Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (7 page)

"A pity Mr. Mack killed that man on the boat before we had the opportunity to torture the truth out of him,"
Celia
Thorne was nothing if not direct.

"He may have told us something important," I said, "but in a well orchestrated abduction, like this one, the individuals are compartmentalized. They're all given just enough detail to carry out their respective roles. I would have preferred to take Reyes alive as well, but chances are he never met the top man and would have had little to tell us. He was given the decoy assignment specifically because he was expendable—I doubt he was bright enough to see it. He was given a specific task to carry out and he did it. I'm sure he was promised a fortune, a fortune he'd never receive."

Carl picked up his clippings and carried them out of the garden. The man defined the term unobtrusive. He was simply there in the background, hovering and ever vigilant, ready to follow
Celia
Thorne's every instruction to the letter. Beyond that he was not seen or heard.

"There's video surveillance on all the bridges and tunnels that connect with Manhattan," Lido said. "The tapes are being reviewed now. We'll know if the vehicle Manny was abducted in is still physically in New York City."

"Maintenance records at the hospital are being checked to see who last worked on the emergency door that had been disconnected from the alarm system." I wet my lips before continuing. "Do you have any thoughts about who might have done this, Ms. Thorne? This was carefully orchestrated. In addition, there's a possible double motive in play. Money, of course and Manny's ability to recall the prophecies of his ancestor."

"It's money, of course," Thorne said. "The world turns on an axis lubricated with greed. Manny's other...let's call it a gift...is a closely guarded secret. Only a few know about it."

Gift. The word drove me bonkers. This was not a gift. A pair of Chanel boots is a gift. A full-length sable coat is a gift—a hell of a gift actually. All this talk about Manny's ability to communicate the works of a dead prophet was nothing more than bunk and I was just the gal to debunk it.

"Secrets rarely remain so," I said. "In my experience, a secret is like having a leaking pipe in your house. You can't see it at first, but then the first damp spot appears—by the time the plumber gets there, you realize you've got water everywhere."

"How very goddamn clever you are, my dear. Let's hope you're as sharp at police work as you are with your mouth." Thorne looked down at the floor for a moment. Her expression had softened when she glanced back at me. She stroked my chin. "Glad you're aboard, Detective. You remind me of a young me. I'll prepare a quick list of anyone that knows about Manny's talent or that I might find suspicious."

As much as I didn't see myself blossoming into a center of attention control freak like Thorne, I knew her comment was meant as a compliment. "Thank you," I said. "We'll wait for your list."

Carl drifted back into the garden. He approached, holding a phone. "Ms. Stewart is on the line for you, Ms. Thorne. She said—"

Celia
Thorne held up her finger, cutting Carl off in mid sentence. She was so self-assured. It was not as if she was asking Carl to wait. It was more as if she expected time to stand still until she was ready for it to resume. She glanced at Ambler. "I feel good about your team, Mr. Ambler. Please don't disappoint me. As you can see, money is no object. I don't want it to be a factor in your thinking. If money will bring Manny home, spend it. Are we clear?"

"Completely," Ambler replied.

"Good. In fact, let's offer a reward. One million dollars for information leading to Manny's recovery." She held out her hand without taking her eyes off Ambler. Carl placed the phone in her palm. "Is that you, Martha?" She turned and walked off. "Are you still under house arrest, you old bitch? You heard about Manny? Just awful." She disappeared into the house, leaving us mere mortals bobbing in her wake like the shipwrecked crew of The Minnow.

"Was that Martha Stewart on the phone?" I asked.

Carl nodded and then went off to attend to another plant that required his attention.

I turned to Lido and Ambler. "Well she's something else."
Celia
Thorne rubbed against the grain, but she left no doubt as to how she wanted things handled. And though I wouldn't admit it in front of the boys, there was something about her I admired.

Manny. I reminded myself that the case was about him and not her. I put my arms over the boys' shoulders and led them toward a patio table. "Let's talk," I said. It was going to be a very long night.

Monday Night Football—what a concept. Most guys had just spent the preceding forty-eight hours beached like whales on the den sofa amidst pizza crusts and empty beer cans. I saw it as a pretense for the guys to spend another night out of the house. Not that I don't enjoy watching a couple dozen Lycra clad butts piling atop one another, but three days in a row? Come now, it's not that entertaining. Well anyway, Lido had a regular Monday night thing at his buddy's house and it gave me an excuse to see Ma and Ricky, so it worked out for both of us.

It was still cold as a bear, but the wind had died and was now nonexistent. Spots were rare in Ma's neighborhood. I had to park a few blocks away and walk. The cold air cleared my head and helped me focus on the case. I was still having trouble getting my arms around it. Manny's last inscription stood out boldly in my mind.

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.

Lido, Ambler, and I had worked the details until the wee hours. The crime scene photo of Reyes refused to disappear. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the deceased lying within the boat's cabin, two small stars in his head.

He will pierce his eyes in their golden cage;

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

The
boat
was named the
Gold
Coast. I didn't want to buy into it, but you've got to admit the connection was too close to ignore. Reyes had taken two in the head, one very close to the eye. Stretching the interpretation, I suppose you could say that the boat's cabin was a cage, the cage of the Gold Coast—hence, a gold cage. The cop in me didn't want to believe any of it. For the moment, I decided to chalk it up to utter coincidence.

I took part of the morning to refresh my memory on Nostradamus. I hit the Internet and learned that he had written more than nine hundred prophecies, all in the form of the four-verse quatrain. He had categorized them into groups of a hundred. Each group was called a century: nine complete centuries of one hundred, and one with just forty-six. I had also learned that he was a brilliant physician and had pioneered several homeopathic medicines, one of which was credited for saving a French town from the ravages of a plague. Nostradamus had been one clever Renaissance man, but had he found a way to pass his genius four hundred years into the future? No, not buying that one. My mind was still whirling when I hit Ma's building.

I bumped into Dr. Twain, Ricky's psychiatrist in the lobby of Ma's apartment building. "Nigel," I cheerfully called out the length of the lobby.

He turned to me, grinning. There was a sparkle in his eyes. "Stephanie, what a marvelous coincidence." Twain's deep British baritone chased away the winter chill. He was one of the most handsome black men I had ever met, a mature version of Tyson Beckford.

As always Twain looked very chic, the epitome of casual elegance. A cashmere cloak rested stylishly on his broad shoulders and a fringed, silk scarf was draped loosely around his neck.

We hugged and I gave him a friendly peck on the cheek. "You look smashing," I intoned in my best possible English accent. Twain smoothed my cheek with the back of his fingers. He smiled warmly—looking positively doe-eyed. "How wonderful to see you."

And you... Twain cut such a dashing figure. It was a good thing I had Lido in my life tugging at my heartstrings. Twain tugged at me too, but not at my heart.

"Here to see Ricky?"

He shot his cuffs, clearing a handsome
Bulgari
watch and checked the time. "Johnny on the spot," he replied as he tapped the crystal. '"Home Improvement' just went off. Your brother will be in a wonderful mood—situation comedy and rehabilitative therapy followed by dinner. What could be better?"

"Sounds like a plan." We grinned at each other. Ricky had been found out, that and his passion for buxom, bleached-blonde women wearing tool belts. "Men are so painfully transparent."

"Guilty as charged," Twain conceded. He smiled warmly. "I accept responsibility for the entire species." The elevator arrived. Chivalrous to a fault, Twain held the door for me while I got in. The doors closed and up we went. "We're hopeless, aren't we? It is rather romantic when you take a moment to consider though, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"All this evolution—computers, aerospace, genetic engineering, and still man devotes the bulk of his brain power to thinking about getting laid. Is it our fault we find women so positively alluring?"

It wasn't the time or the place for confession, but I'd devoted my fair share of brain power to the opposite sex. It was getting unbearably warm in the elevator. "I hope you'll stay for dinner. Ma's making veal
spedini
."
It was a clumsy segue but one that was necessary. Could you imagine if the elevator stopped? I didn't give myself three minutes. Like I said, Twain pushed all the right buttons.

He unwrapped his scarf and took off his coat. He was wearing a merino turtleneck that accentuated the contours of his formidable physique. I felt my lungs filling with air—usually a prelude to subtle chest heaving. I caught myself. This was not the time or place to ignite a spark. Under the right circumstances, Twain and I were as combustible as seasoned kindling wood. I didn't want to go up in a ball of flames in front of Ma and Ricky. I averted my eyes, wondering if Twain noticed that I had done so intentionally.

Twain cleared his throat. "Ricky's making some lovely progress. He's growing stronger on an emotional level every day."

I looked at Twain in fond admiration. He was my dark sentinel, a friend I had learned I could always count on. "That's great news." I said this despite the fact that I knew that Ricky was still several pine trees short of a forest. Forgive me, Anne Robinson. "You've done wonders with him. You're a good friend, Nigel." He blushed from the compliment.

Ma's door was unlocked. I knocked and then pushed it open.

Ma raced out of the kitchen. "Hello, sweetheart." It was good to see her out of a housecoat. She was wearing tan slacks and a loose fitting seed stitch sweater with a fresh gravy stain on the sleeve. We kissed and then stepped apart.

"Good security,
Ma,"
I said, motioning to the unlocked door.

"Bah." She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. "I just unlocked it. Besides," she continued with a smile, "I got a man in the house." She focused on Dr. Twain. "Doctor, please come in. Give me your coat." She leaned forward, kissing his cheek and taking his coat in one motion.

"Hello, Mrs. Chalice. A pleasure as always."

"
Chal-e-say
, " Ma cooed as she gently swayed her shoulders. "Don't you love the way Dr. Twain pronounces our name, Stephanie?"

Amen. "Ah, it's alright," I said, giving Twain a playful wink. I wondered if he had the same effect on Ma that he had on me—God, how could he not?

"Did my daughter invite you for dinner? I'm making
spedini
."

"Yes, actually—she did. Thank you for the invitation. I don't think I've ever tried that before—what exactly is
spedini
?

There was a note of apprehension in Twain's voice. Can you imagine him concerned over the taste of homemade Italian food? Him, a citizen of the country whose most notable culinary contributions to the world were haggis and shepherd's pie? Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable.

"I take the thinnest veal cutlets and roll them up with bread crumbs, butter, garlic, parsley, and
Pecorino
Romano." She kissed her fingertips. "You'll love it."

"I'm sure I will." He closed with a charming smile. "Is Ricky ready for our session?"

"I just heard the TV go off," Ma replied.

"Then I'll go straight to it." Twain squeezed past me in order to get to Ricky's room. He brushed up against my backside in the process. I'll be damned if it didn't feel like he was packing heat. "Pardon," Twain apologized. He looked a tad embarrassed as he hurried by. No complaints from me.

Twain knocked on Ricky's door and then entered, closing the door behind him.

"Madonna," Ma whispered. "May God forgive me, that man—"

"Ma.” I exaggerated my surprise.

"And that voice—ah."

My eyes widened.

She slapped herself playfully on the cheek. "It's like a romance novel come to life...and he makes house calls. It's like a visit from Sidney Poitier."

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner. Ma's analogy was a bit dated—nonetheless the message was loud and clear. I certainly knew what she was talking about. She had been spiritually dead since my dad's death. I was glad to see she was still alive, even if she needed God's forgiveness after every tiny transgression.

In the next instance, she was crossing herself, "God forgive me."

See what I mean?

"It's alright, Ma," I explained. "He's a handsome, sophisticated man—no one blames you for looking."

"It's blasphemous."

"Having a pulse is not blasphemy. How sad would it be if you spent the rest of your life ignoring works of art like that? It's not as if you jumped on top of him in the middle of Fifth Avenue. For God's sake, Ma, you're still
á
young woman. You've still got a few good years left."

"It's not right. I shouldn't have these thoughts."

"Live a little, Ma. Take a good hard look at his fanny and then go to church and say a dozen Hail Mary's. It won't kill you. We're Catholic, remember? We believe in the forgiveness of sin."