In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [94]
He had an impeccable British accent, upper to the limit. Educated at Harrow, Macpherson had told Camelia earlier, in the little bio he had given him.
“Sir.” Macpherson took over. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to answer Detective Camelia’s question.”
Sharif shot him a glance. “And if I do not?”
“Then I shall have to take you in for questioning.” Macpherson flashed the warrant. “Sir,” he added, carefully polite. “And of course I am aware of how unseemly that would be for you.”
Sharif tossed another date into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, then spat out the pit. “There were several potential buyers,” he said, apparently recognizing that the odds were against him and rejecting the gamble. “One of those men put an offer on the table that was initially not acceptable. Ed Vincent bid higher. His offer was accepted, though only provisionally, subject to contract and to the proper details being negotiated by my lawyers. Then the first buyer came back with a larger bid, subject, as before, to anonymity.”
Camelia had put his hands behind his back, head bowed in his usual stance before he commenced pacing. Pacing was a natural outlet for him, it enabled him to think, gave his mind breathing space. He said, “And you accepted that anonymous bid?”
“I was waiting for Mr. Vincent’s retaliatory bid, though he had sworn that he would not make one. He said that because we had shaken hands on it, he had a deal.”
Camelia had lost all patience now; he wanted to tell him to quit futzing around and tell them the truth. “So who was the other buyer, Mr. Sharif?” he asked, and there was something in his voice, a low, menacing, even tone that had Sharif looking apprehensively at him.
“His name is Alberto Ricci,” he said reluctantly, knowing he now had no choice.
“Ahhh . . . Ricci.” Camelia was surprised.
“Thank you very much, sir, for your cooperation,” Macpherson said.
And then they were out of there, hurrying thankfully down the steps, keeping a wary eye on the leashed German shepherds as they climbed into the car and drove back down leafy Bishops Avenue.
Camelia mopped his forehead with his white handkerchief. “I’d rather have root canal than deal with guys like that. It’s just not my scene.”
“You know Ricci?”
Camelia nodded. “Only by reputation. He’s as much a philanthropist as Ed Vincent, known as a decent guy with his money and in his lifestyle. And, as far as I know, he’s clean.”
“Then you don’t think he’s your killer?” Camelia shook his head. “My hunch is, it’s a whole lot trickier than just that.”
He said good-bye to Macpherson, phoned in a report, and, too hyped to fall asleep, took a taxi to Soho. He ate a decent margarita pizza at a place called the Pizza Express on Wardour Street, then he wandered into Ronnie Scotts’ and listened to an hour or so of jazz, sipping whiskey and smoking Winstons until his head felt so fogged that he couldn’t hear the music anymore. So he hailed a taxi, picked up his still-unpacked bag, checked out of the hotel, and headed to Heathrow. He drank maybe ten cups of coffee and was on the first flight out to New York. He slept like a baby all the way.
53
Ed heard her come in, he knew the special sound of her heels on the hard vinyl floor, the movement of her skirt against her legs. . . . Her scent was in his nostrils again, in his head, in his heart. . . . Or what was left of his heart by now. He felt as though it were on a downward slope, each beat slower than the last, each breath tougher than the last . . . each thought more effort than the last. It would be so much easier to stop this fight, just to let go and slide effortlessly into oblivion . . . into a never-never land where there was no more jagged pain; no more disturbing dreams that were half-reality; no life. No Zelda.
It was unthinkable, life without her. . . . Unbearable, that he might never hold her again. . . . Unimaginable, that he might never hear her call him honey one more time. . . .
“Honey,” she said, and her soft voice