Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

  "Is it in the red?" Lido asked.

  "No, but it's been struggling for the last several years," Ambler replied. "Market analysis is that the company needs a large cash infusion. Revlon and Avon have both tendered offers over the last twelve months."

  "Are you saying Celia Thorne needs money?" I asked.

  "No," Ambler replied. "Celia Thorne's net worth is somewhere near half a billion dollars. The trouble is, most of it's in brick and mortar, not very liquid. She's got lots of secured debt."

  "Does that make her a suspect?" Lido asked.

  "I think it's a weak angle at best but one that has to be looked at anyway. In case neither of you have noticed, there hasn't been a ransom demand."

  "It's looking more and more like Manny was taken for what he can predict and not his ransom value from Celia Thorne," Ambler said.

  "Nonetheless, I'm meeting with Thorne at noon," I said. "I'll take a run at her and see how she reacts. My guess is she won't take kindly to an accusation like that."

  "Take a flack jacket," Ambler said before turning to Lido. "What about you, going with her?"

  "No," Lido answered, as if he had made up his mind in advance. "I think it's more important that I locate the van Manny was taken in. We can cover more ground if we split up."

  I wasn't going to let this fester. Whatever was bothering Lido, it needed to be brought to a head right now. Although he was completely capable of flying solo, he rarely did so, opting instead to work side by side with me. What was going on? The last time I checked, I hadn't cheated on him. It was a short meeting, but it killed me to have to wait for Ambler to clear the room before finding out what the problem was.

  "I'll work the databases," Ambler said. "Let's see who Manny is of the most value to as a prophet."

  "Anything on that yet?" Lido asked.

  "Zilch," Ambler said as he stood and gathered up his folders. "A world of possibilities but nothing solid to go on yet—I'll keep on it and check in with you later."

  There really was no need or hurry for Ambler to leave the ready room and go to his desk, other than to give Lido and me a little privacy. He blew out of the room in a flash.

  "Talk to me, Gus. What's wrong?" The words were out of my mouth as soon as the door closed behind Ambler.

  Lido was staring down at the table. His expression was somber. I touched his chin and tried to turn his face in my direction but he refused to make eye contact. "I know you're mad at me, what did I do?"

  It was a long moment before he said anything and then just a single word. "Twain."

  "Twain? That's it? You're mad because I took him to the range?"

  "Screw the range," Lido said. "You're obsessed with him. You dream about him every night."

  Now I've warned you about this before. No one, I repeat, no one has more vivid dreams than I do—night after night, vibrant, lucid dreams. One of them helped me solve my last case. Like most of us, many of them are utter fantasy, the mind's way of resolving conflicts we encounter during our conscious hours. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't dreamt of Twain in a while. There was no denying that there was a certain something between us, but I had never acted on it. "Gus, honey, I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Bullshit, Stephanie, I hear you every night. I purposely stayed awake last night to see if you'd mention his name after you spent the evening with him."

  Was I talking in my sleep? The thought made me very uncomfortable. What else had I said? "Nigel Twain, I mention the name Nigel Twain while I'm unconscious and you're all up in arms? Gus, come on now, aren't you overreacting?"

  "It's not Twain's name I hear you say, but I know that's what you mean. I saw it the first time the three of us were together, last spring, when Ma was in the hospital. I see the way he looks at you. Is that all he's doing, Stephanie? Is he still just looking?" Lido was making eye contact now, lots of it, exploring my face, searching for expressions, as he would if I were a suspect. "You came home hours after you left Ma's last night. She said you drove him home."

  "I did drive him home, right after we spent an hour at Tommy Shipley's range. Nigel's always wanted to fire a gun. I let him go through a box of wad cutters." I was feeling lots of guilt. I knew there was a part of me that was strongly attracted to Twain and wanted to take a wild romp with him. That's part of being human. Even the most devoutly loyal has a fantasy lover. For most women, it's Brad Pitt or George Clooney. For me, it's Nigel Twain. The difference is that most women don't have a relationship with their fantasy man—I did. Was I cheating on Gus by taking Nigel to the range? It wasn't a date...or was it?

  "C'mon, Gus, he's a good looking man, I admit it. He helps Ricky. He helped me find out who I really am. It's an important friendship, but I don't feel the same way about him that I feel about you."

  "Then why do you dream about him every night?"

  "I don't."

  "You do!" Lido said emphatically. I could see a world of distance between us when I looked into his eyes. "You dream about Batman every night. You moan the name as if you're being made love to. I understand a little about dreams. Batman's tall. He's dark. He's mysterious. Batman is your mind's metaphor for Nigel Twain."

  "It's what?" I appeared shocked. I even appeared to be insulted, but appearances are one thing and the truth is something else. I had never stopped to analyze the sudden rash of Batman fantasies, but in that instant, I knew Gus had hit it smack dab on the head. Every time Batman had smuggled me to the dark solitude of his cave, I was secretly making love with Nigel Twain. Gus took one look at my face and knew that he was right.

  Fifteen—DECEMBER RAIN

  December rain is the worst. The wind drives it through you, stealing your body heat. It almost seems to permeate the skin, as if it's punching minute holes through you. Today in particular I was feeling less than whole—the unsolved abduction of an innocent autistic teen and the guilt of having hurt Gus weighing most heavily on my mind. I had never and would never give myself to Nigel Twain, but I knew now that deep down inside I wanted to. They say no good deed goes unpunished. Maybe that's because behind every good deed is a selfish motivation. I had Gus while I was awake and Twain while I slept—the best of both worlds—or was it? Certainly, I could not be held accountable for my dreams, but would the seed of deceit blossom from one of these fantasies? I was sure it wouldn't. Gus, on the other hand, was not convinced that it wouldn't or hadn't.

  The lobby of Thorne Cosmetics was immense, thirty feet of glass and soaring ceilings. The two receptionists were both Cover Girl pretty. Posters from the company's current marketing campaign floated on glass panels before me, the most sought after faces in the world: Heidi Klum, Paris Hilton, and Tyra Banks. The campaign's theme was "Turning Heads Every Day." These were women that could turn heads without a stitch of makeup. Still, the message was clear: use Thorne makeup and you'll get the same results. Powerful advertising. It was a wonder they could keep the shelves stocked. Still, I remembered Ambler's information. The company was highly leveraged. Those pretty faces in the ads didn't come cheap. Celia Thorne was spending a ton on advertising to sell her wares.

  Two etched glass doors slid apart and a young woman walked through them. "Detective Chalice," she said, "I'm Kendra Dahl, Ms. Thorne's personal assistant. Ms. Thorne can see you now." Kendra was attired for business in a black tailored suit. Her hair was pinned back in a bun and she wore glasses with dark frames, which I assume she wore for the sake of image only. Behind the glasses was yet another model's face. Kendra was at best a size two, five foot-ten in her high heels.

  Thorne's office was bleached birch floor to ceiling, with black silk sofas and black lacquered Asian antiques throughout. Her desk had a glass top, supported with giant onyx chess pieces—queens of course. She was standing at the window, on the phone with her back to me. Kendra offered me a chair with a lilt of her hand and then glided out. Celia Thorne was selling fantasy—everything and everyone she surrounded herself with was an extension of the company's philosophy. We're all at
tracted to beauty. We're sold it or tempted by it everyday of our lives. I had been tempted by Nigel Twain. I hadn't touched him—well, maybe I had grazed his muscular shoulder and wrapped my hands around his to demonstrate how to fire a gun, but I hadn't been intimate with him. I hadn't betrayed my trust to Gus, yet the guilt was eating me up all the same. I focused on Manny to clear my head. I'd seen many pictures of the teen in his wheelchair. He had a thick mop of well cut, perpetually tussled hair. I had become caught up by the way he always stared off into the distance with his head cast to the side. It was the knowing that he wasn't "all there" that kept you from focusing on his features. Manny was extremely handsome, but you were too distracted by his demeanor to pay attention to his subtle good looks.

  Celia Thorne hung up and swung around to greet me. "What's going on, honey? You look like crap. Someone rain on your parade? Fuck ’em, don't let it get you down."

  Thorne had read me in an instant. Realizing that the face is the mirror of the soul, I smiled at her to throw her off course. Gus and I weren't part of her business and I didn't want her to pry. She didn't.

  "Twenty minutes," she snapped. "I've got a meeting to prepare for and I want my Manny home before he's geriatric. What've you got?"

  Thorne had opined on my appearance as she would have any of her employees whose beauty wasn't up to snuff. In essence she was saying 'get it together or go home'—her only concern was appearance. Whatever lay at the core of my unhappiness was not of her concern.

  Twenty minutes, okay. I wasn't buying the Bureau's angle on the company's financial woes. All the same I had to ask and get it out of the way. "Tell me about the financial condition of the company. Our sources tell us you're overleveraged."

  Thorne was wild eyed. "Me? You're investigating me? You think I'm responsible?" She stormed toward me with such inertia I thought she'd mow me over. She pulled up just short of where I was sitting and swung into the sofa next to me and crossed her legs. "You're a bright girl but you're out of your depth here, honey. I started this company when I was twenty-three years old. There were times I'd go years without a salary so that I'd be able to make payroll and I never defaulted, not once. Is the company cash hungry? Yes. Am I spending a fortune on marketing? Yes. I've been at this almost forty years and the one thing I've learned in this business is that you never give up on your image. All the money you spend on marketing comes back a hundred fold. You see those faces out there: Tyra, Paris, and Heidi?"

  I nodded but Thorne wasn't waiting for a response.

  "They cost a goddamn fortune, but they're worth it and the moment they get too old or the first crow's foot surfaces, I'll get three more and then three more after that if I'm lucky enough to be alive. Do I have a lot of debt? Hell yes, but so does Donald Trump and all the truly great self-promoters. The economy of this country would crash and burn without debt. Go back and tell those stupid FBI bean counters that they're barking up the wrong goddamn tree. I had nothing to do with Manny's abduction. Now move on—fifteen minutes."

  Ouch! It was a dramatic rebuttal, but one I had expected. My sense was that Celia Thorne was completely dedicated to Manny and that was where my questioning would go. "Tell me about Manny, Ms. Thorne. Tell me what I can't read in the reports. I'm not interested in his clinical diagnosis or mumbo jumbo about his ability to channel the prophecies of Nostradamus. Tell me about your Manny, the one you care about so deeply."

  Thorne's expression changed and this time it was I that was able to read her. She came alive at the question. I had appealed to her in a way that truly mattered to her. "I met Manny about three years ago." She paused and I could see that she was on the cusp of saying something that was difficult for her. "It was after my sister died." She snatched a tissue from a nearby box. No tears, just moisture. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. "Check the door for me, honey, make sure it's locked."

  I rose and went immediately to the door. The staff was never to see Celia Thorne as anything but rock solid. The door had very substantial antique hardware on it. I located the deadbolt and slid it closed.

  "You're a clever girl," Thorne said as I came back to the sofa. "Let's get this over with." She drew in a full breath of air and began. "My sister's name was Judith—absolutely brilliant girl. She'd published graduate level papers before she was twenty. From there, advanced degrees in psychology, clinical studies, government grants...never interested in the money, only the research. Really, only the kids." She sniffled before going on. "We always managed to stay in touch with one another when she was young and living in New York. My life was always a mess, boardrooms...bedrooms." She paused and smiled sadly. "Everything you've read about this old gal is true. I've always been a free spirit. Those years are still a blur, but somehow we always managed to catch up—holidays, last minute dinners. You know how it works...months go by, you pick up the phone. 'What are you doing?' Thirty minutes later we'd be laughing our asses off and then another six months would go by." Thorne paused and her expression grew solemn.

  "And then Guy came into the picture and off she went." Thorne pronounced the name, Ghe, The man was obviously French. "He was dark and secretive like the rest of those psychoanalyzed eccentrics, but he was charming and he understood the children like no one Julia had ever met. Maybe that's because he was a child himself. The Atlantic Ocean overcame us. There were no more last minute get togethers. She had her new life and I...well I had this." Thorne spread her arms, alluding to her business. "Guy eventually cheated, like most Frenchmen...correction—all men." There was another sad look, but in the next moment Thorne filled her lungs and pressed on. "They split up. Judith didn't miss a beat. She had the children—all patients, mind you—nothing from the Frenchman, no ties to bind him. Twenty years in the blink of an eye." She sighed. "How did I let it happen?"

  I could see how painful it was to talk about her sister, so I prompted her to shorten the distance between points A and B. "Where does Manny fit in?"

  "Well don't you see, honey? He was one of her patients, an orphan. Julia was living in this teensy French village outside of la Ferté Milon. She needed someone in her life to fill the void. She formally adopted him. My sister had a heart of gold."

  "He must have been very important to her."

  "Oh sure, she loved him like he was her own. She wrote me about him all the time." Celia Thorne shook her head woefully and then the mist in the corner of her eye became more. "I was in Europe the winter she passed away, can you believe it? I was running here, running there—I tried to hook up with her but somehow...she never told me. I got a call one night and..."

  The blood drained from her face as she relived the horror and guilt of not being there for her sister as she surrendered to cancer. I could see that her pain cut mercilessly, but she was a tough lady, she worked past it and continued.

  "I went over for the funeral of course and ended up bringing Manny home with me. I was surprised at how big he was for his age, handsome yes, but matured, well past the cute child I expected to see. He was quiet and charming in his own simple way. He'd smile or make a face and I could see in his expression the moments Julia had written me about. He's more than extraordinary to me, detective, he's my sister's legacy. Do you understand now?"

  I felt a lump in my throat and then I nodded.

  Thorne got up and walked to the mirror. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes and threw away the tissue. When she turned around, she was once again whole, her eyes clear and purposeful. "So let's get Manny back, shall we?"

  I gave her a confident smile, mostly because she needed one.

  "Well, I've bared my soul. Did I tell you what you needed to know?" She raised an eyebrow.

  "Yes, Ms. Thorne. Thank you."

  "One more thing, honey. Tell anyone about any of this and I'll kill you."

  I had just left Thorne Cosmetics when my cell began to vibrate. The voice on the line was familiar, but the tone was disquieting. There was a cop on the other end, a cop named Gus Lido, but he wasn't my Gus. His voice was free
of hurt and without attitude. He was giving me details as he might brief any other law enforcement officer—straight vanilla, without the warmth and humor I was so accustomed to. I could have handled hurt, hoped for it in fact—something I could understand and work at fixing. We needed to talk. I had to make him understand how important he was to me and that my romance with Twain would never progress beyond the level of a fantasy. His cool, detached voice cut through me—it hurt far worse than the driving rain. I found it hard to concentrate on the details he was feeding me, but the salient points made their way through. They had located the truck that Manny had been abducted in. It had been stashed in a commercial garage in Washington Heights. Somehow I managed to retain that bit of information and the address.

  Lido ended the conversation, asking how long it would take me to get uptown. He was on his way from the house and would meet me there. Washington Heights is the northernmost portion of Manhattan, a Hispanic enclave located above Harlem just south of the George Washington Bridge. There were no fast routes north through Manhattan. I'd have twenty minutes minimum to dread my next encounter with Gus, something I never thought would happen. I got into the unmarked and began driving uptown, alone.

  Sixteen—PAY DIRT

  It's easy to spot law enforcement officers in Washington Heights. They're the ones without the doo rags. A kid on 124th Street eyed me suspiciously as I stepped from the unmarked and surveyed the surroundings. In his eyes, I had cop written all over me. It might not have been obvious to a kid in a suburban neighborhood, but on the streets of Washington Heights, it was just plain obvious. He observed me as if he had been trained in surveillance as he sat on the stoop outside an apartment building. He spun the wheel on his skateboard and began singing rap lyrics, but he never took his eyes off me, not for a second—the sad reality of growing up in the hood. I turned away and heard the electronically synthesized sound a mobile camera phone makes as it snaps a picture. I turned back to see him checking out his latest snapshot. He looked up at me and winked. Was I now famous or infamous? Take your pick.