In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [4]
Detectives were still combing the area, and forensics was doing its stuff, searching for hairs, for fibers and powder burns, for greasy tire marks and possible gasoline leaks from the pickup’s engine. Tiny pieces of nothing that could amount to everything in the final scientific puzzle they would try to solve.
Watching them, Camelia sometimes wished he had chosen that field. He had graduated from the police academy. He could have gone on from there, but he’d had a wife and two kids by then, and besides, he enjoyed the action, the camaraderie of the precinct house. He even enjoyed the ribbing he got over his name—“Hey, Camille,” they would shout at him, laughing as the wiry little Sicilian gave them an angry black-eyed glare. It was his life. He liked it. He felt a part of the NYPD in a way that the scientists with their solitary pursuits were not.
He had worked his way up through the ranks after years driving a patrol car in the Bronx. Those were really the hard times, he thought. Nothing could ever equal those rough, tough days. He crossed himself thankfully. Like Ed Vincent, he was lucky to be alive, and he knew it.
After the patrol car, he had done time on the bomb squad, then vice, drugs, and, finally, homicide. He had seen it all. Been there, done that. And he never dreamed about it at night. No sir, he kept his work life in one compartment and his home life in another. When he got home late, Claudia would already be sleeping. She would curl herself, spoonlike, around him, and he never thought about another thing, except the way she felt, and the way she smelled so sweet of Arpège, his favorite perfume. He was a lucky man. Luckier, he knew now, than the rich guy on the operating table.
Detective Jonas Machado drew a chalk circle on the cement around a shell casing, and the crime-scene photographer took pictures of it, showing its measurements and location. Machado picked up the brass with tweezers and dropped it into a Ziploc. “That’s three,” he said to Camelia. “We’re missing one.”
“Looks like one went through the fuselage.” Camelia peered into the customized silver Cessna, taking a minute to admire the taupe leather seats. He thought the interior of the little aircraft looked like an expensive sport-utility vehicle. “They probably missed him with that shot,” he said. “So there should be one slug inside the aircraft, plus at least one other. Keep on looking, Machado. We need it.”
He sighed, watching the ongoing search. All they had so far were three .40mm bullet casings and the information that a pickup had been observed departing the scene of the crime. Not one of his better nights in police work.
This one was going to be a toughie. And with an important man like Vincent, all hell would break loose once the media found out. Meanwhile, there was a blanket of silence until the next of kin could be found and informed. Trouble was, so far they had failed to turn up any next of kin. Sooner or later they would have to tell the press. That was, of course, if the nosy bastards didn’t find out first.
6
Vincent Towers Fifth was an imposing building clad in pale unpolished travertine, soaring fifty floors above Fifth Avenue, with a fabulous view of the park. The smartly dressed doorman had a look of alarm when the squad cars drew up outside. Police were definitely not a part of daily life at Vincent Towers.
The concierge came hurrying, anxious to remove whatever trouble there might be from the pristine lobby of his building. But the expression on his face altered when Camelia showed him the search warrant, told him there had been an accident and that Mr. Vincent was in the hospital.
The elevator walls were paneled in pale wood, and a beveled