Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (6 page)

Lido and I nodded at the same time.

"Well, something strange began about a year ago. Are you familiar with the term hypergraphia?"

Lido and I shook our heads.

"It's a psychological term for a person who writes continuously, constantly recording information, thoughts, and what have you—it's a form of obsessive compulsive behavior."

God bless the world of psychology—it felt the need to label everything. I wonder if they had a name for that—the need to describe and catalogue every single aspect of the human condition. Maybe they don't have anything better to do.

"That was shortly after his last birthday, at which time Manny began scrawling constantly on large pieces of paper with crayon. At first, his tutor thought that he was spewing out gibberish—his penmanship was poor and his words made no sense—but then he realized that Manny was writing out cohesive thoughts. Moreover, he was writing them in French."

French, did he say French? "Come on, Ambler, this is a hoax, right?" Is this 'Candid Camera'? Is Allen Funt waiting in the next room?

"French, Detective Chalice, the boy writes in French. He does so without ever having had any instruction in writing. He writes in French—nonstop." Ambler glared at me. "Believe it or not."

Lido looked at me and shrugged. We were both flabbergasted.

Ambler finally opened the artist's portfolio and removed a large piece of paper. He laid it down on the conference table. Sure enough, four lines of script were scrawled in crayon. Admittedly, the handwriting was poor, but there was no disputing that the language was French. I remember a little of it from high school,
Bonjour,
Jean.
Ou
est la biblioteque?
—kind of like that. "Incredible."

"Are either of you familiar with the term 'quatrain'?" Ambler turned from Lido to me, hoping for an answer.

Quatrain, quatrain, now why did that sound familiar? My first instinct was to say that I didn't know it, that it only sounded like something I had heard, but it gnawed at me and I wouldn't give up. I searched my college brain for one of those so called nuggets I had stored away. Not because I thought it would be useful, but because it sounded interesting. Quatrain, quatrain? Ambler was staring at me. I guess he could see the wheels turning. And then I found it, tucked away on the deepest, dustiest shelf—I could see the heading on the blackboard in my old philosophy class, 'The Form of the Prophet,' white chalk on a green slate. 'Quatrain, a four line verse.' I read the words written in crayon before me, the words written by an autistic teenage boy.

Le
lion
jeune le vieux surmontera,

En champ bellique par singulier duelle:

Dans caige d'or les yeux lui crevera,

Deux classes une, puis mourir, mort cruelle.

The translation
came back to
me.
It was
a
prophecy, foretelling the tragic death of King Henry II, a prophecy that more or less had come true.

The young lion will overcome the older one,

In a field of combat in single fight:

He will pierce his eyes in their golden cage;

Two wounds in one, then he dies a cruel death.

It was sixteenth century verse, used by the most studied prophet of all time.

Ambler must've sensed that I had it. I opened my mouth to speak, but he was already letting it out. "Manuel Nazzare," he said, "is the last living
descendent
of Michel
de
Nostradame…. Nostradamus."

Helen Gillette's employment application had just come over the fax from New York University Medical Center's HR department. It detailed her experience and education, but more importantly, it gave us her current address. We were on that like a politician on an uncommitted voter.

Lido, Ambler, and I jumped into the car and took off, full tilt, lights and sirens all the way—warrant in hand. I knew there was little chance of finding Helen Gillette at home, waiting patiently to entertain us, muffins fresh from the oven, tea set out on the cozy. I did hope, however, that the address was real and that we'd find evidence of value during our search. I was praying we hadn't troubled a Federal judge for a warrant that yielded absolutely nothing.

Lido gunned the accelerator, propelling us up Broadway at frightening speed. I pulled out the faxed copy of Helen's employment application. The way Lido was driving, it was better to keep my eyes off the road. I just hoped he didn't bounce into any unmovable objects along the way, like a city sanitation truck or a Pakistani cabbie taking his fare for a ride—yes, that's exactly what I mean.

The Nostradamus thing was killing me. I knew what I heard but I refused to believe it. "So, Gus, you believe this thing about Nostradamus?"

"Get real."

"You mean no."

"That's right, no."

"No, you don't believe it?"

"That's what I said. Why, you believe it?"

"Not for a second."

So much for the dear departed prophet—no takers in this car.

Helen
Gillette
was
a
scant two weeks from her twenty-fourth birthday. She was born in Culver City, California, and had been living on the West Side for three years. I knew the location, the low rent district off Tenth Avenue, not far from the Jacob Javits Center. I had a picture of the block in my mind, rows of small tenement apartments and one more thing. "Quick, close the window," I shouted. Lots of the Hanson Carriages were garaged there—the street was lined with horse poop from one end to the other. What can I say...you get what you pay for.

Quickly out of the car, we tiptoed through the horsey plop as we raced onto the sidewalk and into the apartment house—we may be stout hearted, but horse shit is horse shit, and I for one wanted no part of it.

The lock on the lobby door was broken, the frame around the door splintered. It had been kicked in, but not recently. The exposed wood at the point of fracture was grime laden and dirty.

Helen's apartment was on the first floor, Apartment #1C, facing the rear. The area was overrun with streetwalkers and crackheads. I wondered if Helen Gillette had ever gotten a good night's sleep. Then again, who were we dealing with here? This, presumably, was a woman who had abducted a harmless teen, a boy incapable of protecting himself or understanding what, in fact, was happening to him. Who cared if she ever got a sound night's sleep—for my money she could be sleep deprived, running on vapor, ready to fall on her face.

Helen had invested in a good lock, but the door itself was flimsy. The mighty Herbert Ambler raised his stubby little leg and kicked the door like a ninja. It splintered—one quick ram of the shoulder and we were in.

Our guns were drawn as we went room to room clearing the apartment. It didn't take very long. The digs were modest—one bedroom, eat-in kitchen, living room, and the ever-necessary bathroom. As anticipated, Helen was long gone.

We rummaged through the place finding little in the way of hard evidence, nothing that connected her to Manny's abduction. Lido phoned
CSI.
A team was on its way.

Helen had a huge collection of celebrity magazines and scandal sheets: People, Entertainment Weekly, the Enquirer, yada, yada, yada. The woman was obviously starstruck. Lots of party dresses in the closet, lots of shimmer and low cut necklines, cheap pumps on the floor—items acquired for the sole purpose of attracting men. It was like a starter collection for a call girl wannabe.

She had lots of photos around, mostly pictures of herself at ages from infancy on up. Helen Gillette was not exactly what you would call a looker, but I didn't see in those pictures a person that would be involved in a child's abduction. Many of the pictures were old. Helen had a broad smile in these pictures—better times, I assumed. Still and all, it wasn't the kind of face I expected to see. It takes a certain type to run off with someone's kid, especially if you're a woman. The maternal instinct sets in at birth and only intensifies from there.

Ambler's cell phone rang. "Ambler. Yeah, I've got it. Thanks. Send it through." Ambler disconnected.

"News?" I asked.

"Sketch artist just finished up with Davis Mack. The girl's sketch is coming through on my PDA."

Ambler slipped his PDA from his inside jacket pocket and turned it on. He hit a few keys.
"Voila,"
he said, "here's our perp."

I stared at the picture on Ambler's PDA. "This is a neat toy," I said. Lido picked up one of the more recent photos of Helen Gillette and handed it to me. My eyes went back and forth from photo to sketch. "It's not her."

"You're sure?" Ambler asked.

I was half sure before I saw the sketch, but now I was positive. "I'm telling you, it's not her."

It was past midnight when we arrived at
Celia
Thorne's penthouse—ten thousand square feet of opulence, sixty stories in the air. Her home was decorated in a Mediterranean theme. To my eye, it was absolutely exquisite. Carl
Lapsos,
her houseboy, showed us into the garden. I swear to you, it was the first time in my life it killed me not being rich. Massive glass panels framed the rooftop and enclosed us overhead. I was sure that I was walking on artificial turf, but it felt like real grass. And the fragrance, oh my God, the fragrance...hydrangeas, lilacs, and oleander—it was absolutely mesmerizing. I strolled into the middle of what had to be the most extraordinary garden on earth. Space heaters roared—the temperature must have been a balmy eighty degrees. I ripped off my gloves and coat and would have killed for a Mai
Tai.
Beyond the garden, I could see the New York skyline and the East River. A wisp of a cloud drifted by, the only flaw in an otherwise crystal sharp night—even that seemed perfectly in place as it moved casually across the panorama. It was as if
Celia
Thorne had the power to conjure up anything and everything her heart desired. In the name of all that's holy, I had never seen anything like it before. I wondered if I could persuade the woman to adopt me.

I could see that Lido was awestruck too. He was strolling around inspecting the foliage, doing a double take every two and a half seconds. This was a world that mere mortals could only dream of.

Ambler on the other hand remained cynical to the last. He came up behind me and whispered in my ear.

"Not bad for ground up fish scales."

"What are you talking about?"

"Isn't that what they use for women's makeup? All this money from some ground up fish hides."

I had heard that once and hoped it was no longer true. Was I wearing the remains of a carp around my eyes? Certain fish's scales are luminescent and were used as the base in makeup. The thought certainly didn't make me feel any prettier. Still, I couldn't let Ambler get the better of me. I smiled. "Maybe it's Maybelline, and maybe it's Charlie the tuna—do you really care?" I framed my face between my hands and gave him a toothpaste commercial smile.

Ambler threw his hands up in defeat. "You're right, pretty is pretty." He pretended to sniff my face. "Or maybe it's halibut."

I felt a sudden chill in the air and knew at once that someone hadn't forgotten to pay the heating bill. Had we been on the set of The Wizard of Oz, I would've expected to see a trail of smoke across the sky and the munchkins diving for cover, but this wasn't Oz, it was Thorne's garden, and
Celia
Thorne was coming straight at us like a heat-seeking missile.

Ambler stepped up and took the first hit. "Ms. Thorne, I'm FBI agent Herbert Ambler." He flashed his credentials. "I'll be heading up the investigation." He turned toward Lido and me. "This is Detective Chalice and Detective Lido of the New York City Police Department." This wasn't the fun-and-games Ambler I knew and loved so well, this was the no-nonsense
G-
man, the person the public expected. His eyes were cool, his expression dead even. "We'll have a command center set up here within hours, a team of recovery specialists and tracing equipment. We'll need access to the apartment day and night."

At sixty plus, Thorne was wrinkle free. I'm not an authority on the subject, but I'd say she'd had a small tune up—it was subtle, of course, the area beneath the eyes and the smooth as glass forehead. Her jet black hair was pulled straight back and held with a beautiful mother of pearl comb. Her complexion was a little pale for my taste but from what I'd heard, the undead have issues with direct sunlight. She was wearing Chinese silk pajamas and she was braless. Yes, those had been tightened up too—no sagging whatsoever.

"We're very sorry about Manny's disappearance," I said.

"Who the hell took Manny?" Thone said, feeling no need to exchange pleasantries. She looked past us as she spoke. Staring at a blossoming lily, she pointed and snapped her fingers. Carl took a small pinking shear from his lapel pocket and began pruning. She then looked each of us in the eyes. "Well, what can you tell me? What am I paying you for?"

Celia Thorne
had measured up to her grotesque reputation in the span of a heartbeat. I could see her grow more and more impatient with each passing second. Paying me? You're paying me? I bit my tongue and reminded myself that there was an abducted autistic child out there, probably frightened half to death. We were sworn to protect and serve regardless of like or dislike. Look past it. Still, there was a part of me that said don't take any shit. "Paying us? I'm sorry, did you say 'What am I paying you for?'"

Thorne's head snapped in my direction, her eyes cutting deeply for a moment and then pulling away. She winked at me. "That's it, honey, don't take any crap." In the next instance, she was back on track, focused on the real issue. "Tell me something, anything, before I lose my mind."

"We have a good description of the young woman who we believe took Manny from the hospital, thanks to Mr. Mack," I said. "All points bulletins are out all over the city and
tri-state
area."

"All airports and railroads are under surveillance," Ambler added. "We'll ensure the integrity of the information being reported from our checkpoints and then tighten down the net."