She was always amazed by how little her father ate, a few bites and then into her mother's bag for beer money. Moira would never forget what it felt like to be hungry or what it felt like not knowing when the next meal would come. Her mother came down with pneumonia shortly before Moira's thirteenth birthday. She died soon afterward.
Her father took her to the train station the day after the funeral.
"It's your Uncle Mike you'll be living with now."
"But what about school, Daddy, and my friends?"
"You'll have plenty of time for that. It's more important to have a roof over your head, isn't it?" He kicked at a rock. "Your mother was a darling, Moira. We'll all miss her. Anyway...the money's all gone now and...your uncle...he's had a bit of good luck. Your belly won't be growling in his house. Be a good girl, do your chores and mind your uncle's wishes." He was looking down at the ground as he spoke. "You know your old man's never been good with a job." The train began to move. He waved goodbye with a bottle of suds in his hand.
He had put her aboard without a dime in her pocket.
Uncle Mike was a gimp, retired on government disability. He was waiting for her at the other end. He hugged her, pressing against her. Moira thought that his cane was caught between them. When she pulled away she saw that it wasn't. It only got worse from there. The first time he raped her was his last. She waited until he was asleep next to her before tiptoeing out of bed. She used both hands to plunge an old pair of sewing shears into his chest.
She'd been alone from that moment on.
Moira window shopped awhile longer before growing bored and ducking into the subway. The sky was dark when she emerged.
Daniel did not speak. He was her hump, always ready with action. He never questioned her, where she had been or what she was thinking. He cared nothing beyond a good orgasm.
Daniel opened the door. The TV was on, MTV blaring out into the hallway. He stood there in a sweater and jeans, smoking a cigarette. Without commenting on her appearance, he placed the cigarette between his lips and while standing outside his door, slipped her dress up and over her head. He turned and walked back into the apartment. Moira followed him in obediently and shut the door.
Twenty-four—WHAT?
"I bought pastry."
"What?" Lido was working at his desk, facing me. He was staring intently at the computer screen. He didn't seem to grasp what I had said. He wasn't intentionally ignoring me—at least I didn't think so. He was just caught up in his work, zoned in on the case. To the best of my knowledge, the word 'pastry' wasn't normally used in the context of case crime investigation. I guess it came at him out of left field so to speak. I didn't have the heart to say that a box of cannoli had been sitting in the fridge for a day and a half and was probably stale. If he agreed, I'd run out and buy some fresh.
"I stopped at the Italian bakery and bought some pastry." I looked around. We were pretty much alone. I whispered all the same, "I thought maybe you'd come over for some coffee. I'd like to sit down and talk."
"Pastry. I was thinking more along the lines of pizza and beer. I'm more agreeable with a slight buzz."
Now we're talking. "Okay, pizza and beer it is. What would you like, regular or Sicilian?"
"Sicilian," he said. "Thick, chewy Sicilian with extra cheese and lots of cold beer." He was grinning. All of a sudden, I was starving. Somehow, he had made pizza and beer sound like a long night of sweaty sex. I could taste it already. I wanted to sprinkle Lido with a mound of hot pepper and leap over the desk.
"Sicilian's good." I leaned forward and mouthed, "I missed you."
Lido winked and went back to his work. Christ, but this was going to be a long day. I was about to hit the ladies room to splash a little cold water on my face...aw, who am I kidding, I was about to hose myself down. Anyway, I saw Sonellio approaching. I switched gears. "Hi, Boss."
"In my office, you two." The ever-personable Sonellio seemed a bit raw about the edges. "Let's run the Thorne case."
“Again?”
"Yes, again," I guess he could read it on my face. As I said, the boss didn't look too happy. Sonellio looked wane. His hairline was receding faster than Napoleon's troops at Waterloo. His suit hung a bit. All in all, I was a little worried about the boss. That healthy glow he usually sported was conspicuously absent.
I looked at Lido. He shrugged. We both grabbed our case folders and followed Sonellio into his office. He sat down at his desk. The boss' office wasn't much larger than a phone booth. Lido insisted that I sit. I shook my head. We both stood.
Sonellio looked somber. He pinched his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and then sighed, dispelling tension into his tiny office.
"Pressure, Boss?"
He raised his eyebrows and then reached into his desk drawer for a bottle of Pepto. He raised the bottle, toasted the two of us, and took a swig—'nuff said. "What've we got?" he asked, washing down the Pepto with station house coffee, also known as sulfuric acid. "This Thorne woman, she's reaching out. I've gotten calls from the mayor and the chief of detectives this morning. Hell, I'm surprised I haven't heard from J. Edgar Hoover—this woman knows everyone."
I wasn't surprised. Celia Thorne breathed rarified air. She had attained a station in life that few achieve. I was sure she rubbed elbows with all the power brokers. "We're running the prints on the swipe card through IAFIS."
"No hits, I presume?"
"Not yet."
"What other shreds of evidence do we have? There was the strand of red hair from a wig and the boy's last prophecy—can you believe I said that? Prophecy, Jesus Christ, this is like a fucking Stephen King novel."
Sounds like it's time for a séance. "The blood drops on the paper were Manny's. Thorne has records on the boy going back to his very first visit to her physician. CSI found his hair in the truck as well."
"Anything on the Gillette woman? Anything that'll tie this thing together? Think, people, think."
Just then my cell phone went off. The caller ID said TWAIN. I wasn't sure if Lido noticed. I let it go to voicemail and looked up just in time to see Lido looking away—bad timing, really bad timing. In my gut, I knew he had seen it. The pizza and beer thing was rapidly going down the drain.
"Either of you got a solid angle on this thing?" Sonellio asked.
I didn't and I was pretty sure Lido didn't either. When in doubt, open the floor for discussion. "It's looking more and more like the boy's abduction was based on his so-called ability to channel prophecies...that one day he'll scribble off something really important...change the world kind of thing."
Sonellio wasn't impressed. "Why's that?"
"No ransom note," I said pointedly.
"Ah."
"But we already know all of Nostradamus' prophecies," Lido said. "What's the value in Manny restating it?"
"Well, you see, that's the beauty of it. Nostradamus wrote nine sets of one hundred prophecies and one set with just forty-six. Think about it, nine sets of a hundred and one that's short fifty-four. I mean, doesn't it seem like something is missing?" I could see that I had given the boys pause. I was about to open my mouth when the cell phone went off again. Yes, that's right, it was TWAIN once more. I buried the phone in my pocket, but it was no use. Lido's eyes were burning into me.
"Something important?" Lido said coolly.
I shook my head. "No." It didn't matter; he had me dead. There would be no pizza, no beer, and above all else, no hot sweaty sex.
Thank God Sonellio spoke up. The tension was as thick as a wad of stale Bazooka. "So you think some kook or group of kooks took the boy in the hope that one day he'll scrawl off one of those missing prophecies?"
"Quatrains."
"Right, quatrains. So that's what you think?"
"It's possible. Ambler's up to his armpits in possibilities. He’s been checking religious and ethnic groups that could benefit from the alleged information. Anything is possible in the eyes of the religious fanatic. They're all looking for an excuse to
take over the world."
Sonellio got the Pepto back out of the drawer and took another hit. "This is a fucking nightmare." He placed his fist to his mouth to suppress a belch. It looked like the boss was cultivating a crop of ulcers. "I'm not waiting for that angle to play out. Shit, it could take years. How about the bodyguard? Are we absolutely sure he's clean?"
"I'd say he's clean," Lido said. "He's the one that helped us find the truck."
"You don't find that suspicious?"
"In itself yes, but I don't think he's the type, Boss."
"All the same, Chalice, check him out again. Leave nothing to chance. In fact, check everyone out again—anyone that knew the boy's routine, had access to him—anything, got it?"
Lido and I both nodded quickly. We didn't want the boss hitting the Pepto a third time. Just then my phone went off. Lido looked hot enough to fry an egg. I pulled the phone from my pocket. It was Ambler, thank God. I put the phone to my ear and listened. Ambler wasn't waiting for commentary, he was pumping out information. I think the boys saw my mouth gape because they seemed to be in suspense waiting for me to fill them in. It didn't take long. I disconnected. "We were wrong," I said. "We' were completely wrong."
"How's that?" Sonellio asked.
"That was Ambler. He's at Thorne's penthouse."
"And?" Sonellio asked impatiently.
"We just got a ransom demand."
Twenty-five—COME ALONE
Well maybe we had only been half wrong. I had another go at Ambler as Lido piloted through Manhattan traffic on our way to Thorne's sanctuary in the sky. Turns out the abduction was motivated by Manny's prophetic talent—more on that shortly.
I've got a couple of minutes to kill here while we're en route and I'll bet you're dying to know if Lido brought up Twain after we left the boss' office—well, he did. He started giving me the evil eye as we walked to the car. It didn't stop there. He kept pulling his eyes off the road, fixing me with his stare. I knew he was looking and well, after all, it had only been a wild dream. I had never laid a hand on the formidable Dr. Twain, so I figured it was time to speak up for myself. "What? What already? You'd think I abused a child by the way you're looking at me. I had a dream, Gus, a silly dream. You want to get mad at me, get mad at me for a good reason."
"Call him back."
"That's what you want?"
"Yeah, call him back...that's it."
"Suit yourself." I really had nothing to lose. I just didn't want ill will to erupt into something much worse. You know how it is—sometimes you have your motor revving so high that a head on crash is unavoidable. You don't even remember what it is you were fighting about; you just have to win for the sake of winning. That's when everyone loses. "Here goes."
Twain was on my auto dial. I didn't pretend he wasn't. He was the number eight key. I held it in until it dialed his number. I put the phone on speaker. "Nigel Twain," he answered. "Stephanie, is that you?"
"It's me, Nigel. Sorry for the speakerphone but Lido and I are flying cross-town. Is everything alright?"
"Yes, yes, sorry to disturb you," Twain continued in his deep British baritone. "Call me back when there's a better time."
I looked at Lido. He wasn't pushing it so I could have simply shut down, but I wanted to remove all doubt from his mind. "It's okay, Nigel, what's going on? I've got a minute or two."
"It's really nothing, Stephanie. I'm taking a trip home, two weeks or so, just keeping you in the loop. Ricky made a few nice strides this week. I left some exercises for him to practice while I'm away. I'm sure your mother will stay on top of him."
Well, if she can't stay on top of you. "When are you leaving?" It wasn't the first question on my mind. It probably wasn't the second, but I was trying to make the conversation sound natural.
"Tonight, British Air."
"Well, have a great trip. Drink your share of warm beer and call me the moment you tire of roast beef."
"You are crazy... Stephanie, I have a question. One of my old mates, well he's the woodsy type, knows his way around guns and that sort of thing. I really enjoyed the range and I thought I might look him up and do a bit of target shooting. What kind of gun do you have?"
I was so relieved to hear that Twain's area of interest was in firearms. He could've asked about the type of perfume I wear and that would have pissed Lido off big time. "Sure, Nigel, it's a Para Ordnance .45 LDA. That stands for light double action. Hell of a gun, isn't it?"
"Light double action," I could tell that he was taking notes. "Got it. Thank you."
"Is that it?"
"Yes."
"Godspeed, Nigel, got to run."
"Stay safe, Stephanie. Bye."
I hung up. It took a moment until Lido gave me the satisfaction of a grin.
"Feel better?" I asked.
Lido nodded.
"Then we're cool?"
He nodded again.
"Pizza and beer cool?"
It was a long time coming, but he whipped his head around and gave me a quick one. I felt like a fourteen-year-old girl getting her first kiss. We were nearing Thorne's—so much for the big reconciliation. Back to the case.
The note had come via US mail, overnight delivery. In my book, the kidnappers took a real chance trusting their ransom note to the postal service. Everyone's got a horror story concerning the US Mail. Penny wise and dollar foolish, FedEx is a hell of a lot more reliable. Trouble is that FedEx doesn't allow transactions to remain anonymous. I'm sure that was a factor in the kidnapper's choice of carriers. Anyway, the postal bumblers somehow managed to deliver the padded envelope to Thorne's home. It contained a ransom demand and yet another of Nostradamus' channeled prophecies, and most disturbing of all, a Polaroid of Manny sitting in a wheelchair. The photo was not pretty. Manny had taken a beating. His jaw was swollen and his cheek was bruised. The expression on his face cried out for help. The photo had been taken in front of a white wall, hence no clues to place Manny's location from his whereabouts.
The package had been mailed from the Manhattan general post office located on Seventh Avenue and 34th Street. For those of you familiar with the place, you know that it's the size of a football field. The mail intake is astronomical. The clerks see hundreds of customers per shift. There was little or no chance of anyone remembering who had dropped off the package. Worse still, we already knew that our perp used disguises. So far, our evil female conspirator had orchestrated everything to perfection.
It was no wonder that Celia Thorne was in a tizzy when we arrived. The grand dame's steel persona had been pierced. She had taken a blow directly to the heart. As I said, the photo of Manny tore at the heartstrings. But like the true fighter she was, Celia Thorne was back on her feet, barking orders like an infantry sergeant. "Bastards! The goddamn animals! I'll have their goddamn heads!"
The ransom demand had been computer printed on plain white stock. Making the assumption that no fingerprints or physical evidence would be found on the package, tracing would be impossible. The Hannibal Lecter type would have taken the trouble to find an obscure watermark and sprinkle the note with the essence of exotic gardenias. Lecter had style and a penchant to taunt. Our assailants wanted none of that. They only wanted their money. The note read, $5,000,000 in untraceable bills to be delivered by Thorne. On Friday, take the LIRR, 2:56 PM train from Penn Station to Syosset. Sit in the third eastbound car. Come alone. We'll be watching. No deviation or Manny goes to the highest bidder. One chance only.
The ransom demand revealed a great deal to me. I had a lot that I wanted to say to Celia Thorne. The question was would she listen?
She was racing back and forth from one room into another—in sight and then out of sight. She was so frantically worked up I doubt she had the capability of reasoning soundly.
Ambler rolled his eyes and called Lido and I into a huddle. "She's a mess—not that I blame her." We turned in unison as she stormed by, oblivious to our presence. "Stephanie, she seems to have warmed to you."
Ye
ah right, like an anaconda warming up to the idea of making a warthog its next meal.
"You wanna try to calm her down? We've got scant hours to coordinate our effort. If we don't plant a seed now, she'll make up her own mind and then we'll have to play it her way. That's not the way I want this to go down. She's so headstrong, I'm sure she'll insist on making the drop herself. She'll end up getting herself killed."
Thorne dashed by again. She was like a twister whipping through Kansas. Carl, the faithful domestic, was running behind her with a cup of what I guessed was herbal tea. Better drop some Xanax in there, my friend; a cup full of Sleepytime tea is not going to extinguish that fire. "What have I got to lose? We all see this the same way—whoever has Manny plans to extort anyone with an interest in his abilities."
Lido nodded. "Make an impassioned plea—it'll go better coming from you."
"She's going to chew me up and spit me out. Aw...what the hell." I walked off in search of the tornado. She was just ahead of me in the next room. I could swear I heard the sound of trees being ripped out of the earth.
Thorne had her head buried in her closet. She was yanking large bags off the top shelf. These were no five and dime nylon duffels: Prada, Louis Vuitton, Bottega Veneta. I knew what she was looking for: a bag large enough to carry one hundred banded stacks of cash—five million dollars. Thorne selected the Louis Vuitton. She didn't seem surprised to see me at her door. To the contrary, she ignored me.
"Ms. Thorne, I need to speak with you."
She brushed by me, stepping over the clutter that she had deposited on the floor. "No time for that now, honey, I need to prepare."
"It's a bad idea."
"What is?"
"What you're thinking."
Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) Page 12
