In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [56]
They headed for the bar, frozen, wet, miserable, and apprehensive. They ordered the same drinks as before, a beer and a cosmopolitan. Again, the young ever-smiling bartender got the cosmo right. Again, Mel got on the phone, called the hospital. Status quo. Again, Camelia got on the phone, called “the office” to check what was doing. This time, quite a bit, it seemed.
He listened intently while Mel sipped the cosmo and nibbled on peanuts. Somewhere along the way they had forgotten all about lunch and she was starving.
She heard Camelia give them the information on Mitch Rogan and ask them to run it through the computer. She watched him, trying to guess the other end of the conversation, but his face was impassive and his responses were noncommittal. Finally, he finished. He turned back to the bar, took a good sip of his Bud, and ordered a single malt.
“Ever hear of a George Artenski?” She shook her head. “The national computer came up with a reasonable match for your composite picture. We think he’s our man.”
Color flooded her face, she clutched a hand to her heart. “You’ve caught him.”
“Not yet. But we have a pretty good idea of who he is. Of course, by now he’ll be using a different ID, living somewhere else, probably have created a whole new life for himself. But Artenski was a hit man and this was a contract, I’d bet on that now.”
“But why? Why would anyone want Ed dead?”
She still didn’t get it, didn’t want to know that Ed might not be the nice, kind, loving guy he seemed to be. Camelia let her off lightly, though, this time. “That’s what we still have to find out. Meanwhile, we don’t want to scare our hit man underground, we want him to think he’s gotten away with it.”
“Well, he has,” she retorted.
“So far, he has,” Camelia admitted. “But not for much longer. We’re not gonna show his picture on TV yet, but it’s on every police computer in the country, and someone, somewhere, is bound to recognize him. It won’t be much longer, you can count on that.”
“Can I really, Marco?”
She reached for his hand. A thrill shot like a warm arrow into his groin. He glanced away and took a good slug of the single malt.
“Really count on it?” she added, pleadingly, thinking of how much safer she would feel with the hit man behind bars. How much safer Ed would be, despite his bodyguards around the clock.
“You can bet on it.” He squeezed her hand, then deftly removed his own without making it look too obvious. “And we want him alive and kicking.” He didn’t add, So we can get to know the truth about what happened—but then, he didn’t have to.
She was sharp as a tack and so goddamn beautiful, even with her long neck tilted, her head drooping, her skin so pale and cold-looking. He wanted desperately to reach out, stroke the nape of her neck where the soft golden hair grew into a little downward point; he wanted to inhale her scent. . . . Jesus, he was a cop on duty, what the hell was he thinking? . . . Yet, why else had he brought her here? He pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Like her, he didn’t want to know the truth.
“Ever hear of a Mamzelle Dorothea Jefferson Duval?” he asked. She shook her head again. “Me either. Apparently there was a call from her, from a nursing home near Charleston. She said it was urgent, that she wanted to talk to me about Ed Vincent. Wouldn’t talk to anyone else.”
“How did she know about you?”
“Saw me on TV, perhaps. Or read about the case in the newspapers. Anyway, it’s worth a shot. We’ll go to Charleston tomorrow, check out the beach house and speak with the sheriff there. And also pay Mamzelle Dorothea a visit. See what she has to say.”
“Okay.” It was getting late. Mel’s head was throbbing, her nose was raw from the wind, and she was sniffling with a cold. All she wanted to do right now was go to bed, or go back to New York and Ed. Oh, Ed, honey, I’ll find out who did this, trust me. . . . All I know is, it wasn’t you. . . .
She said, “Sorry, Marco, but I can’t make dinner. I’m sending for room service. Chicken soup and cheese grits. Exactly what my mother used