In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [92]
Directory Assistance gave him Mel Merrydew’s home number and address. He got back on the freeway, exited at Santa Monica, and found Ascot Street. Again, he parked on the opposite side of the street, staring at number 139, taking in the shabby craftsman bungalow with its wide front porch and overhanging gables. There was a hammock with a pile of kid’s soft toys in it, teddies and such, just like the ones that belonged to his own kids.
He stored that information for future reference, then drove back to the yacht basin at Marina del Rey. He dealt with the necessary business, then headed south to San Diego, and home. First he would take care of the woman. Then he’d figure out how to take care of Ed Vincent. One more time.
Lila was pleased when Gus arrived home with little gifts for the children. He presented her with a bouquet of roses and a gruff apology.
“Business problems,” he explained.
Back in the pink master bedroom again, she was surprised how amorous he was that night. It was like old times. She had her teddy bear back again.
52
As Mel’s United flight was landing at JFK, Marco Camelia was on Virgin Atlantic, en route to London.
He was leaning back in the red seat, eating a chocolate-covered ice cream bar and watching an old Sharon Stone movie on his personal little video screen. Again the actress reminded him uncannily of Mel. He heaved a deep sigh as he took the final bite of ice cream. He thought both women were equally remote.
The reality was that they had finally tracked down the owners of the Fifth Avenue property, a consortium of Arab investors who were saying nothing, except, via a spokesman, that they did not want to be involved. They were deliberately out of the country and difficult to reach, but this morning, Scotland Yard had advised that one of the group owned a house in London, and that he was currently in residence. And Camelia had gotten the first flight to Heathrow.
Early-morning London was gray, with a kind of damp mist that the English termed a “sprinkle,” but which Camelia thought was more of a chilling rain. He shivered, waiting for a taxi; it got to his very bones and he wondered how the Brits put up with it, day after day, year after year. Did they ever get spring, summer, a nice sunny day? He suspected maybe only in the movies. He definitely was not connecting with real life today.
He checked into a vast, impersonal hotel near the Strand, dumped his hastily packed bag on the bed, called his cohort, Inspector Macpherson at Scotland Yard, and arranged to be there “like right now.”
The traffic was snarled and it took him ten minutes longer than he had anticipated, and he was angry with himself for keeping Macpherson waiting.
When he finally entered the redbrick portals of the hallowed British institution known as Scotland Yard, he couldn’t help but think of Sherlock Holmes, but the reality was as modern and slick as Virgin Atlantic. And Inspector Macpherson was a lofty guy with a ruddy complexion, a beard, and a booming voice that carried down the hallway as he called out a greeting.
Unlike the NYPD, there were no teetering piles of old files, no stagnant cups of coffee and stale Krispy Kremes. Camelia took a seat and was offered hot coffee in a proper mug and a shortbread biscuit from Macpherson’s own private stash.
“I’m a Scot,” Macpherson said with a loud laugh. “Can’t get through the day without a nice bit of shortbread. Not as good as Mother used to make, I’ll admit, but good enough. Besides,” he added, “I’m addicted to the sugar.”
Camelia accepted the biscuit and listened while Macpherson explained what the deal was. One of the principals in the Arab consortium, Khalid al Sharif, had arrived in London two days ago. His house was guarded, but Macpherson had obtained a warrant, and the man would have to answer questions in connection with his property dealings.
He was Saudi, the eldest son, oil-rich and a bit of a mystery. Unlike many of his mega-rich contemporaries, Khalid kept out of the gambling clubs and the nightclubs, and