In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [112]
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