In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [88]
Finally, he’d hitched the rented Taurus to the SUV and towed it back to the airport. He had left no traces, no clues. That beach house was as clean as a freshly detailed Mercedes when he left it.
So far, though, the woman had not said anything to the cops. He knew that from the news-casts, as well as from the North and South Carolina newspapers he had ordered from the big newsstand in San Diego. He was hoping the concussion had blanked out her memory. Still, it was a risk he did not care to walk around with. That woman could identify him.
He had summoned up the national telephone directory on his computer and searched listings in Charleston and Raleigh and the other main cities in the Carolinas for the name on the truck. MOVING ON. He had done the same with the neighboring states of Virginia, Georgia, Tennessee, and Alabama. And nothing.
Gus slumped back into his chair and took a swallow from a half-empty Smirnoff bottle. It had been ten days since he had finally shot Ed Vincent as he stepped out of his Cessna at LaGuardia. He’d pumped four bullets into the bastard. Anyone else would have been good and dead. Even the doctors were saying they didn’t know how he was hanging on.
If Vincent did not expire soon, he would be forced to go to that hospital and take him out. And that would be risky. Real risky. Besides, he was worried about the woman in the truck, though, thank God, Mario de Soto didn’t know about her. Or about the dead Cuban. And of course he didn’t know about the money from the safe. He groaned, his head in his hands. He’d give the cash back in a heartbeat, if he could just get rid of this problem.
The woman should have died in the accident. Ed Vincent should have died outside the hangar at LaGuardia. It would have been perfect, everything would have been clean. Now he had two people to kill. He was under pressure. And he was worried.
Goddammit, he had to find her.
49
On the other coast, in Miami, Mario de Soto pressed the End Call button on his Nokia. He was a big, bulky man, eighty or so pounds overweight, clean-shaven, with narrow eyes and dark hair streaked with gray. He was scowling as he stared out the window of his study in the pink stucco, Italianate mansion overlooking the ocean. Had he been interested, from where he stood he could have seen the spacious green lawns surrounding the house, and the tall rows of queen palms that delineated the property’s boundaries, as well as the blue-green Atlantic Ocean stretching to the even bluer horizon. But Mario wasn’t looking. He had other things on his mind.
He had made a deal. One of the conditions of his participation in that deal—the elimination of Ed Vincent—had to be completed by a certain date. He had given his word. Now his promise had been broken and he was deeply angry.
It was not difficult to hire a hit man. The trick was the quality. Gus Aramanov, a.k.a. George Artenski, was quality. He was the best. Except this time he had failed, and now time was running out. If Ed Vincent was not dead soon, something would have to be done about it.
Alberto Ricci had just been on the phone to Mario, speaking softly as he always did, telling him he had better take care of it. He didn’t say “or else,” but Mario got the drift. If he didn’t, the deal was off. These things passed on down the chain: Ricci’s promise to his investors; his promise to Ricci; and the hit man’s promise to him. Anything could go wrong. And it had. Thanks first to a goddamn hurricane, and second to Aramanov’s shaky hand.
He dialed the hit man’s business number on the West Coast again, pacing the cool marble floor, listening to it ring. There was no reply. There had been no reply for two days now. Angry, he dialed the man’s home number.
“Aramanov residence.” Lila’s voice sang out loudly over the phone. Her housekeeper was gone for the day, but she liked to answer as though it were the maid, just so people would know she had one.
“I’m looking for Gus.” Mario’s voice was impatient, rough.
“Try his office, out at the marina.” Lila sounded surprised. Gus