Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

  The driver smacked him again. "Don't push us," he said, pointing an intimidating finger in Carl's face.

  Carl found it tough to swallow. It was as if the hands were still around his throat, crushing it. He nodded to the driver. "Okay."

  The driver started the car.

  Carl could see him scanning the rearview mirror, waiting for the taxi to pass.

  A mist began to fall on the windshield. Carl looked up at the darkening sky. The clouds were ominous, poised to deliver a storm.

  The man standing behind him took the opportunity to take his seat back on the floor. Carl watched from the corner of his eye as he removed the automatic from his waistband, released the safety, and chambered the first round.

  Thirty-six—RANSOM BEACH

  Good guy or bad guy? I was trying to make my mind up about the cab driver. Was he one of them or just a hard working guy that had just picked up his fare? He looked at me impatiently as I approached his cab.

  "Thorne?" he said in an impersonal manner. He looked up at the sky and then back at me. It threatened to rain. His expression read, "I want to go home—can't you walk any faster, granny?"

  I nodded.

  "I'm Hank," he said, as he reached out for my bag. "Want a hand with that?" I guess he felt obligated to offer but I could tell he really wasn't a polite kind of guy. Honestly, I was surprised when he offered his name.

  "No thank you, I've got it, Hank." He had no idea that he'd have to kill me before he'd be able to pry the bag out of my hands. Let's face it, when was the next time I'd get this close to this kind of money?

  I didn't know how old Hank was, but believe me, he was over the hill. He had frizzy gray hair at the temples where it blossomed out from beneath his knitted cap. He stuffed his hands back into the pockets of a well worn pea coat. Hank was one of those small-framed guys with a big beer belly—his coat was threadbare across the stomach. I wanted to ask him where we were headed, but I knew that would have sounded strange to him if he was on the up and up. As it was, he was looking at me kind of funny, trying to see past the makeup, trying to determine what was going on with this strange looking old lady. My sense was that he was legit and had no idea that he was playing a part in a ransom drop. "So what's our route?" I thought that sounded like a reasonable question. Lido and Ambler were listening in. When possible, I'd drop a fact or two to tip them off as to where I was and where I was headed. "Syosset Taxi," I'd said when I walked across the parking field to Hank's cab. I needed to find out where I was going so that the boys could mobilize their forces and be in close proximity when I arrived at the drop. I was feeling vulnerable out in the middle of nowhere—not chicken, just vulnerable. I needed to know that the troops were close by. I had the LDA of course, but like every cop I'd known, I hoped it would never have to come out of the holster.

  Hank was dancing in place trying to stay warm—or maybe he had to pee. He opened the back door of the cab and motioned with his head for me to get in. "North on Berry Hill Road, zip-zip, up along Shore Road into Bayville." He made his eyes large, communicating to me that he'd given me as much of an answer as he was going to. At the same time his expression was saying, Get the hell in the cab, old lady. I'm freezing my nuts off out here.

  A few icy drops of rain hit the top of my head. I figured I'd better get into the cab before my face washed away. I'm melting. I'm melting—Margaret Hamilton had nothing on me. Her adventure had begun in Kansas and mine in Syosset. She was after the ruby slippers and I was off to recover a miracle child—somewhat close parallels except that the Wicked Witch of the West was fictitious and my adventure was horrifyingly real. I got into Hank's cab. He closed the door for me. I looked around, hoping to see munchkins lurking about. No dice.

  I wasn't sure if the boys had heard Hank's directions, so I repeated them back to Hank just to make sure they weren't missed. "Berry Hill to Shore Road—that's fine. How long?"

  Hank cranked the engine. The car was well past its prime, but the old Ford sedan jumped to life instantly. It was similar to the big boats the feds drove. He looked up at the sky through the windshield. The light was fading fast. "I'll have you there before it gets dark, lady—maybe twenty minutes. Come this way often?"

  "No, Hank, not really."

  "Welcome to Oyster Bay, New York, otherwise known as the winter repository for Canadian Geese shit." Hank grinned at me in the rearview mirror. He was definitely nuts.

  Twenty minutes. It seemed imminent and yet an eternity at the same time. I couldn't wait to get there. My nerves were building.

  Hank was out to accelerate the timeline. He was obviously in a great hurry to get home to his Barcalounger and a cold Miller. He peeled rubber out of the lot, the cab screeching as its wheels hit the street. He hooked a quick right and then another, just as the traffic arms were coming down at the railroad crossing. A train was about to cross in front of us. Hank slammed his hand on the steering wheel. Whatsamatter, Hank, unhappy? He drummed his fingers on the wheel, continuously demonstrating his impatience. He definitely wasn't chauffeur material—not for a woman like Celia Thorne anyway.

  The railroad stop was at the apex of several roads. I could see the street sign for Berry Hill Road up ahead of us. By the time the train cleared the crossing, there was a long line of cars queued up behind us. I was hoping that Lido and Ambler were in one of them, not far behind.

  Hank punched the accelerator, trying to make up lost time. The big Ford shot forward once again.

  Berry Hill started off as a street lined with small stores and restaurais but quickly transformed into a residential boulevard. As we progressed north, the homes became larger and farther apart. The North Shore of Long Island represented one of the richest enclaves in the country. We passed private roads leading to estates that were unaffordable on a cop's salary—an honest cop's salary anyway.

  We came upon another large intersection. The road sign read 25A, Northern Boulevard. A bright yellow Ferrari waited at the traffic signal directly ahead of us. Its burbling exhaust resonated through Hank's cab. He tapped the windshield to draw my attention to the Italian exotic. "Do you believe how some people live?" he mumbled unhappily.

  My grip on the money bag had loosened some. I was directing my mental energy to the task that loomed ahead. I was trying to prime my motor, so to speak, get myself ready for...well anything really. I didn't know what to expect.

  "You here to bid on the place?" Hank asked.

  I was surprised to hear from him again. I assumed our next and final interaction would be when I handed him his fare. "Bid?" I asked.

  "Yeah, bid," Hank eyed me in his rearview mirror. "On The Cove. Ain't that what you're here for? Why else would someone come all the way out from the city? Place is boarded up."

  The question necessitated an affirmative response. "That's right. Sounds like you're familiar with The Cove. What do you think—worth fixing up?" It was a fishing expedition, one I hoped would shed some light on the drop. I hoped that Lido and Ambler were listening in on their hookup, getting the lowdown on The Cove.

  "I was there once, almost ten years ago," Hank said. "One of those factories—didn't care for it much."

  I cast my line back into the water. "Factory...I never thought about it that way. Why do you say that?"

  Hank's eyes were back in the rearview mirror, looking at me as if I was stupid. "A factory, a factory—they had six affairs going on at the same time...a couple a weddings, a couple Bar Mitzvahs, political meetings. They herd you from one room to the next like a bunch of goddamn cattle."

  "That's my concern too. You sacrifice too much quality when you have so much going on at the same time."

  "Exactly, that's why the place shut—got to the point they were serving airline food to keep the costs down. You can't feed people that shit. You go to a wedding, you got to fork over a hefty gift—people don't like eating stringy chicken. Know what I mean?"

  Hank was on his way to a big tip, a really big one. It was in his nature to complain. I mean he
was the kind of guy that just couldn't help himself. Still, he had given me some very important insight about the location of the drop. It was an old catering hall, a huge one from what I'd just heard. No doubt Lido and Ambler were working on it.

  "So how much they asking for the place?" Hank was a curious guy, the kind that wanted to know everyone's business.

  "One," I said, not knowing what to say. I suppose I could have come clean at this point. Hank was obviously not implicated in the abduction. I didn't want to take the chance that he'd freak on me. Things were running smoothly and I didn't want to throw a wrench into the works.

  "A million...for that place? Jesus, lady, you must be made of money or something."

  I smiled at Hank so that he could see my expression in the mirror. I patted old Louis. "Yup, got the down payment right here."

  "Yeah, right."

  Ambler barked instructions over the phone as he piloted the car. Lido sat next to him, hurriedly looking over maps.

  The car had a Bluetooth radio, allowing for hands free telephone. Ambler had keyed it to his cell phone. The voice of Agent Ken Smith poured over the sound system's speakers. "That's us, Ambler, we’re three cars behind the van." Smith had followed the van from The Faith's Manhattan townhouse through Queens and all the way to Syosset.

  Berry Hill curved around to the left. From Ambler's position, he could see all the vehicles in the game as they moved past—Carl's van and then Smith's unmarked. The old Honda was a few cars back. Ambler and Lido were last in line.

  "There's too many of us," Ambler said to Lido.

  "Have Smith splinter off," Lido said, looking up from the map. "Have him fall in behind us and follow from a safe distance. Don't want this to look like a damn convoy."

  Ambler nodded. "Hear that, Ken?"

  "Affirmative," Smith replied. "I'll fall off at the next opportunity."

  "Monitor the radio and come in behind us for support. We're headed for an abandoned catering hall called The Cove. Lido's working on the location now. We'll broadcast it shortly."

  "Solid, Herb...turning off now."

  Ambler saw Smith's black cruiser as it turned left ahead of them. "Fabulous job, Ken, real solid."

  "Thanks, Boss."

  Ambler turned to Lido. "Theory?"

  Lido looked up reluctantly. "The Faith was involved in the abduction. Carl probably facilitated the deal. At some point or maybe from the very beginning, the perps figured that they could get a hell of a lot more money out of Thorne and other interested parties than they could ever squeeze out of The Faith. So, the deal goes bad and Carl's people call in the goon squad to pull things back into shape. Carl tells them all about the ransom demand. Voila, here they are, figuring they'll intercede, strong arm their way in and waltz off with the miracle boy."

  "I think they're pretty fucking stupid. How the hell are they supposed to preempt the exchange with the police and FBI involved?"

  "Carl didn't know that Stephanie was going in Thorne's place."

  Ambler shook his head in disbelief. "They couldn't figure it out? I mean please..."

  "Everything he knows about her says that she calls the shots. Thorne was pretty adamant about going it alone, remember? Stephanie's the one that finally talked some sense into her and that was well after Carl took a powder." Lido turned back to the map, tracing a route with his finger along the laminated page.

  Chalice's voice crackled from a small receiver. "Lexington Avenue."

  "Good girl," Lido said. "He found the location on the map and tapped it with his finger. "This is where she is." He followed Lexington Avenue on the map until it turned into Shore Road, continuing to the edge of the page. He flipped the page and picked it up on the next map, his finger moving north and west. Shore Road ran along the Long Island Sound, the stretch of water that separated the shores of Long Island and Connecticut. He traced the road into the town of Bayville where it split east-west. Lido followed the route to the west where he believed The Cove was located.

  "See anything?" Ambler said.

  Lido was frozen, looking down at the map.

  "What the hell is it, Gus?"

  No answer.

  "Gus?"

  We turned onto Shore Road. I looked to my right and saw that we were alongside the water. Connecticut was no more than a shadow, a layer of darkened land lying in between the gray sky and the flowing water of the Long Island Sound. The Sound looked anything but inviting: desolate and angry. The water moved with a rapid chop. I grew cold from the sight of it.

  We rode for a while along the narrow, two-lane road. The tall grass that grew in tufts along the Sound's sandy embankment had turned to colorless straw, bowing to the force of the winter wind.

  We drove over a bridge and into the town of Bayville, temporarily leaving the water behind, or so I thought. I saw it peeking at me in the gaps between the shops and houses we passed.

  "How much longer?"

  "Just a couple of minutes," Hank replied. He was gazing at the sky again, which had turned darker and even more threatening. I think he wanted to ask if I had a ride back but was afraid that I might ask him to wait. After all, he thought I had come here alone and I was, as you know, an elderly woman.

  I retightened my grip on Louis' handles with one hand and with the other, checked for the position of my LDA through the fabric of my coat.

  Hank had been accurate in his assessment. We soon began slowing to a stop. I could see the massive building just ahead on my left. The Cove was a mammoth structure, beige stucco and boarded windows, a giant cube with an adjoining parking lot, facing the water.

  So that's it. Somewhere inside were the kidnappers. Was Manny in there too? Fat chance went through my mind but I blotted it out, trying to remain optimistic for Manny's sake. I wanted this to end for him. I wanted him to be home, no longer afraid or confused.

  Hank pulled to the curb, across the street from The Cove, against a narrow strip of beach.

  "That's twenty," he said, putting the gearshift into park and turning over his shoulder.

  I briefly toyed with the idea of reaching into old Louis and ripping out a crisp hundred, but of course I didn't. I handed him thirty and watched his eyes light up. " Thanks...have a good evening."

  One quick look through the window before getting out—it was almost dark and the rain was still falling in a light drizzle. The Cove's stucco walls were turning gray in the fading light, giving it an ominous appearance. I wished that I were familiar with the interior layout, but of course that was impossible.

  There were no cars in the parking lot. I guess Hank noticed it too. "You gonna be alright, lady? Don't look like anybody's here."

  I could feel the LDA pressing against my ribs as I prepared to open the door. "Quite," I replied, remembering to stay in character. "Safe home."

  I checked for traffic and then pushed the door open. Hank began rolling away the moment I closed the door behind me.

  I unbuttoned my coat despite the cold. I wanted quick access to the LDA if I needed it. I began walking across the street, not knowing if they could see me approach, what with the windows boarded up as they were. I assumed they had their methods and were ready for me.

  I stopped about halfway across the street. For some inexplicable reason I felt compelled to turn around and look back at the beach. There was a sign on the beach facilities building. It had been in my blind spot when we pulled up in the cab but now it was completely clear. An icy chill ran down my back. The sign read Ransom Beach.

  Thirty-seven-THE COVE

  The road was desolate as I crossed it. I saw headlights in the distance. Other than that, all was quiet as the night lowered around me.

  I stood just outside The Cove's main entrance door, listening for sounds, anything that might indicate what to expect when I entered the building. I heard and saw nothing. There was no light filtering past the planks that covered the window, no sound emanating from within.

  One more look to the east. The headlights were still off in the di
stance. Fog had settled in, making it difficult to determine whether the cars had stopped or were still advancing slowly. They were the troops: Lido and Ambler, NYPD and FBI. One by one, the headlights went out. They would wait in place until they were cued to approach, either to pick up Manny, or to save my butt. "Okay, here we go," I said for their benefit and opened the door.

  All lights were off. A minimal amount of light trickled in from a glass dome above me in the hall's rotunda, barely enough to see where I was going. There was a doublewide staircase in front of me that separated to the left and right, spiraling away from each other, diverging like a ram's horns. There was a coat checkroom at the base of the stairs and entranceways to reception rooms located at three o'clock, one o'clock, eleven o'clock and nine o'clock. As Hank had said, the place was a factory. I imagined it at its peak, with guests being ushered from one room into the next. Now though, it was empty and silent, a sarcophagus. I hoped to find Manny somewhere within. As a cop, I wanted to draw my sidearm and begin systematically clearing the rooms, but as Celia Thorne my options were limited. I had to act as she would, so I summoned up my best Celia Thorne voice and called out, "Hello?"

  I waited for a response but none came back. I wondered what they were waiting for. They had Thorne and the money—they had the proverbial upper hand.

  "Hello. It's Celia Thorne. I'm here to make the exchange."

  Still nothing.

  Be more assertive, I said to myself. Celia Thorne was not the type to be led around by the nose. She wouldn't wait around, she'd demand. "I have your money. I want Manny. Show yourself immediately."

  At that moment, a small television crackled to life in the room located at the one o'clock position. It sat on the floor at the far end of the room. I would have preferred Passions or one of the other daytime soaps. What I saw on the screen was Manny. The TV was wired for closed circuit. Manny was in the catering hall's kitchen, sitting in his wheelchair in front of a commercial stove and stainless steel preparation table. He looked frightened and withdrawn.