Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

"You mean no."

  "That's right, no."

  "No, you don't believe it?"

  "That's what I said. Why, you believe it?"

  "Not for a second."

  So much for the dear departed prophet—no takers in this car.

  Helen Gillette was a scant two weeks from her twenty-fourth birthday. She was born in Culver City, California, and had been living on the West Side for three years. I knew the location, the low rent district off Tenth Avenue, not far from the Jacob Javits Center. I had a picture of the block in my mind, rows of small tenement apartments and one more thing. "Quick, close the window," I shouted. Lots of the Hanson Carriages were garaged there—the street was lined with horse poop from one end to the other. What can I say...you get what you pay for.

  Quickly out of the car, we tiptoed through the horsey plop as we raced onto the sidewalk and into the apartment house—we may be stout hearted, but horse shit is horse shit, and I for one wanted no part of it.

  The lock on the lobby door was broken, the frame around the door splintered. It had been kicked in, but not recently. The exposed wood at the point of fracture was grime laden and dirty.

  Helen's apartment was on the first floor, Apartment #1C, facing the rear. The area was overrun with streetwalkers and crackheads. I wondered if Helen Gillette had ever gotten a good night's sleep. Then again, who were we dealing with here? This, presumably, was a woman who had abducted a harmless teen, a boy incapable of protecting himself or understanding what, in fact, was happening to him. Who cared if she ever got a sound night's sleep—for my money she could be sleep deprived, running on vapor, ready to fall on her face.

  Helen had invested in a good lock, but the door itself was flimsy. The mighty Herbert Ambler raised his stubby little leg and kicked the door like a ninja. It splintered—one quick ram of the shoulder and we were in.

  Our guns were drawn as we went room to room clearing the apartment. It didn't take very long. The digs were modest—one bedroom, eat-in kitchen, living room, and the ever-necessary bathroom. As anticipated, Helen was long gone.

  We rummaged through the place finding little in the way of hard evidence, nothing that connected her to Manny's abduction. Lido phoned CSI. A team was on its way.

  Helen had a huge collection of celebrity magazines and scandal sheets: People, Entertainment Weekly, the Enquirer, yada, yada, yada. The woman was obviously starstruck. Lots of party dresses in the closet, lots of shimmer and low cut necklines, cheap pumps on the floor—items acquired for the sole purpose of attracting men. It was like a starter collection for a call girl wannabe.

  She had lots of photos around, mostly pictures of herself at ages from infancy on up. Helen Gillette was not exactly what you would call a looker, but I didn't see in those pictures a person that would be involved in a child's abduction. Many of the pictures were old. Helen had a broad smile in these pictures—better times, I assumed. Still and all, it wasn't the kind of face I expected to see. It takes a certain type to run off with someone's kid, especially if you're a woman. The maternal instinct sets in at birth and only intensifies from there.

  Ambler's cell phone rang. "Ambler. Yeah, I've got it. Thanks. Send it through." Ambler disconnected.

  "News?" I asked.

  "Sketch artist just finished up with Davis Mack. The girl's sketch is coming through on my PDA."

  Ambler slipped his PDA from his inside jacket pocket and turned it on. He hit a few keys. "Voila," he said, "here's our perp."

  I stared at the picture on Ambler's PDA. "This is a neat toy," I said. Lido picked up one of the more recent photos of Helen Gillette and handed it to me. My eyes went back and forth from photo to sketch. "It's not her."

  "You're sure?" Ambler asked.

  I was half sure before I saw the sketch, but now I was positive. "I'm telling you, it's not her."

  Ten—THORNE'S GARDEN

  It was past midnight when we arrived at Celia Thorne's penthouse—ten thousand square feet of opulence, sixty stories in the air. Her home was decorated in a Mediterranean theme. To my eye, it was absolutely exquisite. Carl Lapsos, her houseboy, showed us into the garden. I swear to you, it was the first time in my life it killed me not being rich. Massive glass panels framed the rooftop and enclosed us overhead. I was sure that I was walking on artificial turf, but it felt like real grass. And the fragrance, oh my God, the fragrance...hydrangeas, lilacs, and oleander—it was absolutely mesmerizing. I strolled into the middle of what had to be the most extraordinary garden on earth. Space heaters roared—the temperature must have been a balmy eighty degrees. I ripped off my gloves and coat and would have killed for a Mai Tai. Beyond the garden, I could see the New York skyline and the East River. A wisp of a cloud drifted by, the only flaw in an otherwise crystal sharp night—even that seemed perfectly in place as it moved casually across the panorama. It was as if Celia Thorne had the power to conjure up anything and everything her heart desired. In the name of all that's holy, I had never seen anything like it before. I wondered if I could persuade the woman to adopt me.

  I could see that Lido was awestruck too. He was strolling around inspecting the foliage, doing a double take every two and a half seconds. This was a world that mere mortals could only dream of.

  Ambler on the other hand remained cynical to the last. He came up behind me and whispered in my ear.

  "Not bad for ground up fish scales."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Isn't that what they use for women's makeup? All this money from some ground up fish hides."

  I had heard that once and hoped it was no longer true. Was I wearing the remains of a carp around my eyes? Certain fish's scales are luminescent and were used as the base in makeup. The thought certainly didn't make me feel any prettier. Still, I couldn't let Ambler get the better of me. I smiled. "Maybe it's Maybelline, and maybe it's Charlie the tuna—do you really care?" I framed my face between my hands and gave him a toothpaste commercial smile.

  Ambler threw his hands up in defeat. "You're right, pretty is pretty." He pretended to sniff my face. "Or maybe it's halibut."

  I felt a sudden chill in the air and knew at once that someone hadn't forgotten to pay the heating bill. Had we been on the set of The Wizard of Oz, I would've expected to see a trail of smoke across the sky and the munchkins diving for cover, but this wasn't Oz, it was Thorne's garden, and Celia Thorne was coming straight at us like a heat-seeking missile.

  Ambler stepped up and took the first hit. "Ms. Thorne, I'm FBI agent Herbert Ambler." He flashed his credentials. "I'll be heading up the investigation." He turned toward Lido and me. "This is Detective Chalice and Detective Lido of the New York City Police Department." This wasn't the fun-and-games Ambler I knew and loved so well, this was the no-nonsense G-man, the person the public expected. His eyes were cool, his expression dead even. "We'll have a command center set up here within hours, a team of recovery specialists and tracing equipment. We'll need access to the apartment day and night."

  At sixty plus, Thorne was wrinkle free. I'm not an authority on the subject, but I'd say she'd had a small tune up—it was subtle, of course, the area beneath the eyes and the smooth as glass forehead. Her jet black hair was pulled straight back and held with a beautiful mother of pearl comb. Her complexion was a little pale for my taste but from what I'd heard, the undead have issues with direct sunlight. She was wearing Chinese silk pajamas and she was braless. Yes, those had been tightened up too—no sagging whatsoever.

  "We're very sorry about Manny's disappearance," I said.

  "Who the hell took Manny?" Thone said, feeling no need to exchange pleasantries. She looked past us as she spoke. Staring at a blossoming lily, she pointed and snapped her fingers. Carl took a small pinking shear from his lapel pocket and began pruning. She then looked each of us in the eyes. "Well, what can you tell me? What am I paying you for?"

  Celia Thorne had measured up to her grotesque reputation in the span of a heartbeat. I could see her grow more and more impatient with each
passing second. Paying me? You're paying me? I bit my tongue and reminded myself that there was an abducted autistic child out there, probably frightened half to death. We were sworn to protect and serve regardless of like or dislike. Look past it. Still, there was a part of me that said don't take any shit. "Paying us? I'm sorry, did you say 'What am I paying you for?'"

  Thorne's head snapped in my direction, her eyes cutting deeply for a moment and then pulling away. She winked at me. "That's it, honey, don't take any crap." In the next instance, she was back on track, focused on the real issue. "Tell me something, anything, before I lose my mind."

  "We have a good description of the young woman who we believe took Manny from the hospital, thanks to Mr. Mack," I said. "All points bulletins are out all over the city and tri-state area."

  "All airports and railroads are under surveillance," Ambler added. "We'll ensure the integrity of the information being reported from our checkpoints and then tighten down the net."

  "A pity Mr. Mack killed that man on the boat before we had the opportunity to torture the truth out of him," Celia Thorne was nothing if not direct.

  "He may have told us something important," I said, "but in a well orchestrated abduction, like this one, the individuals are compartmentalized. They're all given just enough detail to carry out their respective roles. I would have preferred to take Reyes alive as well, but chances are he never met the top man and would have had little to tell us. He was given the decoy assignment specifically because he was expendable—I doubt he was bright enough to see it. He was given a specific task to carry out and he did it. I'm sure he was promised a fortune, a fortune he'd never receive."

  Carl picked up his clippings and carried them out of the garden. The man defined the term unobtrusive. He was simply there in the background, hovering and ever vigilant, ready to follow Celia Thorne's every instruction to the letter. Beyond that he was not seen or heard.

  "There's video surveillance on all the bridges and tunnels that connect with Manhattan," Lido said. "The tapes are being reviewed now. We'll know if the vehicle Manny was abducted in is still physically in New York City."

  "Maintenance records at the hospital are being checked to see who last worked on the emergency door that had been disconnected from the alarm system." I wet my lips before continuing. "Do you have any thoughts about who might have done this, Ms. Thorne? This was carefully orchestrated. In addition, there's a possible double motive in play. Money, of course and Manny's ability to recall the prophecies of his ancestor."

  "It's money, of course," Thorne said. "The world turns on an axis lubricated with greed. Manny's other...let's call it a gift...is a closely guarded secret. Only a few know about it."

  Gift. The word drove me bonkers. This was not a gift. A pair of Chanel boots is a gift. A full-length sable coat is a gift—a hell of a gift actually. All this talk about Manny's ability to communicate the works of a dead prophet was nothing more than bunk and I was just the gal to debunk it.

  "Secrets rarely remain so," I said. "In my experience, a secret is like having a leaking pipe in your house. You can't see it at first, but then the first damp spot appears—by the time the plumber gets there, you realize you've got water everywhere."

  "How very goddamn clever you are, my dear. Let's hope you're as sharp at police work as you are with your mouth." Thorne looked down at the floor for a moment. Her expression had softened when she glanced back at me. She stroked my chin. "Glad you're aboard, Detective. You remind me of a young me. I'll prepare a quick list of anyone that knows about Manny's talent or that I might find suspicious."

  As much as I didn't see myself blossoming into a center of attention control freak like Thorne, I knew her comment was meant as a compliment. "Thank you," I said. "We'll wait for your list."

  Carl drifted back into the garden. He approached, holding a phone. "Ms. Stewart is on the line for you, Ms. Thorne. She said—"

  Celia Thorne held up her finger, cutting Carl off in mid sentence. She was so self-assured. It was not as if she was asking Carl to wait. It was more as if she expected time to stand still until she was ready for it to resume. She glanced at Ambler. "I feel good about your team, Mr. Ambler. Please don't disappoint me. As you can see, money is no object. I don't want it to be a factor in your thinking. If money will bring Manny home, spend it. Are we clear?"

  "Completely," Ambler replied.

  "Good. In fact, let's offer a reward. One million dollars for information leading to Manny's recovery." She held out her hand without taking her eyes off Ambler. Carl placed the phone in her palm. "Is that you, Martha?" She turned and walked off. "Are you still under house arrest, you old bitch? You heard about Manny? Just awful." She disappeared into the house, leaving us mere mortals bobbing in her wake like the shipwrecked crew of The Minnow.

  "Was that Martha Stewart on the phone?" I asked.

  Carl nodded and then went off to attend to another plant that required his attention.

  I turned to Lido and Ambler. "Well she's something else." Celia Thorne rubbed against the grain, but she left no doubt as to how she wanted things handled. And though I wouldn't admit it in front of the boys, there was something about her I admired.

  Manny. I reminded myself that the case was about him and not her. I put my arms over the boys' shoulders and led them toward a patio table. "Let's talk," I said. It was going to be a very long night.

  Eleven—YUM

  Monday Night Football—what a concept. Most guys had just spent the preceding forty-eight hours beached like whales on the den sofa amidst pizza crusts and empty beer cans. I saw it as a pretense for the guys to spend another night out of the house. Not that I don't enjoy watching a couple dozen Lycra clad butts piling atop one another, but three days in a row? Come now, it's not that entertaining. Well anyway, Lido had a regular Monday night thing at his buddy's house and it gave me an excuse to see Ma and Ricky, so it worked out for both of us.

  It was still cold as a bear, but the wind had died and was now nonexistent. Spots were rare in Ma's neighborhood. I had to park a few blocks away and walk. The cold air cleared my head and helped me focus on the case. I was still having trouble getting my arms around it. Manny's last inscription stood out boldly in my mind.

  The young lion will overcome the older one,

  In a field of combat in single fight:

  He will pierce his eyes in their golden cage;

  Two wounds in one, then he dies a cruel death.

  Lido, Ambler, and I had worked the details until the wee hours. The crime scene photo of Reyes refused to disappear. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the deceased lying within the boat's cabin, two small stars in his head.

  He will pierce his eyes in their golden cage;

  Two wounds in one, then he dies a cruel death.

  The boat was named the Gold Coast. I didn't want to buy into it, but you've got to admit the connection was too close to ignore. Reyes had taken two in the head, one very close to the eye. Stretching the interpretation, I suppose you could say that the boat's cabin was a cage, the cage of the Gold Coast—hence, a gold cage. The cop in me didn't want to believe any of it. For the moment, I decided to chalk it up to utter coincidence.

  I took part of the morning to refresh my memory on Nostradamus. I hit the Internet and learned that he had written more than nine hundred prophecies, all in the form of the four-verse quatrain. He had categorized them into groups of a hundred. Each group was called a century: nine complete centuries of one hundred, and one with just forty-six. I had also learned that he was a brilliant physician and had pioneered several homeopathic medicines, one of which was credited for saving a French town from the ravages of a plague. Nostradamus had been one clever Renaissance man, but had he found a way to pass his genius four hundred years into the future? No, not buying that one. My mind was still whirling when I hit Ma's building.

  I bumped into Dr. Twain, Ricky's psychiatrist in the lobby of Ma's apartment building. "Nigel," I cheerfully called out the length of th
e lobby.

  He turned to me, grinning. There was a sparkle in his eyes. "Stephanie, what a marvelous coincidence." Twain's deep British baritone chased away the winter chill. He was one of the most handsome black men I had ever met, a mature version of Tyson Beckford.

  As always Twain looked very chic, the epitome of casual elegance. A cashmere cloak rested stylishly on his broad shoulders and a fringed, silk scarf was draped loosely around his neck.

  We hugged and I gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. "You look smashing," I intoned in my best possible English accent. Twain smoothed my cheek with the back of his fingers. He smiled warmly—looking positively doe-eyed. "How wonderful to see you."

  And you... Twain cut such a dashing figure. It was a good thing I had Lido in my life tugging at my heartstrings. Twain tugged at me too, but not at my heart.

  "Here to see Ricky?"

  He shot his cuffs, clearing a handsome Bulgari watch and checked the time. "Johnny on the spot," he replied as he tapped the crystal. '"Home Improvement' just went off. Your brother will be in a wonderful mood—situation comedy and rehabilitative therapy followed by dinner. What could be better?"

  "Sounds like a plan." We grinned at each other. Ricky had been found out, that and his passion for buxom, bleached-blonde women wearing tool belts. "Men are so painfully transparent."

  "Guilty as charged," Twain conceded. He smiled warmly. "I accept responsibility for the entire species." The elevator arrived. Chivalrous to a fault, Twain held the door for me while I got in. The doors closed and up we went. "We're hopeless, aren't we? It is rather romantic when you take a moment to consider though, isn't it?"

  "What is?"

  "All this evolution—computers, aerospace, genetic engineering, and still man devotes the bulk of his brain power to thinking about getting laid. Is it our fault we find women so positively alluring?"

  It wasn't the time or the place for confession, but I'd devoted my fair share of brain power to the opposite sex. It was getting unbearably warm in the elevator. "I hope you'll stay for dinner. Ma's making veal spedini." It was a clumsy segue but one that was necessary. Could you imagine if the elevator stopped? I didn't give myself three minutes. Like I said, Twain pushed all the right buttons.