"You should thank me. He really wanted a Pamela Anderson poster. Ricky may be naïve, but he's still a man."
Whatever.
Ricky was back in a flash. He was standing behind me grinning, holding a corndog in each hand.
"Wow, you must really be hungry."
Ricky held both of them forward. "I had mine. I bought these for you guys."
I felt a pang. "Ah, that's so sweet." Grease was dripping down Ricky's fingers. I wrinkled my nose. "I do love a good corndog. Thanks."
"Thanks, sport," Gus replied enthusiastically. He took one and handed the other to me. "Smile," he whispered in my ear.
I took a nibble. "Um, this is really good. Thanks, Ricky." Ricky blushed.
I took each of them by the arm and pretended to nibble on the corndog as we walked. It tasted like a sponge soaked in bile. "So, Ricky, Gus tells me that you're a Pamela Anderson fan."
Ricky hemmed and hawed and actually turned a little red before finally giving it up. "She's pretty and she's a carpenter."
I almost choked. "A carpenter?" I turned to Gus for help. "I didn't know that."
"Ricky and Ma have been watching reruns of 'Home Improvement.'"
Ricky lives with my mother. Ma just loves having him to cook for and Ricky...well Ricky loves everyone and everything. Needless to say, they get along famously.
"I'm at a loss. I've never—"
"Pamela Anderson used to play Lisa, the Tool Time girl on Tim Allen's 'Home Improvement' TV show."
"She builds houses," Ricky said, adding a note of importance.
"Builds houses—really? That's a very nice thing to do." Sort of like Habitat for the Humanities with silicone. Then it came to me, a tawdry picture of Pamela Anderson standing in a barn, wearing cutoffs, with a tool belt draped provocatively from her hip. No wonder she appealed to my wonderfully provincial brother. I handed my corndog to Ricky. "I'm really full. Why don't you finish it?"
"Are you sure?" Ricky asked sheepishly.
"Definitely."
Ricky made quick work of the corndog, stripping it down to bare wood in two seconds flat. "I want to build a house with Pamela Anderson," he blurted.
I had to bite my lip. Gus saw me and nudged me with his hip. "Yeah," he quipped, "me too."
I dug one of my Ferragamos into Lido's instep and glared at him fiercely. "I don't think she builds houses anymore, Ricky," I said, turning back to him.
"No?" Ricky seemed clearly disappointed. He scraped the last crumb off the pop stick with his teeth and smacked his lips. "Why not?"
"I think she gave it up to become a private detective."
"Like you?" This seemed to excite Ricky tremendously.
"Kind of the same, Ricky, but different," I said.
Lido snorted. Ricky didn't know what to make of it. My cell phone rang. I tossed my hair back and threw out my chest, doing my best to look like a floozy. "V.I.P., Valerie Irons Protection," I answered in an affected voice. Lido doubled over.
"What the hell are you talking about, Chalice?" I was surprised to hear the boss on the phone. "Have you been drinking or have you just gone insane?" Sonellio sounded less than chipper. The boss and his wife were devoutly Catholic—she probably had him wrapping Christmas presents until the wee hours.
"Sorry, boss, what's going on?"
"Just got off the phone with your friend, the Fed."
"Ambler?"
"One and the same. The ballistics on Gilberto Diaz just came back and it ties to a murder-kidnapping the FBI is working on. There's a briefing at 9:00 PM, FBI headquarters at Federal Plaza."
For my money, Herbert Ambler was the only good Fed alive. He had been a longtime friend of my dad's, a real straight shooter, and diehard fan of the original "Mission Impossible" series. Ambler was senior staff at the FBI and only involved in high-level cases. My mind began to fire with excitement.
"We'll be there," I said and hung up. "Back on the clock," I told Lido.
"No more shopping?" Ricky asked.
"Sorry, Ricky, Gus and I have to go back to work."
"Can I come?" he asked sadly. Another pang. "Do you think Pamela Anderson will work on the case with you?"
"No, Ricky, I doubt it."
"Why?" he asked.
"She doesn't do that anymore, Ricky. I think she works in a bookstore now." Lido looked at me and shrugged. He later explained that Pamela Anderson had a new show call "Stacked" of all things. I thought it was a reasonable lie. "We'll take you home to Ma's place. It's almost 'Tool Time.'"
Ricky smiled devilishly. He was so different from most men, but sadly, in many ways he was exactly the same. I always wondered what it was about a big pair of boobs that could turn the coolest guy into a drooling zombie. I mind shrugged and moved on.
I told you, my dreams were becoming really vivid. It was just a matter of time before the shit hit the proverbial fan.
Eight—THE OTHER SHOE
It had been a couple of months since the last time I'd seen Herbert Ambler. There was no special reason for the passing of that time—we were both busy, playing at life. My Fed homeboy was practically family. Did I say practically? Ambler was family. He was the uncle I never had, a man I revered and respected. He had helped me solve my last case, a case that exposed the truth of my family's origin. In the process, we had brought Zachary Clovin to justice, a man who had become Manhattan's number one public enemy, a man who was a mass murdering psychopath, a man who turned out to be my biological father. Just recalling it triggered a panic attack. Ambler had played a big part in helping me hold the pieces together. I was more than looking forward to seeing him again.
At the same time though, I couldn't help wonder what the shooting of a tenement superintendent had to do with a high priority FBI investigation. The door to the ready room opened. It appeared I wouldn't have to wait very long to find out.
Ambler hadn't changed one iota since the last time I saw him—slow and steady, Ambler gave my life stability. His round face sported an ear-to-ear grin. He was wearing his old metal frame aviators over his pug nose—same ten buck crew cut. It was just Lido and me in the FBI ready room. I stood and crushed Ambler with a hug. "Hi, punk." I kissed him on the cheek and ran my hand over his sandpaper dome. I stepped back and looked him up and down. "Isn't that the suit you wore the last time I saw you?"
Ambler didn't bat an eyelash. "Probably." He reached across the conference table and shook Lido's hand. "Whazzup, boyfriend?" Ambler was the only one that knew about my relationship with Lido. Like I said, the man was family and when his lips were sealed, they were sealed.
"I'm good, G man." Lido grinned. "I'm good."
"You look rested," I said. "No late night TV?"
"I watched Letterman last night."
"Letterman?" Good grief—poor Jim Phelps. "You gave up on 'Mission Impossible'?"
"Never, but Letterman had interesting guests last night, Rudy Giuliani, and Tyra Banks."
"You prefer a philandering politician and a busty lingerie model to good, hardcore covert action?"
"Chalice, goddamn it, it was just one night, that's hardly a betrayal."
"That's what they all say." Peter Graves is probably turning over in his...well, you get the idea.
"Give me a break." Ambler puffed out his cheeks and blew air past pressed lips. "That's why I love you."
"Don't you need an Iowa driver's license to watch Letterman? I mean really, the show is one big snoozer and Letterman, well, maybe they think he's funny in the cornfield, but where I—"
"I get it, I get it." Ambler winked. "As you said, I'm well rested."
Ambler was carrying an artist's portfolio case. He set it down on the conference table.
"What's that?" I asked.
"All in good time, Chalice—patience. How's Ma?"
"As always. You'll have to come to dinner."
"I'd like that a lot, let's plan on it...and Ricky?"
"Good—getting acquainted with sitcom television." Ambler seemed confused. Lido snicker
ed. "Tell you later."
Ambler rubbed his hands together. "Okay then, we're all caught up. Let's get down to business, shall we?"
"I hear there's a ballistics match to our homicide case," Lido said.
Ambler took a seat. Lido and I did the same. "There was a shootout at a Queens marina earlier today. A bodyguard by the name of Davis Mack exchanged rounds with the man he thought was abducting his client."
"You're about to tell us he was wrong."
"Oh, he was wrong, but not by much. I'll take you through the sequence of events in a moment." Ambler opened the portfolio and removed a legal folder. It contained photos. The first was a crime scene photo at a marina—a Latino with a scruffy goatee, lying dead on a small boat's cabin floor. "This is Luis Reyes, the perp, the guy we figure offed your superintendent. He fired a single round at the bodyguard, missed, but in shooting through a boat's windscreen, sprayed shattering glass—made a pincushion out of Davis Mack.
"Survive?" Lido asked.
"Yes. He'll be released from the hospital in the morning. The guy's a bull—ex-prizefighter—shook off the glass storm, advanced, and put two into Reyes' face. Reyes had a .38 chief special in his possession. We test fired it and got a spot on ballistics match to the bullet that killed Gilberto Diaz.
"You bastard, you solved our case," I said playfully.
"Don't go Christmas shopping just yet. This is about to get juicy." Ambler grinned. The guy was such a ham—my pulse jumped twenty points.
"Okay, buddy, spill it."
"Davis Mack was paid to protect this young man." Ambler presented his next photo, a picture of an adolescent in a wheelchair. The boy was staring off, seemingly oblivious to the cameraman taking his picture. You could tell at a glance that something was off, that somewhere in his head round pegs were being forced into square holes. "The boy's name is Emanuel Nazzare. He's autistic, doesn't speak, communicates only with eye gestures and facial ticks. He has the ability to learn but because he's highly perseverative, is unable to initiate written communication. He can walk, but must be coaxed to do so.
"Wealthy folks," Lido said as if he were stating the only obvious conclusion.
"Extraordinary wealth, but not in the terms you're thinking," Ambler replied.
I looked at Ambler and shrugged.
"Sorry," Ambler said, "You'll have to wait it out."
All the world's a stage—what are you going to do?
Ambler poured a glass of water and offered to do the same for Lido and I. "Manny, that's what they call him, goes to New York University Medical Center twice a week for physical therapy. Mack drives him there, waits for him, and takes him home. Manny was a couple of minutes late finishing up yesterday. Mack gave it a few moments and then went in after him. A new therapist had apparently rolled Manny out through the emergency exit—the alarm wires had been cut."
"Any leads on the therapist?"
"Physical description—her file was a fake. The hospital has a mandatory fingerprinting policy, but new employees have ten days to comply. It was her first day on the job."
"Planned well in advance," Lido said.
Ambler's cheekbones rose. "You ain't heard nothing yet." Ambler sipped at his water. "So, Mack goes through the emergency exit, hits the street, and looks for a vehicle tall enough for quick egress with a wheelchair—makes sense, right? Anyway, Mack spots an ambulette heading east and, in desperation, figures it's his only shot. He chases on foot to the river and sees a launch pulling away. He thinks he sees Manny in the launch, grabs the discarded ambulette and pursues it over the 59th Street Bridge into Queens."
Ambler had me on the edge of my seat. "Anybody got popcorn?"
Ambler grinned.
I'd gotten the gist of it and figured I could fill in the blanks and save a little time—not that Ambler didn't deserve his fifteen minutes, but come on. "So, Mack takes down Reyes, but doesn't find Manny. What was it—a double wearing Manny's shirt?"
"A mannequin, a goddamn department store mannequin."
"Wow, you're kidding, a decoy," Lido said. "So where'd the real kid go?"
"We only figured it out a few minutes ago. When we questioned Mack in the hospital, he said there was a large uniform truck parked outside. It was a great cover—a uniform truck parked outside a hospital—who woulda thunk it? Mack didn't. Fortunately, Mack was familiar with the company name—Cintas, an institutional uniform service. We checked and found a truck had been reported stolen yesterday morning. Whoever planned this thought it well the hell out. They set the decoy in motion and hung back in the van until Mack took the bait."
"I'm impressed. So drop the other shoe. Who is this kid and why did someone go to such lengths to take him?"
"Here's where it gets interesting," Ambler said. "Manny is an orphan. He's the ward of Celia Thorne."
"Thorne Cosmetics?" I asked.
Ambler nodded.
Celia Thorne was the reigning queen of the cosmetics world, a woman respected for her cunning and guile, but not for her warmth. She was the cosmetic's world equivalent of Leona Helmsley or Martha Stewart, women most New Yorkers love to hate. "What does the ice princess want with Manny? Does he hold the secret to ageless beauty?"
"Maybe."
"That's it, stop being so mysterious. Are you going to fill us in or not?"
Ambler shook his finger at me in an admonishing manner. "As I said, Manny has the ability to learn, but because of his condition never initiates any communication. Did I mention that he's a mute?"
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.
&nb
sp; 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."
Nine—HASTE
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."
Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) Page 4