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The EMTs hurried him across the lawn, pushing the stretcher into the back of one of the waiting ambulances. I couldn’t make out much, but he was dressed in a robe and there didn’t seem to be any signs of an assault.
“Wait!” A woman’s voice shot out of the house. A moment later, Eddie’s other most prized possession rushed towards the EMTs. “I’m coming with you!” Her voice was heavily accented, leaving no question that she was Russian.
Monica Breznov, Eddie’s very young wife, tore out of the house wearing nothing but a robe of red silk and slippers, a Birkin purse dangling from her arm. Monkey and Peanut, her twin Shit-Zu’s yapped at her heels as she ran toward the EMTs.
Monica, or Moche, as she liked to be called, was barely into her twenties, her hair platinum blonde, her lips plump with filler and her fake boobs straining the fabric of her robe. Moche was young and gorgeous—her striking, Slavic beauty a total contrast to her husband, who was most certainlynotthe best-looking man in the world. She waved her arms frantically, trying to get the attention of the EMT.
One of the EMTs positioned himself between her and the ambulances, the dogs yapping all the while.
“Miss, you’re going to need to step back and let us do our jobs.”
“That is my husband!” she shouted, craning her neck to try to look over the EMT’s shoulder. “You have to let me come with you!”
The EMT put up his hands, holding her in place.
“Miss, please!”
His words didn’t do any good. Moche pushed him aside with surprising strength, rushing over to the ambulance just in time to jump in before they could stop her. Monkey and Peanut continued yapping, trying to get to their owners.
“Moche!” I shouted over the din. “What happened?”
She looked around, trying to spot where I was.
“Connor! Kellan!” she replied, finally laying eyes on us. “We are going to Barnes Jewish Hospital! Please come! And bring me clothes!”
Without another word, the doors to the ambulance slammed shut, the vehicle pulling onto the road and driving off. I hurried over to the nearest EMT.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “What happened to him?”
“Relation to the patient?” he asked.
“Friend of the family,” I said, nodding in the direction of the ambulance. “You heard her, she knows us.”
“He had a heart attack, a big one.”
“What?” Kellan asked, coming to my side. “Is he going to be OK?”
“Not going to know anything until he’s at the hospital. Your best bet is to go there, wait for more information.” Monkey and Peanut kept on yapping, nipping at the heels of the remaining EMTs. “Oh, and you mind doing something about them?”
Without another word, he turned away and started back to the rest of the team.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get them inside and grab some clothes for Moche.”
Together, we each grabbed a dog and headed into the house. No lights were on, but the flashing ambulances outside allowed us to see the spacious, luxurious interior of the place.
“Nice pad,” Kellan said. “Pays to be on top, I suppose.”
We let go of the squirming pups, the pair rushing over to their food dishes and chowing down, not seeming too worried about whatever had happened to one of their owners. Kellan stayed down below while I went up to the enormous master bedroom, collecting a pair of women’s sneakers, along with some jeans and a sweatshirt from a nearby stack of clean laundry. As I was in there, I couldn’t help but notice that the bed was a mess, the covers here and there, restraints on the posts and a big bottle of what appeared to be lube on the nightstand, a long, leather riding crop next to it.
What had happened was beginning to become clearer by the second. Clothes in hand, I headed back downstairs, Kellan waiting for me. We hurried out of there and were soon on our way to the hospital.
Neither of us said a word for a long while, the reality of how our boss was in a very bad way and all that it implied dawning on us.
“Heart attack,” Kellen said, finally breaking the silence. “Man’s been in more scrapes over the years than I could count, and a damn heart attack is what does him in.”
“No sense in talking like he’s already dead, brother,” I replied.
“The man looked like a bleedin’ corpse on that stretcher. And it’s no secret that he’s out of shape and getting up there in years. Even if this heart attack doesn’t take him out, there’s a damn good chance he might never be the same.”
