Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (11 page)

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.

It's easy to spot law enforcement officers in Washington Heights. They're the ones without the doo rags. A kid on 124
^th
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.

The sign that hung above the entrance to Rousseau Brothers Garage appeared to be the original. The hand painted sign was badly weathered. The words Established 1968 were barely discernible in the upper right hand corner. There was an entrance through the front office, which was unoccupied. I navigated my way through the company's offices until I found the door leading to the garage, the door that stood between Lido and me. I paused before opening it, to gather my courage.

The
CSI
boys were crawling over the truck, checking for fingerprints, fibers and what have you. I'd seen a hundred of them over the years and never really stopped to take note—
Cintas
trucks were white with the company name painted on the side in blue lettering. I didn't notice Lido until he was alongside me. He had come from behind me, holding his notepad, making notes.

"I missed you," I said. There was little use beating around the bush. I was heartbroken. Do I love him? I'd asked myself the question a dozen times since leaving FBI headquarters that morning. I wanted to say yes, but I wasn't sure. I felt deeply about Gus. He had become the most important part of my life over the course of our six-month relationship. I couldn't imagine being without him. More to the point, I couldn't see myself with anyone but him. But was that love? I wanted to be able to answer yes. I wanted it to come from me freely and without hesitation—an automatic response. Do I love Gus Lido? Yes! I wanted it to emerge spontaneously from my heart and yet it didn't. The relationship with Gus was the first meaningful experience I'd had with a man in a long while. I didn't want to label it love until I was absolutely sure. Would I know love when I had it? I guess it was time to turn to Ma for a little mother daughter Q and A.

"I missed you too," he said.

"We need to talk."

"Yes we do...but not now, not today. I need to think about us."

"Why can't we do our thinking together?"

Lido answered with a glance. He needed space. He needed to heal. I understood that. I know that he needed to be whole before we could be whole. When my father died, part of me was afraid to be alone and yet there were times when I couldn't stand to be around anybody. "Will you be staying over tonight?" Lido had practically moved in, but he was still paying rent on his own place. He still had a three-month supply of dirty laundry there, which he was bringing over one sack at a time. By the time we got all his clothes clean, I'd need a bigger apartment.

Lido had a sad pout on his face.

"I'm sorry I hurt you, Gus. You know it was just a dream."

"Your dreams always lead to more."

Gus was right. Somehow my dreams always managed to manifest themselves in our day-to-day lives. "Not this time," I said. "I'll give you a little space. Not too much, just a little. Now talk to me about the case, okay?" I needed to switch gears. I didn't want the others to see Titanium Chalice morose, forcing back tears. "C'mon let's find Manny—together."

"The garage is unmanned in the evening—anyone with the keypad combination can get in or out between 6:00 PM and 8:00 AM."

"So our perps let themselves in, dumped the truck and took off." I thought about the kid that watched me arrive. I was sure a streetwise kid like that knew lots of neighborhood secrets, including the keypad combination. I wondered if he saw the truck arrive.

"Correct."

"Fingerprints on the key pad?"

"Lots—too many to be meaningful."

"And on the truck?"

"Yes, but I doubt they belong to our perp—the steering wheel and door handles have been wiped clean.

"Security cameras?"

"The tape was taken out of the machine."

"Geez. Anything to go on?"

"Oh yes."

"Thank God." I was just about to ask about our big lead when a man hopped out of the rear of the truck. He was not NYPD or FBI. He bore the largest, misshapen ear God had ever pinned on a man. In fact, color notwithstanding, it looked like he had scrambled eggs stuck to the side of his head. "Is that Davis Mack?"

Lido nodded. "He found the truck," Lido whispered, "Feels responsible for the boy's abduction."

"That's ridiculous."

"Ridiculous means different things to different people. To him, it's anything but ridiculous—been covering ground like a maniac. He grew up on the mean streets, knows every chop shop between here and
Bed-Stuy
."

"Why's he in the truck, someone assign him to the
CSI
detail?"

"He was inside the truck when I got here. He's been keeping out of the way so I figured there was no harm. It's like the man lost his own son. He can't pull himself away from—"

Davis Mack strode toward us. Lido broke off in mid sentence, prolonging my wait for an answer. His gait was unusual, yet not so different that I'd never seen it before. He sort of pitched back and forth from the waist up as he walked, as if his torso was a cantilever attached to his hips.

"You seen it?" Mack said. "You seen the drops of blood? The motherfuckers are playing us." He was focusing on Lido, seething with anger. "I'll rip their fucking heads off if they hurt him."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," I said. "Take it easy, big fella." I extended my hand. Mack looked at it. He looked me up and down, but didn't shake hands, not immediately anyway.

"You on the job?" he asked suspiciously.