In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [109]
Mel took a deep, shaky breath. “Okay. I’m okay now. It was just a shock, y’know. The relief of knowing it’s all over. Finally.”
He hated to be the one to disillusion her, but he had to say it. “It’s not all over yet, Mel. We have our hit man. But we still don’t have the guy who hired him.” He put his elbows on the small table, leaned close. “He’s our true killer.”
Her malt-whiskey eyes widened as they stared into his. He saw the pupils expand and knew he had shocked her. Her face was so close that he could have kissed her.
“Oh, Marco,” she said in a trembly voice. “Ed is still in danger. I have to go to him.” And she was on her feet, grabbing her purse from the chair where she had slung it, spilling its contents.
He guessed this was a frequent occurrence and he wasn’t the first guy to get on his knees and help her pick up her stuff: the sunglasses; the spiral-bound pads; the pens; lipsticks; keys; old store receipts; unpaid bills; a couple of McDonald’s little giveaway toys that belonged to Riley; stray coins; an ancient wallet; a small leather photo frame with a picture of Ed.
She clung to his arm as he walked her back to the hospital. “I’d better get back to the precinct,” Camelia said as they strode up the steps into the lobby. “Will you be okay now? On your own?”
She nodded, but he could tell from her face that she was nervous. It was as though, with the death of the hit man, she now thought Ed might be dead too.
He watched her walk to the bank of elevators, then stood on the steps, contemplating the night. Cool, misty, unseasonable. He felt in his pocket for the Winstons and his fingers touched the little velvet box. He groaned. Claudia’s anniversary gift. Would she ever forgive him? He guessed so. Didn’t she always?
Not that that’s any excuse, he told himself, lighting up the forbidden cigarette. He glanced back through the glass doors, saw Mel still waiting for the elevator. Her head was down, and she was staring at the floor—lost, he knew, in her own sad world.
She lifted her head as the elevator came, then stepped into it. There was something about her tonight that made him uneasy. An overwhelming sadness. He had never seen her like this; she was always so cheery, so brave about everything, but tonight, even though Gus Aramanov was dead, she seemed destroyed.
He wondered whether he was right to have reminded her that the real killer wasn’t dead yet.
He paced the front steps, puffing on the Winston. Something about the whole scenario troubled him.
64
Ed heard the door close. He hoped it was Zelda, he missed her so. He listened for her familiar footstep, but there was only silence. Then he heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. A man, he thought. Probably a doctor. He could hear him breathing now. Hard, as though he had been running. . . . He wanted to shout, Hello, who’s there? but he could not. . . .
He was so close. Ed could smell him . . . a musky, sandalwood odor. But there was something else, something puzzling. An alien scent. The smell of danger. The archetypal reaction of fight-or-flee sent adrenaline surging through his veins, jolting his heart to new peaks on the monitor. Dear God, they were going to get him after all. . . . He felt a final thrust of energy. . . . Life—like he hadn’t felt it in weeks.
His eyes flew open. And he was looking at his brother. . . .
Mitch did not speak. He did not smile. He simply stared back at him. Then he yanked the ventilator from Ed’s throat, and the drips and the catheters.
He was smiling as he did so, but now the monitor was going crazy, alarms were sounding. He had to get out of there.
Mel didn’t know why she was so nervous. After what Camelia had just told her, she should be feeling more secure. But someone out there still wanted Ed dead. Instinct told her she had been away from him too long. She covered that shiny corridor like a star quarterback with a winning touchdown.
She stopped, puzzled. There was no uniform on guard outside