In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [96]
She linked her arm companionably with Camelia’s as they stepped out of the hospital and headed for their usual deli.
“Where have you been?” she asked, sitting at the tiny plastic table opposite him. “I missed you.”
“Oh yeah, like the chicken pox you missed me.”
“It’s true, though.” She took a sip of coffee and smiled at him. “Anyhow, I kind of enjoyed chicken pox. It meant I didn’t have to go to school.”
“School? That means you were a very late chicken poxer. My kids had their fix in kindergarten.”
“I was always a little retarded, I guess.” She laughed and took his hand. “Really, though, Camelia, I missed you. It seems ages since Charleston and Mamzelle Dorothea.”
“It does. And since you asked, I was in London,” he said, ordering two toasted bagels with cream cheese.
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“Your unhealthy pallor. All that gray rainy weather. And that hint of a British accent I’m hearing.”
“Bullshit,” he said with a grin.
“Okay, so what were you doing in London, besides losing weight and not sleeping?”
She was astute, he had to give her that. She noticed every darn thing, even that he had been awake for more than forty-eight hours now. “I was on the trail of our shooter.”
Her eyes grew round, but she said nothing, waiting. He told her about Scotland Yard and Khalid al Sharif, and about Alberto Ricci, while they munched on the bagels. They were not toasted well enough for his liking, but he was too spent to argue with the waiter.
“Ricci,” she said thoughtfully. “I’ve read about him. Very rich, always at charity events with a glamorous wife in designer dresses. Quite the man-about-town.”
“Yeah, but the question is, how did he get there? His business dealings seem aboveboard, but they still don’t seem to account for that lifestyle. I mean, a Picasso costs. And so does a Bonnard.”
Mel’s eyebrows rose interestedly. “You recognized a Bonnard?”
He saw that she was impressed, and he grinned. “Like y’mean any old slouch can recognize a Picasso, but how about that Bonnard, huh?”
Mel blushed and he enjoyed the sight. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it quite like that.”
“Sure you did. But that’s okay.” He shrugged. “I’m just a Sicilian cop, what do I know? Except I happen to love art. I take my kids to the Met and MOMA every chance I get. Which isn’t as often as I might like.”
“I saw my daughter yesterday,” she told him wistfully. “God, how I miss her.”
“Funny, isn’t it, how those scrappy yelling little babies grow into kids, and then into real people. And how they grow into your heart.”
“Like kudzu,” she agreed, remembering. It was such a relief to see him, to be with him, that the stress simply lifted from her aching shoulders. Like the aftermath of a great massage, Camelia simply made her feel good. Maybe too good, she thought guiltily.
Oh, God, Camelia was thinking, as he walked her back to the hospital. Am I glad to be back here. With her. It’s like coming home.
54
Gus Aramanov cruised slowly down Ascot Street in a silver Camaro, again rented using a fake driver’s license. Light shone from the downstairs windows of number 139 and he glanced at the dashboard clock. Almost eight. Surely the kid would be in bed by now. His own certainly would be, Lila made sure of that. She was a good mother, no doubt about it, and his boys were good boys. Like any father, he was proud of them.
It was unfortunate that the child would be in the house when he took out the mother. The idea disturbed him; he liked children. But he had no choice, he couldn’t shoot the woman at work, too many people around. So it would have to be in the home.
He parked the rental car in a strip-mall lot two blocks away, then walked back to number 139. This was a residential street and there was no one about. There rarely was, in LA, and besides, he had already staked it out and knew the movements of the neighbors; knew when the quiet time was, with everybody in front of the TV or out for the evening. Eight was the best time. Only the thought of the girl nagged at him, and he hoped again that she was already in bed.
The one streetlight