smell. And it was a long way up to level ten. He was out of breath and the muscles in his thighs were burning by the time he pushed open the tenth-floor fire door, just a crack.
He could see that the layout was the same as on the lower floor, with the nurses’ station in the middle. And there was no cop on guard. He guessed maybe by now they had given up on Ed. He smiled. Finally, he was in the right place, and at the right time.
He slid the Kahr K9 from the Alessi ankle holster. He loved that small gun, it fit into his hand like it was tailor-made, and because of its slim shape it was easy to conceal. A full eight-shot 9mm Parabellum, it used +P+ ammunition and had a low recoil. It reminded Mario of his first gun, an old Browning, with which he had killed his first man, a business competitor. Things didn’t change much.
Sweating heavily, he stepped out into the long, shiny, antiseptic corridor.
63
Camelia was in the middle of his main course, osso buco, a favorite, when his pager beeped. Heads turned; there were glares of annoyance and he coughed to cover his embarrassment. He had deliberately left his cell phone in the car so they wouldn’t be disturbed, but the pager was his umbilical cord to the department. He couldn’t live without it.
He apologized to his wife, got up, and walked into the foyer to answer it. He was discreet and noncommittal in his replies, and when he was done, he walked back to their table and sat down again. Claudia knew what was coming: it was the story of her life.
Camelia told her that there was a break in the Ed Vincent case. He had to get back, things were happening fast. She understood, but it hurt.
“I promise you we’ll celebrate all over again,” Camelia said as he paid the check. “Next week, tesoro.” He had just put Claudia into a cab and watched it drive away, when he realized she had forgotten the roses.
Camelia called Mel at the hospital. She wasn’t there, so he called her at the penthouse.
“What’s wrong?” She got the sudden feeling he was the voice of doom, come to impart some terrible news.
“Nothing’s wrong. Can you meet me at the deli in about fifteen minutes?”
She didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be there,” she said.
They ordered coffee and a danish. Mel was looking at him, big-eyed, waiting for him to tell her what was going on that was so urgent. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and a baggy white sweatshirt that said LAKERS on it, and her short hair was shoved under a baseball cap.
She was, Camelia thought, a ray of California sunshine on a dark Manhattan night.
“Sorry to drag you out so abruptly.” He took a bite of the cheese danish. It was soggy, obviously from this morning’s batch, and he put it back on the plate, disgusted. He wasn’t hungry anyway. Just stressed.
Mel ignored her coffee. “So, what’s doing?” she asked.
“We got our hit man.”
She lifted her head, their eyes locked. She said, “Oh my God. I don’t believe it.”
“You can believe it. LAPD found him, out at the marina, on his boat. Dead.”
She drew in her breath. “Dead?”
“A single shot to the temple. Looks like suicide, but they’re not sure. They’re checking it out.”
It was the first time he had ever seen her speechless.
“The final irony, huh?” he said. “The hit man blows his own brains out.”
She shuddered and