In a Heartbeat Read Free

it.”
    He sighed, watching the ongoing search. All they had so far were three .40mm bullet casings and the information that a pickup had been observed departing the scene of the crime. Not one of his better nights in police work.
    This one was going to be a toughie. And with an important man like Vincent, all hell would break loose once the media found out. Meanwhile, there was a blanket of silence until the next of kin could be found and informed. Trouble was, so far they had failed to turn up any next of kin. Sooner or later they would have to tell the press. That was, of course, if the nosy bastards didn’t find out first.

6
    Vincent Towers Fifth was an imposing building clad in pale unpolished travertine, soaring fifty floors above Fifth Avenue, with a fabulous view of the park. The smartly dressed doorman had a look of alarm when the squad cars drew up outside. Police were definitely not a part of daily life at Vincent Towers.
    The concierge came hurrying, anxious to remove whatever trouble there might be from the pristine lobby of his building. But the expression on his face altered when Camelia showed him the search warrant, told him there had been an accident and that Mr. Vincent was in the hospital.
    The elevator walls were paneled in pale wood, and a beveled mirror reflected back the men’s silent images as they soared smoothly upward. Then the door slid back silently and they were in the foyer of the penthouse.
    The concierge hovered near Camelia, watching his every move as he sauntered through the rooms, eyeing the sparse decor, the simple bedroom, the stark bathroom. He thought it surely looked like a bachelor pad to him, though “pad” was hardly the right word. This place could have been inhabited by a monk.
    The concierge was breathing down his neck again and Camelia sighed as he said, “It’s okay, sir, you can leave now. I’m not gonna steal the silver.” If there was any silver to steal, he thought, still surprised by how austerely Vincent lived. And him, such a rich guy. Maybe money didn’t mean everything after all.
    The elevator
ping
ed again and Camelia’s cohorts arrived, men in blue looking tough and businesslike. Forensics was there too. And, of course, the photographer.
    “Nothin’s been touched,” he told them. “Take your pictures before we start turning the place over. And I want every print in the place. Okay?”
    He waited while the police photographer did his stuff, then he set to work, starting in the bedroom.
    The bed was made up with fresh sheets— Camelia checked just to make sure. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the room, nor much comfort, either, he thought, remembering his own cozy master bedroom. Kind of a love nest, Claudia had made it, in deep red paisley with muted lighting and soft rugs. None of that here. Ed Vincent obviously didn’t like frills.
    The bathroom was tiled in stark white and the shower doors were clear sheets of thick glass, not a scrap of gold in sight. Luxury reduced to minimalism. Not Camelia’s style, but who could tell with rich folks? Whoever had said they were different from us had gotten it right.
    No water spots on the shower doors, no toothpaste uncapped, no mess in the sink. A pile of plain white towels awaited the master, as did a single Lucite toothbrush and a fresh bar of fragrance-free white soap in the matching dish. Looking for clues to an attempted murder in here was like searching for a snowball in a glacier.
    Camelia dialed the concierge on the house phone. “Who cleans Mr. Vincent’s apartment?” he asked.
    “It’s the building cleaning service, sir. They come every day.”
    “So they were here this morning?”
    “No, sir, not yet. They were here yesterday, though.”
    “Thanks. One of my men will be down shortly. You give him the name of the cleaning service— he’ll want to speak to the person in charge of Mr. Vincent’s apartment.”
    “Yes, sir.” The concierge was all business now. Camelia guessed he was