In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [2]
Camelia had joined the force at the age of twenty after dropping out of Queens College and marrying his high school sweetheart, Claudia Romanos, a Puerto Rican beauty who saw him through the distorted eyes of love as a kind of Arnold Schwarzenegger. She adored him. As did his four kids, two boys and two girls, who spoke Spanish as well as Italian and straight-ahead American. His own little United Nations, he called them.
Despite the fact that he was a family man, Marco Camelia had a reputation and he knew it. Tough cop; a fighter; a troubleshooter. He’d been suspended and investigated a couple of times, both for killings in the line of duty—and just before the felons could kill him; but both times he had been proven right. He was just a dogged cop is all. He left no stone—or bullet—unturned, and no killer was ever gonna get away from him. So far, none had.
Camelia felt sorry for Ed Vincent. And he admired him. He was a regular guy, a rich man who did good things with his money. He helped many charities, including pediatric AIDS. He supported special boarding schools for the underprivileged and rehab camps for delinquents, which was quite something, since many of the kids were crack addicts and gang members who wanted anything but to be rehabilitated. But those who made it through would be eternally grateful that Ed Vincent had cared. He was also a strong supporter of the police force and law and order, and that counted for a lot with the guys of the NYPD.
Forty-four-year-old Vincent was a bit of a mystery man, though. Despite his success, his private life was just that. What was known about him was that he was a southerner, from Charleston, the heir to a fortune, the media said. He had par-layed his fortune in real estate development, erecting the two magnificent Vincent Towers in Manhattan. Ed Vincent was not short of brains or savvy. He knew how to make a buck and he knew how to make a deal, but he was still spoken of as a gentleman. And there were few enough of those around in business these days.
As a property developer Vincent had no equal for his flashy public style and for his personal reticence. His business life was public. His private life was just that. He never gave personal interviews, never talked about his past, never invited a member of the media into his penthouse home in the Vincent Towers on Fifth. And they said that no one, not even his friends, had ever been invited to his private retreat, the beach house north of Charleston, South Carolina.
Which was where Ed had just flown from, piloting his own Cessna into LaGuardia, where he had been shot.
“Four bullet wounds to the chest,” the resident intern called out, lifting Ed’s torso, searching for exit wounds. “Looks like one nicked the left pulmonary artery, that’s why the internal bleeding and the collapsed lung. They missed the liver, but there’s another wound just above the heart. Got to get him to the O.R. right away. Open him up and find out what’s happening.”
Camelia thought gloomily it did not sound good. In fact, the only good thing to happen to Vincent had been the immediate accessibility of the medevac helicopter that had brought the victim, fast, to Manhattan’s finest hospital. If Vincent could be saved, then timing and good medical care were on his side. Camelia doubted it. The guy was a goner.
They were running a tube into him. No time for anesthetic, they just sliced him neatly open and stuck it in there. Camelia’s own heart flipped sickeningly as he watched. Vincent looked like death, and God knows Camelia had seen enough of that to know how it looked.
Then, goddammit if the tough bastard didn’t lift his head and speak. “I’ve got to get out of here.” That’s what he said.
Camelia stepped forward, anxious to question him, but was immediately pushed aside by the nurse. “Get out of the way,” she yelled. “What’s the matter, can’t you guys wait?