Lido and I looked at each other and shrugged as Ambler made notes on his pad. My nose itched so badly I wanted to rip it off—it was like a chicken pox itch, I swear to you.
"Carl's on the move," he said the moment he hung up. "He was put—emphasis on put—into a van. We're tailing it...just went over the 59th Street Bridge."
"He was forced into the car?" Lido asked.
"More or less. Not strong armed so much as accompanied by a pair of goons."
Not looking good for Carl. Perhaps one of Thorne's exotic plants expired and Thorne was having him rubbed out. "So maybe Carl had more than a little to do with Manny's abduction. Either he fucked up or for some reason The Faith now considers him a liability. Wouldn't be the first time someone died in the name of God. These Gnostics, they believe in God, don't they?"
"Believe so," Ambler said.
"So who are these goons and where are they headed?" Lido asked. "What about making a move on this townhouse? I'm sure we can establish sufficient motive to get a warrant."
"Yes," Ambler replied. "But as I said when you walked in, the timing blows. Stephanie's going to be on a train in less than an hour. My gut says we stick to the ransom plan and keep the townhouse and Carl under surveillance until we figure things out a little better. Let's stay focused on recovering the boy. That's our first priority."
"Agreed."
"Unfortunately, you'll be in the dark, Stephanie," Ambler said. "We'll call you if we discover something dire of course, but I'm not going to risk blowing your cover by calling your cell over and over. We won't be able to see you after you get off the train and won't know whether you'll be in a position to talk or not. If you feel you need to hear from us, just say 'update.' I'll assume that means you need info and can accept a call. You with me so far?"
"Rock solid."
"We'll be listening in at all times," Lido added, "but don't hesitate to call us in if things go bad. Remember, we can't see what you see."
"Got it. Let's make sure I'm transmitting." Ambler nodded and waved over his technician.
I had precious little to say. In my mind I had begun projecting the sequence of events that lay ahead: the train ride and whatever came next. What would I find when I got off the train at Syosset? A note, a ringing telephone? I wanted to skip hours ahead, to have Manny home, safe and sound. I'd worry about his kidnappers afterward. I wanted them badly, especially the girl, the one that had murdered Helen Gillette in the most heinous of manners. Alas, I knew the odds were poor. I hadn't been kidding Celia Thorne when I told her that Manny had become the golden goose for these criminals, that they would ransom him over and over again until they ran out of marks to pay for him.
So what kind of setup was I walking into? It was time to put all speculation and apprehension behind me. It was, as they say, show time.
Thirty-three—THUGS
Carl stared out the window of the van as it made its way over the 59th Street Bridge into Queens.
The two men in the van with him had not given their names. One sat behind the wheel. There was another in the back sitting on the floor up against the side wall. These were large men, dark, hulking men, massive across the chest and shoulders. Coarse black hair covered their heads, faces, and necks. Their eyebrows ran together—gorillas.
He'd told them everything he had overheard at Thorne's apartment—the details of the ransom demand: five million dollars...take the Long Island Railroad to Syosset. Carl's job was simple...he was to identify anyone of importance: Manny, Thorne, members of the police, and if possible, the woman he knew only as Black.
He had gone into elaborate detail for the two men, providing a chronicle of his relationship with the woman, how she had contacted him, her elaborate scheme, and the details of the betrayal.
He wondered how he'd be able to identify her, having never actually met her, but those were the orders he had been given. His only contact with her had been over the phone. The money that The Faith had fronted had been delivered by Federal Express despite all the objections. All Carl had to go on was her voice, and the composite he had imagined of her in his mind. He knew that the chances of her appearing as he imagined her to look were poor at best. Maybe the voice, he thought. If only he could get close enough to hear her speak. There was something distinctive in the way she sounded, as if she were trying to mask the fact that she was foreign. She had slipped in their last conversation, losing her temper, allowing the flash of an Irish brogue to rise to the surface. Yes, he thought, he'd know her if he heard her. Her voice had been committed to memory. Her excuses were continually replaying in his head, over and over again, driving him slowly mad. He had prayed for the opportunity to confront her, but would the opportunity ever arrive?
He'd never been to Syosset and knew only that it was somewhere on Long Island. His instructions were to be alert, to advise the two men if he noticed anything of importance. He was not to get involved beyond this. They had told him that his survival depended upon their ability to find the boy. He had no faith in their promises. The High Coptic had refused to see him. Likewise, the clerics were absent when he had been accompanied from the sanctuary. He had been abandoned for compromising The Faith and The Faith did not practice forgiveness.
He had not been bound. He sat freely in the passenger seat, quietly contemplating his chances for escape. The two men paid him little attention. Was he wrong about their intentions? Would he be free to go after the boy was recovered, or was it that they felt he lacked the guts to attempt an escape? Or did they think him so inept, that an escape attempt was not taken seriously? He was sure they were carrying guns. These were not religious men. They were thugs, the kind of animals he had seen portrayed in the movies. He was there to be their dog, to sniff and to point and perhaps, if he did a good job, be thrown a bone. He doubted it. There had been others who had disappeared from the sanctuary, here one day and gone the next. Their absence was not discussed. Carl always wondered about what had become of these men.
He was very close to finding out.
Thirty-four—WHITE KNUCKLES
It was an off hour at Penn Station, too early for the afternoon rush hour. There was little traffic in the station as I walked the short distance from the NYPD office to the track. I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, carrying a Louis Vuitton duffle stuffed with hundred dollar bills. I tried not to show that I was hanging onto the handle like grim death. Could you just see some five and dime hustler trying the old bump and run on an elderly woman and walking off with a cool five mil? Couldn't let that happen, now could we?
I hit the track at its easternmost point, found the third car, and stepped aboard. The train was surprisingly full. There were lots of guys in overalls and jeans, the kind of guys that worked with their hands. I'd hoped to find a free two-seater, a place where I could sit with the money safely tucked in between me and the window, but that possibility disappeared when a robust balding man cut in front of me and took the last one. He had a tuna sandwich in one hand and an iPod in the other. I could hear and smell him as he squeezed by. Now the question was, was he just a slob or was he one of them? Was he watching me? He certainly wasn't watching his diet—God knows that two-seater really came in handy.
So I took the aisle seat of a three-seater. There was one guy already asleep against the window. The middle was free and then of course, there was me, Stephanie Chalice, middle-aged woman impersonator, cop, and all around good gal, holding onto a bag of money as I sat down. I looped my arm through the handle, placed the bag on the seat next to me, and prayed that no one asked for the seat. The sleeping guy was kind of youngish and cute, younger than me, but not too young for me if you know what I mean. He looked like he had been out all night, half in the bag, like a good time had had him instead of the other way around. Sleeping beauty cracked his peepers for a split second and then, noting that I was not conquest worthy, went back to sleep. I almost giggled—if only this guy had the slightest clue about the opportunity he was passing by, an expensive bag st
uffed with dough and an old bag that was anything but. It made for a quick fantasy—empty the bag, rip off the makeup, and let's have a party. Five mil and a sexy cop for the taking...and this guy was sleeping through the whole thing. If I were a bad girl—skip it. I'd already gotten my butt in a sling over my last fantasy. Not going there again. What is it they say, let sleeping studs lie?
I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder. It was the heavyset gent, you know, the overweight seat stealer.
"Excuse me," he said in a European voice. "This train go to Huntington?"
I wasn't much of a commuter, but I'd made a mental note of all the stops. I read them off in my mind: Woodside, Jamaica, Hicksville, Syosset, and Huntington. "Yes," I said, in the most mature voice possible.
"Uh, tank you," he said. He gave me a quick smile before chomping into the tuna sandwich.
I smiled back, a quaint smile like I imagined Thorne would have given him and then turned away, polite but not polite enough to engage him. A woman like Celia Thorne was not one to chit-chat with portly, tuna swilling men.
There were undercover cops on the train. I spotted them and then did my best not to look at them again. I looked around, trying to make the other side but no one stood out as an obvious choice.
I kept going back to Manny, of that picture that had accompanied the ransom demand. He looked so sad and pathetic sitting in his wheelchair, bruised about the face. I wanted to bring him back but doubted I'd have success. Manny meant a lot of money to the kidnappers, more money than the five million I had in the bag. He was easily worth several times that amount to the right people. The kidnappers had started with an easy mark. Carl and The Faith lacked resources and sophistication. Certainly, Celia Thorne would pay anything to get him back. The five million was milk money for her. With her cash in their coffers, they'd be able to take their time, moving around the planet carefully selecting their next pigeon. Manny, our poor, innocent, miracle child was in for a tough time.
The train pulled out of Penn Station, through the underground tunnel that connected Manhattan with Queens. For those of you not up on your geography, Queens is the westernmost tip of the Long Island land mass. The trip would take me through Queens and into the eastern end of Nassau County, by the clock a trip just shy of an hour. I turned around. My friend had finished his tuna and was now washing it down with a bottle of Mott's apple juice. He toasted me. I gave him one more smile and then a quick about-face. He had food stuck between his teeth—some of it didn't look all that recent.
From the dark into the light, we emerged from the tunnel into Queens. The sight was thoroughly unimpressive: massive filth clad warehouses and construction yards. Technically, it was a section called Long Island City, an annex for Manhattan, a place for all the stuff the city needed but had no room for. The scenery improved as we slowly moved east. Warehouses were replaced by residential neighborhoods made up of small row houses and shops. Next came the pretty little enclave of Forrest Hills with its red clay roofs. I dated a guy from Forrest Hills once and considered living in the area because the rent was so much cheaper, but I never made the move. I mean New York City is New York City and Queens...well, what can I say, it ain't The Big Apple, is it? I'd grown up in the city and once it's part of you—the people and the culture, the festivals, Little Italy and Broadway...you get it, don't you?
I tried not to envision the end game, but my mind just wouldn't slow down. I saw myself in one situation after another, making the drop and escorting Manny safely from the scene. I knew it wouldn't be that simple: walking away alive was one thing, but walking away with Manny was something else entirely. Helen Gillette had been viciously murdered. If that was any insight as to the kidnapper's MO, it was going to be a long and grueling day at best.
We passed Flushing, with its high-rise malls and office buildings and then entered Nassau County, more trees and less brick, better but not exactly what I liked to think of as the suburbs. I'd been out to the Nassau County Correctional Facility in the spring to interview an aging con by the name of Ishmael Gray. It was located in East Meadow, a burb with lots of traffic and congestion. Someone had had the fool sense of slapping this immense correctional facility smack dab in the middle of it. I'm sure the community was thrilled about that one.
The scenery changed as we continued to move east, looking a bit more suburban with the passing miles. The guy sitting next to me had begun to grow restless. He was apparently no longer comfortable using the window seal for a pillow. I checked the players on the train. There had been small changes, with passengers getting on and off at Jamaica. The tuna man was still with us. He had his iPod cranked up high. I think he was listening to Bobbie Vinton. The guys in plain clothes were really good. One of them was pretending to be asleep. At least I hoped he was pretending and hadn't had turkey for lunch—all that tryptophan can be murder.
We stopped at Hicksville. I pulled out the timetable while passengers disembarked—just seven minutes to go. Adrenaline began flowing into my bloodstream at an increased volume. I could feel the hairs on my arms rise. I prayed that I wouldn't begin to sweat. I didn't want my face sliding off, not now, not when I was this close.
These last seven minutes seemed to last forever, an endless stretch of homes and stores. The train passed a major intersection, which I knew from studying the maps was Jericho Turnpike. I had been told that I'd see a huge Home Depot. My skin began to tingle when I saw it. Within a minute, the train began to slow. It sounded its horn as we approached the station. I put old Louis on my lap and ratcheted my vice grip down on the bag's handles. The undercover cop still looked like he was asleep as I stood and made my way to the door. Somehow I had missed the tuna man. Presumably, he had slipped off when I wasn't looking. In any case, he didn't get off with me.
There was a brief moment of uncertainty as I got off the train, a moment of confusion as the commuters spilled from the train onto the station platform and then made their way to the cars in two large parking fields that bordered the station. Happily, the undercover cop got off with me. A car had been planted in the lot for him. I saw him make his way to an old Honda. The passengers stared at me, with concern I think over a woman that didn't seem to know just exactly where she was going. In a moment the train pulled out of the station, leaving me alone on the platform.
There was a public phone some distance away. I thought about walking to it but I didn't hear it ringing and I assumed that there was a good reason for being instructed to sit in the third eastbound car.
I looked around. The lot was now still. The wind kicked up and then I saw it. In front of me was a poster, a large railroad advertisement for Thorne Cosmetics. I'd seen it in Thorne's office, a close-up of Heidi Klum, a man walking past her looking back over his shoulder and the caption Thorne Cosmetics: Turning Heads Everyday. Heidi Klum's multi-million dollar face had been obscured with a thick marking pen. The kidnapper had written: Syosset Taxi. I turned and studied the lot. There was a solitary white cab waiting idly in the lot. Syosset Taxi was stenciled on the door in red letters. The driver was inside, presumable to stay warm. I made eye contact. He got out of the cab and waved to me. I checked my grip on old Louis and made my way toward the cab.
Thirty-five—WHO ELSE COULD IT BE?
"Is that her?" The man behind the wheel asked Carl.
Carl strained to see the woman walking across the parking field to the cab. They had parked the van on the street just outside the parking field. Carl was nearsighted but had thought the timing poor to divulge the information. "I think so."
"You're not sure?"
"She's far away."
"You work for her. You don't know what she looks like?" The driver looked over his shoulder, grimacing at his accomplice, still sitting in the back of the van. "Come on, is it her or not?"
Carl pressed his eyes shut and then tried again. The woman he saw resembled Celia Thorne very closely. He recognized the clothes and the dark glasses she always wore to conceal her identity in public. Still, it was difficul
t for him to be sure from such distance.
"Well?"
"Can we get closer?"
"Closer? No. Is it her or not? Make up your mind."
The woman was carrying a large duffle bag. He knew Thorne had an assortment of Louis Vuitton bags, ranging in size from small to enormous. Still, there was something about this woman, the way she walked—something...
Carl felt hot breath on his neck. The man in the back of the van had come forward and was now standing behind him, his face just an inch behind Carl's head, his mouth next to his ear. "What the fuck are you trying to pull here? You scamming us or something?" He slammed his hand against the back of Carl's seat, sending him a jolt. "This is not funny," the man said in an accent that was heavily Greek. "You tell us what we fucking want to know or I'll kill you right now." He placed his fingers around Carl's throat, pressing on the soft tissue at the sides of his windpipe.
Carl looked back over his shoulder in a panic. "I want to be sure," he said. He felt the tips of the powerful fingers press against his windpipe again, gently at first and then with increasing pressure. "Stop it."
"Who is that woman? Is it Thorne?"
The woman was now largely hidden behind the many rows of parked cars that filled the lot. All he could see was the back of her head as she stood near the taxi, talking to the driver. Her hair was done as Thorne's often was. The slight pressure on the windpipe had increased in intensity and was now painful. It felt as if his windpipe would collapse.
The driver reached over and smacked Carl against the back of the head. "Stupid, is it her or not? What the hell is wrong with you?"
Carl began to gasp, not so much from the air restriction but from his nerves. He looked up. The woman was standing next to the taxi. She held the bag with two hands, as if it were of great value. Who else could it be? "Yes, yes, it's her," he said. He immediately felt the hands loosen from around his neck.
Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) Page 15
