Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (20 page)

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.

"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 difficult 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.

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.

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?"