In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [38]
“The killer, your attacker . . .”
“More like assassin,” she retorted, remembering.
“The killer and your would-be assassin. Now, I know it was dark, it was raining cats and dogs, the wind was howling, and you didn’t get a good look at him. But you must remember something. Anything at all. Come on, Mel, think.”
She slumped back in her chair, eyes closed, and Marco signaled the waiter to refill their coffee cups.
Mel was concentrating on the sensory memories, how she had felt when he touched her, the way he had smelled, sounded. . . .
And Marco was thinking how innocent she looked, just a babe herself, though “babe” was hardly the right word. Or was it? With those legs, those lips . . . Her eyes flew open, she was staring into his . . . and oh, God, those eyes, deep and round now as twin shots of single malt. . . . What the hell, he wasn’t a poet but he knew what he meant.
“I think he was foreign,” Mel said. “He had a guttural accent. You know, kind of like spies do in James Bond movies. And he must have been a heavy smoker, I smelled it on his hands. I almost threw up, and that’s when he let me go. I stuck my fingers in his eyes, I felt my nails digging into his flesh. A fat face—no, not fat exactly, but big, and a big neck. I’m tall but he was a good bit taller, maybe six-four, a really big guy. His hand covered my face from ear to ear. . . .”
She sighed as she sat back again. “That’s about it,” she said soberly, taking a sip of the fresh, hot coffee. “I really didn’t get a good look at him. It was dark in the house, dark outside, dark in the cab, although . . . wait a minute.”
She closed her eyes again, shivering as she relived the moments when she thought her end had come. There had been a flash of light as she aimed the huge truck at that tree, her headlights bouncing back at her. The gun was still at her head, she could feel its icy coldness even now. The coldness of death.
Marco watched the tears slide down her face. Her eyes were still shut and he had to hold himself back from grabbing her there and then, and just holding her tight, telling her it was okay, not to worry, he would take care of her. God, what was he thinking! He was a cop, a professional. He took a gulp of the hot coffee, burning his mouth in the process, welcoming the jolt it gave him that brought him back to his senses.
Mel remembered swiveling her eyes just as she slammed her foot on the gas, that sideways glimpse of her would-be killer. . . .
“He looked like a pit bull,” she said softly, almost whispering as the memory came to her. “A lowering forehead, sort of bulbous. Narrow eyes, a tight mouth, clean-shaven, a lot of dark hair. And he was wearing a business suit and a tie. . . . I remember thinking I didn’t know killers wore ties. . . .”
She sighed and took another sip of coffee. “That’s all.”
Camelia nodded. “It’s enough, to start. You’ll talk with the Identikit artist, tell him what you remember while he constructs an image on his computer. And we’ll get a language expert to play some tapes for you, try to identify the accent.”
“Okay.” She nodded, eager to help.
“So tell me, Mel, what exactly do you know about Ed Vincent?”
Again, her eyes widened and she stared blankly at him. “Why, I guess just what you know. I mean, everybody knows who Ed Vincent is.” Then she had the grace to laugh. “Except me, I guess. I seemed to be the only one who didn’t know he was the New York developer guru, rich and handsome and . . . and oh, so kind. He’s a good man, Marco, if that’s what you want to know. I can’t believe there’s a reason someone would want to kill him.”
“And yet someone did. Does, in fact.”
Alarm bells rang in Mel’s head, she was already on her feet. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Take it easy, take it easy, no one’s gonna get to him in the hospital. There’s a uniform outside his door twenty-four hours and another standing by the elevators. Plus we have surveillance set up outside the hospital.”
She sank back into the chair with a troubled sigh.