Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (24 page)

She was the student today, in glasses and a baseball cap. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail that extended through the sizing space at the back of the cap. She was wearing jeans and a trendy nylon jacket that she had fleeced from The Gap. The cell phone that dangled from her shoulder bag was switched off.

Moira
noticed a male college student sitting down the bench from her. He was attending New York University—at least the emblem on his nylon briefcase said so. The briefcase was sitting on his lap with the emblem prominently on display—a status symbol, not unlike the crocodile on
a Lacoste
polo shirt. He was stealing peeks at her, surreptitious glances.
Moira
sized him up immediately, assessing from his curly brown hair and rounded nose that he was not exactly a hottie, but more of a bookworm who would give his left nut for a date with a hot girl.

Her instinct was to toy with him, lead him on a little bit, perhaps throw him a mercy fuck if there was enough about him to turn her on. Of course she'd steal his identity and score a major purchase on his credit card before he knew what happened. It was so much more exciting than just asking for cash—being a thief was ever so much cooler than being called a whore.

There would be no games today, not with a fortune sitting in her backpack. It was past rush hour and the subway's population had changed from commuters to locals, students, working class poor who couldn't afford to take a cab, and worse, the street crowd, some innocent, some not. They could do her a world of hurt. She'd been pistol whipped before and was not anxious to repeat the experience. She could have taken a cab from Flatbush, but she knew that cab rides can be traced. The police would surely think to check the pickups from the railroad stations. The subway seemed a better choice. But sitting there she had become nervous. There was a gun in her pocket for protection, a gun she couldn't use in front of a subway car full of witnesses. It was there only if her survival depended on it, if there was no other way out.

They were between stations when the connecting doors at the far end slid open and trouble walked in from the adjoining car. Moira's heart rate quickened and the grip around her gun tightened. She knew his kind at first glance, a crackhead, desperate, aching for a hit, the type that would do anything, the kind whose world had fallen apart, shattered by the rock. She had been in that position herself—nothing to lose.

He looked about twenty. He was wearing rags and his stench hit her the moment he came through the door. She picked up on his twitching leg and the way he clawed at his neck to stifle the itch that would never go away. He looked up and down the subway car with his red, watery eyes, scratching and twitching. He needed it bad and was not getting off the subway without someone's wallet.

The NYU student had yet to become alarmed.

Moira
made the first move. She slid next to him on the bench, giving the appearance that they were a couple. Safety in numbers, she thought.

He turned immediately, his eyes meeting hers, hopeful.

"Please don't ask me to move," she whispered. She glanced at the addict. "I don't like the look of him. Please."

The NYU student glanced up in an attempt to determine whether the man she had brought to his attention was truly a threat. He took a moment too long to make the determination.

Moira
put her hand on his, drawing him back into her spell. "Please," she said, making an
impassioned
plea. "My name is Helen, Helen Gillette." She didn't so much as flinch as she made the name her own. Her eyes were soft and vulnerable.

"I'm Eric," he replied.

Moira
smiled sweetly and rested her head on his shoulder. "Thank you."

"He won't bother us," Eric said.

Moira
nuzzled him gently, caressing the hollow of his neck. "I hope not. I was attacked once."

"It'll be alright."

"You're nice," she said, as she vigilantly monitored the crackhead's position and attitude. "You go to NYU?"

"Uh
huh, school of dramatic arts."

"You're gonna be an actor."

Eric shrugged as the train pulled into the next station. "A director if I'm lucky."

"That's way cool."

Moira
checked the station stop. Two stops to go. She wouldn't have to keep the act up much longer. The crackhead had yet to make a move. She hoped he would get off before she did. "I'm starting at Columbia in January," she said.

Eric nodded. "Columbia, that's impressive."

"I'm new in town, looking for an apartment. Maybe you'll give me your phone number."

"Sure."

Moira
tensed as two of New York's finest stepped aboard. They showed only mild interest in the crackhead but their presence put an end to his plans. They stayed on and the crackhead jumped off at the next stop.

One to go.
Moira
took a pen out of her bag and handed it to Eric. "I get off at the next stop."

Eric smiled and took the pen. He fished in his pocket for a scrap of paper.

Moira
eyed the cops. Assholes! She had no use for them now that they had served their purpose.

Eric handed over his information just as the train pulled into Moira's stop. She kissed him sweetly on the cheek, one final touch in a flawless performance. "Is this really your number?" God, she was good.

Eric nodded. "Yes."

"It's okay if I call?"

Eric nodded again.

Moira
waved as she got off the train. She felt as if she was capable of anything.

Her apartment was a short distance from the subway entrance. She walked quickly through the rain, disappearing up the steps to her apartment building. She was growing giddy with anticipation, hoping Daniel was waiting for her naked.

A few minutes passed before another pair of policemen came up the subway stairs. They spoke for a moment, debating
Quiznos
or
McDonalds
for their dinner break. They barely noticed the homeless man approaching them, carrying a black trash bag.

"Can I help you?" One of them said.

The homeless man opened the garbage bag so that the policemen could see the expensive leather bag inside. He handed one of them a business card.

"What's this?" the cop said, looking over the card.

"Call now," the man said. "Call right now."

He turned and began walking down the street.

"Hey, what's this about?"

The man didn't look back. He disappeared into the shadows halfway down the block.

The policemen looked at one another and shrugged. Then one reached for his cell phone and made the call.

I couldn't stop myself from jabbing my finger at Ambler's PDA. I was just plain frustrated. We came out of the Queens Midtown Tunnel and emerged into the darkness of New York City. It was still raining, a cold and dreary night. The red indicator on the PDA never flashed, not even once, so much for technology.

We turned onto Second Avenue and headed downtown. Someone had vandalized one of Thorne's ad posters, which adorned a bus stop. This one featured Tyra Banks. An adolescent male, at least I was guessing an adolescent male, had drawn thick black arrows pointing at Tyra's head and chest, to wit he had insightfully scribed: Nice hair. Nice pair. I'm feeling very T/horny. Why beat around the bush? It was an accurate commentary about the emotion the ad was meant to elicit—you couldn't blame someone for saying it. I pointed to the poster as we waited for traffic to clear in front of us. "Wait 'til she hears."

Lido glanced at the poster. “Thorne? You tell her.” Lido was no coward, but I knew exactly how he felt. In this case, no one wanted to be the bearer of bad news.

We were headed to the crime lab in an attempt to resuscitate Carl's phone—alas poor Carl would not be as fortunate. Perhaps there, stored in the memory of his phone, was the name and phone number of Manny's kidnappers.

God, I was aching for a break. I couldn't for the life of me figure out how the money had disappeared. It was there one minute and gone the next. Yes, there had been some sleight of hand, smoke and mirrors or more accurately put, cinderblock and plaster dust—someone had obviously raced by and snatched the cash while I was dodging the van and the crumbling wall. Be that as it may, I saw no one, nothing, not a flash of light streaking by, not so much as a peripheral glimpse of anything—go figure.

But gone it was.

As you may have noticed, I have real trouble dealing with failure. Forget about breaking the news to Thorne. Hi
Celia,
Manny and the money, they're both gone—better luck next time. Manny was still in the hands of his captors, lowlifes that attached no value to human life. They saw Manny as a meal ticket and nothing more—they'd lose him the moment they realized they could do it without him and from where I stood, that wouldn't take very long. It would be so much easier with him out of the picture. They wouldn't have to hide, feed, or care for him. All they needed to do was disappear. The woman that had acted in Manny's abduction had already proven herself an able chameleon. She had impersonated Helen Gillette at the hospital. Ernie, the Washington Heights street kid, said that she was dressed punk, or Goth. Finally, the report we had gotten from the bartender and waiter at the Red Bird Grill described her as a chic blonde. It set my mind to working. What did she look like today and more importantly, what would she look like tomorrow? Was she the one that had taken a shot at me in the basement of The Cove? I was still jabbing at the PDA. Almost put my finger through the screen.

My head began to throb. I'd already wiped off the heavy face makeup I had been burdened with all day. I reached back and took the pin out of my hair.

"You alright?" Lido asked.

"Just getting comfortable. I think better when I'm not trussed and tied up like a barbecued chicken." Lido's eyes were fully off the road as I yanked off my sweater and loosened the
Velcro
on the bulletproof vest. Yes, I was hanging out everywhere. I reached behind me and unfastened that tourniquet of a brassiere I was wearing. "Remind me to burn this," I said as I stuffed it into my pocket. "It's good to breathe again."

"No complaints," Lido chuckled.

I turned to him and gave him the Angelina
Jolie
lips and looked at him as if I could eat him alive. My body temperature rose, the car swerved, and my mind raced ahead, desperate to find an opportunity where we could steal a few minutes to have at each other...but I digress.

The phone rang as I was slipping my sweater back on. It was Ambler. "Speak to me, Herbert, your tracker
Q-logger-thigamajigiggie
came up empty—zero blips and I'm feeling like I need to hurt someone." I couldn't prevent the corners of my mouth from rising. I was thinking about Lido again. Jesus, we were going to have one hell of a good time when we finally got together and yes, maybe I'd hurt him a little, but I'd do it in a really good way.

"Mighty Joe Young cracked like an egg," he said.

"Really?"

"Yes, ma'am. Federal judge is preparing a warrant as we speak."

"What'd you say to him?"

"Nothing extraordinary," Ambler reported. "I jabbed him in his wounded shoulder and said, 'Don't like penetration? Wait until you see how the wildlife treats kidnappers in the joint.' That's all it took. I guess he's a homophobe."

"He's Greek."

"You're nuts, Chalice."

Am I? "Way to go, G-man. We're on our way to the crime lab. Carl's cell phone fell out of the van when they pried off the driver's door. Battery's dead—maybe we'll score the kidnapper's contact number. How's the grid shaping up?"

"Slowly," Ambler said with anguish in his voice. "We're still working on it. But by the time...we're better off working the phone angle and interrogating Carl's cohorts at The Faith."

"Does Thorne know?"

"Can't dodge the bullet forever. I just told her."

"How'd that go?"

"Well, she's a tough old girl. I explained the sequence of events and mentioned that we were addressing new avenues to find Manny and apprehend the kidnappers. She wasn't happy but she didn't launch into hysterics either. She was concerned about you though."

"Me?"

"Yeah, she wanted to make sure you weren't hurt."

"Aw, how sweet."

"Gives you a pang, doesn't it?"

Well not exactly a pang but it is nice to be cared about. Despite her tough veneer, I knew
Celia
Thorne to be a goodhearted person. She just didn't want anyone to know it. It was kind of like that for me when I first joined the force. I had to exude impenetrability in order to be taken seriously—those boys in blue just don't know how to take no for an answer. "So what's the ETA on our warrant?"

"Within the hour."

Lido was listening to my side of the conversation. He too wanted to know how long it would take. "How long?"

"Within the hour," I repeated.

Lido responded with, "Cool beans. We can do our thing at the crime lab and rendezvous with Ambler in time to question The Faith."

"Sounds like our boy's chomping at the bit," Ambler said.

"We all are. I'd like to see this end today."

"Yeah right, make a wish," Ambler said.

A second call rang on my cell. "Hold on, Herbert, I have another call coming in." I put Ambler on hold and picked up the second line. "Detective Chalice."

"Detective, this is patrolman John Riker."

"What's up, patrolman?"

"I'm standing at the number one train subway entrance on the corner of 116
^th
Street and Broadway. A homeless guy just handed me one of those fancy Louis Vuitton bags and your business card. He told me to call you right away."

What was it Ambler had just said? Make a wish? I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "The homeless guy still with you?"

"No, he disappeared up the block."

"You didn't keep an eye on him?" My tone was less than cordial.

"The hell is going on?" Lido asked.