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

I love Gus. He's so good, so wonderful—so thoroughly
naïve.
"Ricky's psychiatrist?" I grimaced. "I don't think that'll be necessary." One raucous nightmare does not psychoanalysis make. Ricky's my older brother. The poor thing needs a lot of help—more on that later. And Dr. Twain, he too is the stuff a woman's fantasies are made of—much, much more to come on that one.

Gus smiled warmly and pressed his forehead against mine. "What in the world goes on in there?" he said, referring to my dreams, intensely vivid dreams he knew I had every night—dreams I was very private about.

"You know I'm a loon. I'll think about Twain." I always do. I stroked Lido's cheek. He had that three in the morning stubble going—there's nothing quite like it to stoke old Stephanie's fire. "Come here, you." The touch of his lips chased the bat from my belfry. He rolled over on top of me. My hands began to search and explore. Gus did a little probing of his own.

Gus pushed away unexpectedly.

"Hey," I protested, "what was that for?"

"You gonna talk or not?"

My God, he looked completely serious. I tried pulling him back down, but my leverage was poor. "Come on," I moaned. "You're such a cop—can't you interrogate me later?"

"How about if I don't give you any?"

Now that's a twist. I mean I like a man with chutzpah, but there are certain things that are just not done. Personally, I draw the line at withholding
sex.
"I promise I'll tell you the whole story the minute we're finished." Can you imagine a man saying no, anyway? I mean please.

"I'm going to hold you to that," Lido said emphatically.

I grabbed Lido's hand and placed it on my breast. That got a rise out of him, a measurable one. I could see the wall of resistance come tumbling down. He smiled and began kissing my neck. "Oh yeah," I moaned softly. That's it, Bruce—I mean Gus. That's
purr-fect
. Good, now I had him just where I wanted him. Lido's the
Heinz
Ketchup of lovers—he's slow good. I'd have plenty of time to make up something to tell him, which shouldn't be hard for someone, to whom fantasies were no stranger.

I closed my eyes and surrendered to my lover, hoping that Alfred and Dick Grayson were long asleep and that all was quiet in Wayne manor.

I've learned to adore my dreams. It's like going to the movies every night. I feel sorry for those people who can't remember their nocturnal adventures. For me, it's an endless stream of entertainment. At the same time, however, I knew that there had always been a strong correlation between my dreaming and crime—the
more
vivid the dreams, the closer I was to another extraordinary case. The last time I had an episode of this magnitude I discovered my deepest, darkest family secret and took on a mass murdering psychopath. Based on the dramatic quality of this evening's adventure, my next case was going to be a doozie.

Buckle up, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

"Wake up, Gus. We've got to get out of here."

I rubbed Lido's shoulder. He was sound asleep, dead to the world. He had missed the call from the boss, sawing logs while I showered and dressed. He looked like a little boy as he threw back the covers and trudged off to the bathroom scratching his butt. He was a ten-minute man in the morning, the kind that threw his clothes on, dripping wet from the shower and looked amazing.

"Dry your hair," I insisted. "You'll catch—"

"A cold? You don't believe that old wives' tale, do you? I'll be warm enough in the car. Where to?"

"Dry your friggin' hair. It's like twenty degrees this morning."

Lido toweled off quickly and dragged a comb through his hair. Damn it, but he was handsome—no fuss, no muss, just clean and simple gorgeous. We were out the door in a flash.

I read the address off my memo pad. Lido pulled from the curb and we were off.

"Shit it's cold out," he said.

"I thought you said you'd be warm in the car."

"Hey come on, can you cut me a break? It's freezing, with the wind chill, it must be—"

"Please, you know how I hate that wind chill crap. It's some BS the meteorologists came up with to sensationalize the weather broadcast. Ever notice how they tease you at the top of the hour? 'Is a blizzard headed our way? How cold will it get?' Then you wait sixty-minutes to find out that it's going to be fair and mild—I hate that. Thank God for The Weather Channel. All I want to know is if it's going to be hot or cold, wet or dry. I don't need to know about the stupid Doppler. I don't care if the pressure is high or low or if a front is moving in."

"Okay, okay,
screw the wind chill. Thanks for making me dry my hair." Lido winked at me. It took the wind out of my sails. It was such a sexy wink. He patted me on the leg. "Baby, you've got issues."

He wasn't kidding about the issues. The weather peeve was just the tiniest little tip of the iceberg. "You're welcome." I didn't say another word the rest of the trip. I logged into the police mainframe and pulled the sheet on
Gilberto
Diaz.

Diaz had been the superintendent in an eight-story apartment house on the east side—now he was a corpse.

The building's exterior read 'rent control' all over it: modest, clean, no frills. There weren't many of them left, most knocked down for high dollar co-ops. Manhattan real estate started at a thousand dollars a square foot and skyrocketed from there. Lido still had a place of his own, but bunked in with me most of the time. We weren't sharing the rent, but he kicked in on a variety of expenses. The spare change improved the quality of my life. I had a starter collection of Jimmy
Choos
and a few pairs of
Blahniks
. The truth be told, it was Lido that was making it all worthwhile. I'd live in a cold-water hovel if that's what it took to be with him. I do love my shoes, though.

The crime scene investigator was already on site. He was a regular—a wiry Jamaican named Tully.

"What've we got, my man?" I said, imitating his Jamaican accent.

Tully seemed glad to see me. "
Chal-lee-see
, you caught this case?" That was close to the correct pronunciation of my name. Rolling off Tully's Jamaican tongue made it sound like a Christmas carol. I'm of Italian decent, daughter of Frank Chalice, a former NYPD detective—duty bound and loving it.

Tully was the happy go lucky type. Somehow the impact of grizzly crime scenes never seemed to get him down. I attribute that to his wonderful spirit, that and an endless appetite for pot. I pretended to sniff his shirt. "You smell like a ganja factory."

Tully grinned and put his finger up to his lips. "Shush." He looked around to see if anyone else was in earshot—just Lido, grinning at my remark. Tully blushed. "Same old
Cha-lee-see
."

The boys shook hands.

Diaz was lying on the floor by the window.

"I had to move him," Tully said. "He was lying against the radiator, getting crispy."

I snapped on a pair of gloves and kneeled to inspect the body. There was a small, blood stained hole in Diaz' sweatshirt—middle of the chest. "One bullet?"

"Mon,
dat's
all it takes," Tully replied. "Hit the bull's eye."

"
What'ya
think went down?"

Tully motioned toward the kitchen table, upon which rested a small lock box. "Have a look,
mon."

"Sure thing,
mon."
I smiled at Tully and walked over to the table. It was the box that Diaz had used to store a gun. It contained rags, a cleaning rod, and solvent. I didn't have to examine the bottle to know—the odor of the solvent was still strong on the rags. I turned back to Tully. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Somebody killed him with his own gun," Tully said. "No question,
mon."

"Find the slug?" Lido asked.

"No exit wound," Tully replied. "It's still inside."

"He was having a drink with a friend, someone he thought of as a friend anyway. No sign of a struggle," I said.

"No, no struggle," Lido said.

"A gun will sometimes preempt one. Who found the body?"

Tully tapped the window. An elderly man was sitting outside on the front steps, shivering, looking like a lost soul.

"Who's that?"

"Isadore Roth, the landlord," Tully said. "I told him he could wait in here, but he didn't want to."

"I'll go get him," Lido said. "The man looks shaken." Lido buttoned his jacket and left the apartment.

"What do we know about the victim?" Tully asked.

Pulled his sheet on the way over. "Did some time, armed robbery, about ten years ago—clean ever since."

"Unlicensed gun,
mon,
maybe he wasn't as clean as we think."

"Maybe, but most hoods don't keep their pieces in a lock box. Could have been an insurance policy—you never quite sleep the same after you've done time."

"Always an eye open, huh,
Chal-lee-see
."

I looked down at Diaz' body. His once tan Latino skin was now a grayish white, the color of skim milk. God, I hate skim milk. It has that putrid color and taste. The only thing worse is soymilk—now what's that all about? Diaz seemed to be resting. I had the sense his life had always been a struggle. "Exactly so, my man. Exactly so."

I'm
a big
proponent of gun
control,
but an illegal gun doesn't mean diddly unless you use it. "How long?"

"Twenty-four hours give or take—full rigor. The landlord found him about 6:00 AM.
Anyting
else,
Chal-lee-see
."

"No, my man, thanks." Tully went back to inspecting the crime scene.

Lido returned with Isadore Roth. The man looked ill, frozen from the cold, horrified from finding
Gilberto
Diaz dead. What a morning.

"Mr. Roth, I'm Detective Chalice. Why don't we sit down?"

Roth nodded but didn't reply with spoken word. He followed me to a small sofa and sat down. The sofa was worn plaid, stained; something one of the tenants had thrown out. Lido took the chair opposite us.

"Terrible day," Roth said. "Terrible."

"Yes, terrible," I concurred. "I understand you found the body early this morning."

"Please, he had a name.
Gilberto,
call him
Gilberto."
Roth was still wearing his gloves. He took them off and pushed up his sleeve until black tattooed numbers were visible on his arm. "He was a good fellow. He deserves respect."

"You're a survivor," I said. A survivor: the common universal phrase that immediately identified any individual that had survived the nightmare of a Hitler concentration camp.

"Dachau," Roth replied solemnly. "Mine wife and daughter died at Bergen-Belsen. Names, please—bodies, numbers, a man lived...he died. He had a name. He's entitled to that much, no?"

It was the job, of course. I had come to think of the dead in generic terms: the deceased, the victim, the remains...the body. I had not meant to hurt Isadore Roth with my callousness or trifle the existence of a man that had died before his time. He was right,
Gilberto
Diaz was dead, but he deserved to be remembered. It was the least I could do. "My apology, Mr. Roth. I understand you found Gilberto's body when you arrived early this morning."

"Yeah, I'm an old man, I don't sleep. I come by every Friday to give him his pay." Roth reached inside his coat and pulled out an envelope. "Who do I give this to now?" Roth looked forlorn, lost.

Lido and I turned to each other. Lido shrugged.

"Did you know his immediate family, Mr. Roth? Perhaps—"

"I don't know her.
Gilberto
had a sister but I never met her." He tried to hand me the envelope. "Please, see that she gets this. Isadore Roth is a man that honors his obligations."

I pushed the envelope back into his hands. "We'll get her name and address for you, Mr. Roth. You can give it to her yourself."

"Please, find out," he said. "You won't forget?"

"I'll get you the information right away."

"It's the right thing to do, no?"

"Of course."

"How long did
Gilberto
work for you?"

Roth thought for a moment and then he looked up when he remembered. "I recall exactly. It will be four years this coming April."

"You never had any problems with him?"

"No, I told you, he was a good fellow. He worked hard. He kept the building clean. He was polite, honest."

I didn't want to ask the next question, but I knew I had to. "Mr. Roth, did you know that
Gilberto
had a criminal record?"

"Criminal, what's criminal?" Roth scolded. "He was a boy. What, you never made a mistake?" He turned to Lido. "You?"

"I'm just asking. So, he told you?"

"Sure, he told me. Not at first, but soon afterward. He was very honest. He had a conscience."

"Anyone you can think of that might want to do
Gilberto
harm?"

Roth shook his head. "No one, all the tenants liked him."

"Did you know that he owned a gun?" Lido asked.

"Yes, he wanted to make sure it was okay to have in the apartment. 'Just in case,' he said."

In case of what? Why exactly did
Gilberto
Diaz need the protection and security of a gun? Was it an old prison ghost that had come back to haunt him? A debt unpaid, old trouble that refused to go away? Or did it simply help him sleep better at night? I wondered if we'd ever find out.

The tattoo was still exposed on Isadore Roth's forearm. I decided then and there that those who knew and loved
Gilberto
Diaz deserved to know what had become of him. I would not allow him to be remembered as a case number, a file that had gone unsolved. Diaz had survived the streets and the joint and had come up standing tall, someone Isadore Roth had called 'a good fellow.' He was holding down a job and surviving in the toughest city on earth, a city that had kicked many an
ass.
He was having drinks with a so-called friend, a friend that had taken his life simply because Diaz owned a gun. It was that simple sometimes—you have it, I need it—it was yours, now it's mine. It was something I just would not have. If Diaz had kept a gun to feel secure and to help him sleep through the night, he had indeed gotten more than he had bargained for.