Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “My partner will cover the door. I’ll work inside.” Alex Pareya spoke to Alice Tate in a professional manner. He had already decided to station Skuz by the front door, therefore limiting his exposure to the guests.

  “Please be discreet,” she replied. “Blend in. I don’t want the guests to notice the two of you at all. I want them concentrating on their generosity, not the security. I don’t want them distracted or bothered in any way. Are we clear on this?” Pareya nodded.

  Tony Skuz walked through the door. He heard Alice Tate’s remark and ignored it. “Tony Scosdolocus,” he boomed as he extended his hand. “Good to meet you.”

  Alice Tate, Evan Wainright’s right hand, declined the handshake, smiled quaintly and replied, “My, my, aren’t you hot shit?” She turned back to Pareya. “Be invisible,” she demanded, before racing off.

  “You got your gun?” Pareya asked.

  Tony Skuz patted his ankle and winked. “That’s affirmative.”

  “Good,” Pareya replied. “Don’t use it. No one gets in without an invitation. Can you handle that?” Skuz nodded. “If you need me, I’ll be inside. One more thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t need me.”

  Hilary Glenn emerged from her limousine looking radiant and supremely self-confident, on the verge of cocky. A barrage of camera flashes greeted her. Reporters holding foam-clad microphones, each stenciled with a TV station logo, pressed in on her. She glowed with self-importance as she encountered them.

  “Ms. Glenn, what do you think of your chances now that Mayor Rubio has bowed out of the race? Do you think it’s a sure thing?” Michelle Wong, the ABC reporter, posed the question.

  “We take nothing for granted,” Glenn replied modestly. “There’s still a long road ahead of us.”

  “Ms. Glenn, how much money do you expect to raise at this evening’s event?” asked a reporter from the Post.

  “As much as humanly possible.” Her response raised a flurry of laughter. Her years in corporate life had prepared her for this. She was such a polished phony, it took your breath away.

  Evan Wainright was now out of the limo. No one even noticed him emerge. “That’s all for now,” he announced. “There are a hundred hungry supporters inside and I want to make sure they’ve got the strength to take their checkbooks out of their pockets. We can’t keep them waiting, now, can we?”

  Hilary looked stunning in her beaded Armani evening gown as she draped a hand crocheted shawl over her bare shoulders. The back was cut away in a provocative wedge. It was taut at the waist, accentuating her splendid figure. She had begun pushing her way through the crowd of reporters when she noticed the vagrant huddled against the adjacent store’s façade. She smiled inwardly—the political wheels were turning. “Just a moment,” she announced. She began walking in the derelict’s direction. The press followed her. “Give me a little space, please. I don’t want to frighten him.” God, I’m good.

  Two of the reporters looked at each other. They hung back with the rest of their colleagues, allowing Hilary Glenn ten feet of privacy.

  “Hilary, do you think that’s a good—” Wainright warned. A scowl cut him down quickly.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. The vagrant nodded, never lifting his head or exposing his face. Hilary turned back to the press. “The homeless deserve our help,” she announced in a sympathetic voice. “I’m going to take care of this as one of my first orders of business.” She turned back to the vagrant. “I’ll have something brought out for you to eat. Would you like that?” She regarded the urchin, covered in rags, all of his worldly possessions in a torn duffle bag at his side.

  The vagrant buried his face more deeply into folded arms. His reply was muffled but understandable. “Blow me.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Tony Skuz wandered into the kitchen. A half-consumed tray of canapés had been abandoned and was within his reach. He popped a crab cake into his mouth and wolfed it down. “Fuckin’ A,” he opined. He dipped a second into a dish of dill mayonnaise and smiled with delight upon tasting it. The pastry chef eyed the freeloader with outrage. “Hey, you make these? They’re fucking terrific.” The pastry chef grumbled heatedly and dashed away. Tony Skuz placed several crab cakes on a napkin and continued to whittle down the supply.

  A smack on the back of his head induced a choking spasm. “What the hell are you doing in here, man? Didn’t I tell you to stay out front?” Alex Pareya didn’t care to be a babysitter, not for a fat, overstuffed fool like Tony Skuz. His dark complexion flushed an unsightly red.

  Tony Skuz coughed, dislodging a chunk of crabcake into his hand. “You almost killed me, you Dominican asshole.”

  Pareya glanced in disgust at the glob of partially consumed fish in Skuz’s hand. “Throw that away and get back outside!” he ordered.

  “What’s the rush? Most everyone’s here that’s supposed to be here. They’re supposed to feed us, aren’t they?”

  “No. Go wash up. I’ll cover the front door until you get back. Make it fast.”

  Pareya disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging doors. “Asshole!” Skuz reiterated. He cleaned his hand with a linen cocktail napkin, picked up a used champagne flute and swallowed its contents. “Kiss my big fat ass, you piece of garbage.”

  He strolled leisurely through the dining area, checking out the food and the cling of evening attire over the derrieres of the female attendees. He caught a scowl from an outraged husband before finding his way to the men’s room. Standing before the lavatory mirror, he patted his hair. It was still as hard as nails.

  A distinguished gray-haired gentleman stood alongside him, using the adjacent sink. Tony Skuz thought that he looked every bit as good as the man he shared the room with. He was younger too, which meant better. “They got some high-class snatch out there,” he offered.

  “You’re observant,” the elderly man replied.

  “Security,” Skuz replied haughtily.

  “Good, I’ll rest easy.” The older gent rolled his eyes before refocusing on himself in the mirror.

  ~~~

  Hilary Glenn slid into the seat next to Evan Wainright. “How are we doing, darling?”

  “Like taking candy from a baby,” Wainright cooed. His lower lip was still red and puffy.

  She continued to focus on her guests as she waved to a couple on the dance floor and discreetly placed her hand over Wainright’s fly. “I hope you’ve got a nice, large figure for me.”

  Wainright tensed reflexively. He couldn’t help turning toward her in bewilderment. “Hilary!”

  “How much?” she insisted. He could hear the teeth of his zipper tick open one by one.

  “My goddamn wife’s here,” he blustered past gritted teeth.

  “Relax. I just saw the good Mrs. Wainright in the ladies’ room. How much?” Her hand was inside now, stroking him deftly.

  “Three hundred sixty-four thousand,” he whispered. “I’ve still got half the crowd to work.” His eyes darted nervously around the room.

  Glenn’s eyes widened. She looked at Wainright gleefully as she withdrew her hand, leaned over, and whispered in his ear, “Before you leave tonight, I’m going to give you the blowjob of the century.” She winked and then stood abruptly. “What did Stuart Isaacs shuck out?”

  “Nothing yet,” he replied.

  “I’ll go work him over.” She waved at NASDAQ’s Vice Chairman and discreetly adjusted her cleavage. “We’ll see if this really is a Miracle Bra. Don’t forget to zip,” she reminded him.

  Wainright was doing so when the terror of a gun blast tore through the room. His heart knocked against his chest. Women shrieked. A few alert men hit the floor and pulled their companions down alongside them. A few seconds passed in which nothing but horrifying silence transpired. He could hear the seconds ticking in his ears, waiting, waiting . . .

  Alex Pareya’s last steps as a living being were toward the center of the restaurant. Staggering, he made it to the dance floor. The sta
in of fresh blood had spread across his white tuxedo shirt. He reared and collapsed face first onto the wooden floor. The air exploded with a hundred shrill screams and then fell silent.

  Tony Scosdolocus tensed with nervousness. He listened at the men’s room door as the inner room erupted in hysteria. He grabbed at his ankle, tearing his slacks as he gained his Browning 9mm. He heard the hysteria die down, opened the door fractionally and peered out. The street bum he had encountered on the way into the supper club was standing twelve feet away with his back to him. Alice Tate was standing just in front of the bum. Skuz recognized her immediately, the cut of her gown from the rear, her long leg, cast askew from the gown’s thigh-high slit. The fuckin’ bum? he said to himself. He remembered Alex Pareya’s instructions about not using his gun. I don’t need the Browning to toss this crud. He holstered the 9mm.

  “Hey! I thought I told you—” Tony Skuz grabbed the vagrant’s shoulder and spun him around. The muzzle of the MAC-10 jabbed him sharply in the belly as it discharged twelve rounds, tearing his torso to shreds and punching him forcefully back into the wall.

  Zachary Clovin spun back around in an instant, his eyes flashed maniacally, the muzzle of the assault rifle smoked in his hands. Alice Tate was now unwanted baggage. He pushed her away and fired a short burst into her back. She staggered, twitched, and collapsed. He glared at everyone in the room; motionless, petrified people. The weeping was music to his ears. “Three dead, I don’t know . . . fifty to go?” He began firing singles around the room. The first shot caught a waiter in the face, the next punctured Stuart Isaacs’s right ventricle, killing him instantly.

  Clovin fired a burst at the ceiling, cutting the chain that secured a massive chandelier. It plummeted twenty feet to the floor, pinning Evan Wainright’s leg beneath it. “Fucking ouch!” Clovin confronted Wainright and stood over the cowering politician. Wainright’s wife defied fear and ran to her husband’s side. “He’s been a bad boy. The boss has been sucking his dick.” Celia Wainright stared at Clovin in fright and disbelief. He put the MAC-10 to Wainright’s temple and squeezed the trigger. Her husband’s skull exploded, covering her with his blood and brain tissue. “Judge, jury, and exe-fucking-cutioner.” Celia Wainright blacked out and rolled over the body of her decapitated husband.

  The next burst sprayed bullets across the room. A wall-length mirror shattered. A million glass shards rained down, halting Hilary Glenn in her tracks. “How long do I have to wait for my dinner, bitch? You weren’t even sincere about that, were you?” He approached her as if he were stalking prey, grabbed her by her dress and pinned her up against the wall. “I can be a gracious host too.” He put the muzzle of the MAC-10 to her lips. “Getting excited? It’s big, black, and hard.”

  Hilary Glenn’s face was a portrait of terror. She saw her own terrified reflection in Clovin’s eyes. She’d remember it forever.

  “Are you ready for it, Hilary? Here it comes.” Clovin brought the weapon up to eye level.

  “Jesus Christ.” Glenn shuddered.

  “Ba-boom!” Clovin thundered, simulating the explosion of a MAC-10 blast. The blood drained from Glenn’s face and her eyes began to roll up into her head, but the back of Clovin’s hand brought her back. “Not until I tell you,” he snarled. Then he reversed the MAC-10 and brought the butt crashing down on her head.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Twain continued to be the target of idle curiosity as he raced through Yeager Airport. He had become accustomed to the uninvited stares, had hardened himself against them over the years. He tugged his cell phone from his pocket and tried Chalice once again. He heard the phone ring four times and then the switching signal as his call was once again transferred to voicemail. He had left two messages already. There was little point in leaving a third. Each breathless and frantic message had instructed her to call back as soon as humanly possible. As if that wasn’t enough, he had added, “This is urgent,” at the end of each one.

  Blast! Where is she? he wondered. The pieces were still falling into place. He had learned so much in so little time. He turned the corner and headed full speed toward the departure gate. He had so much to tell her. He couldn’t wait to get her on the phone.

  The last flight back to New York was about to leave. “Wheels up at 10:05 sharp!” he had been told when he booked the tickets over the phone. He glanced at his watch. 10:06. “Blast!” The departure gate was in sight now. He could see the illuminated boarding gate number, but nothing else. His view of the gate area was obscured by the congestion of humanity, travelers intent on their own arrangements. He hoped that the airline’s claim for promptness was grossly exaggerated.

  Desperation swept across his face as he came upon the gate. The airline attendant was sealing the jetway door. “No! Please wait,” Twain called out frantically. The attendant’s eyes widened at the sight of him approaching. He was expecting an argument, but much to his surprise, the attendant tugged a ring of keys from her pants pocket and proceeded to unlock the door.

  “The two of you just made it,” the attendant stated in a reassuring voice. She was a pleasant senior with silvery-blue hair. Her nameplate read Clara. “The flight was delayed a few minutes because of bad weather between here and New York.” She extended her hand and took the tickets from Twain. “It’s your lucky day. We’re pretty prompt, you know.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Twain was panting through his bandana. The heat and moisture on his face felt like he had just run through the Yucatán jungle at the height of the summer rainy season.

  “You must have run a long way.” Clara tore the boarding passes along the perforation and handed them back to Twain. His cell phone rang. “You’ll have to turn that off,” she told him. “There are phones onboard.”

  “This won’t be but a moment,” Twain said, turning away from her.

  “I can’t hold the flight any longer, Sir. Please go aboard.”

  “Sorry.” Twain looked at her apologetically and answered the phone. “Hello.”

  “Nigel, it’s Detective Chalice. What the hell is going on? Are you all right?”

  Twain could feel the extent of the concern in her voice. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Where are you?” He was thrilled to hear her voice and wanted to tell her everything he had learned, but not over the phone, not news like this. He couldn’t. As a trained psychiatrist of many years, Twain knew that this kind of information was best presented face to face. Even then, he knew, Chalice’s reaction would not be good. Of all the things he knew about Stephanie Chalice, this would hurt her the most.

  “I’m at the station house. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Hillary Glenn has been abducted.”

  “Please board the plane,” Clara insisted. She was growing visibly upset. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  “Stephanie, I’m just boarding a plane at the moment. Don’t go anywhere,” he warned. “You’re in grave danger.”

  “From whom?”

  “I’ll call back the minute we’re airborne. Please, promise me that you’ll stay exactly where you are until you hear back from me.”

  “Call me right back.”

  “I will.” Twain ended the call. “Unavoidable,” he said, apologetically to the silver-haired matron. Under her watchful eye, he and his newly found companion boarded their flight to New York.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I got out of the police van with Mike Gluck, Bill Hanley, and Ed Holeran. Hanley had worked with my dad and had come up from the academy with him. Holeran was a former narcotics detective who had transferred to homicide. He was no kid, but as savvy as they came. Gluck was a youngster like me, a six-foot-eight Jewish boy from Borough Park. He was bright, but too nice for his own good as far as I was concerned. I’d seen him play basketball at a PBA picnic. He had hands of stone and a pair of lead feet to match. Between sports and police work, he had definitely made the wiser choice going with the NYPD.

  They weren’t Lido, but they were good men, all three of them. Lido had been temporarily r
eassigned and had become the department’s liaison to the FBI in the investigation of Hilary Glenn’s kidnapping.

  I had spoken with Lido on the way over. It sounded like he and Ambler were becoming close. God only knew what the two of them were talking about. All right, we all know they were talking about me. I would have loved to be privy to their conversations; two investigators, each manipulating the other, trying to get the dirt on Stephanie Chalice without letting on to the other. The bullshit must have been incredible.

  My phone call to Lido had explained where I was and what I was doing. He and Ambler were sitting on pins and needles, waiting to hear what I had found.

  We’d used the unmarked and come up the block undetected using no lights nor sirens. Twain had told me little, except the man’s name. He said, “The man you’re looking for is Zachary Clovin. I’ll have a great deal to tell you when I get back.” He communicated that his plane was getting in late and that he had a lot of exciting news to tell me the next day. I’d pushed him to find out more, but the mysterious doctor insisted on telling me in person. The last thing he said was troubling, “Be careful, Stephanie. This man is looking for you. “

  Clovin lived in a walk-up on Sixty-third, between First and Second, a top-floor apartment facing the street. We left Gluck out front, knowing that if Clovin fell while fleeing down the fire escape, Gluck, with his hands of stone, would drop him. You can’t say we don’t think things through, even if it’s only for our own amusement.

  There was no sheet on Clovin, meaning that either he had turned homicidal late in life, or had never been caught. I was betting on the latter. We had his military records. Clovin had served a twenty-year hitch. He had been all over the world with the Army Corps of Engineers—eminent qualifications for a perp that had working knowledge of the Roosevelt Island tram and had rigged a passenger elevator.

  I pulled his military photograph from my pocket and studied it. There was something hauntingly familiar about Clovin, but try as I might, I couldn’t place him. The man’s face had perp written all over it. A flattop haircut wasn’t good enough for this guy. He was buzzed bald. Clovin had that hardened look, as if he had survived torture or something. Maniacal too: like some kind of failed laboratory experiment.