Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

  "I didn't say that."

  If he wouldn't, I would. "I don't believe it. I never did, but I like to be thorough and that's why asked you for your opinion. I knew you'd have one."

  Twain thought for a moment before speaking, composing his thoughts as it were. "The more basic question, Stephanie, is were the predictions of Nostradamus of any real value or were they mere prattle? Consensus is that his predictions were so generic that they can and have been used to describe any number of circumstances that have taken place over the ages. Have you researched his true talent?"

  "From the way you're asking, I'm guessing no."

  "Nostradamus was a brilliant chemist. He invented many elixirs. Some were used for the body and some—"

  "Go on." I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to face him. "Dazzle me."

  Twain put his fingers to his lips. "How shall I say this? Nostradamus knew the value of a good high."

  "He was a stoner?"

  "Who else is capable of a thousand predictions but someone consumed with mind expanding drugs? Expand the conscious mind, anything and everything becomes possible. Were his predictions nothing more than delirious ramblings or did his potions elevate him to a spiritual plain others were incapable of attaining? That, Stephanie, is a question no one will be able to answer, not even me."

  "I hate it when you're ambiguous."

  "It's the best I've got. You and I have tussled on this subject before and you know how I feel about the matter. Drugs can open a portal...that portal can lead to genius or disaster. Take a look at the arts, modern music for example. Jimi Hendrix, Ray Charles, Janis Joplin, all did their most profound work while under the influence, and that is just the tip of the iceberg—some of the world's greatest masterpieces were created under the influence. You should read The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell by Aldous Huxley."

  "The guy who wrote Brave New World."

  "Yes, one and the same. Huxley took mescaline back in the fifties and wrote two marvelous books about his experiences under the influence. They're really quite expansive."

  "I never imagined..."

  "Most don't, but drugs have played a significant role in the history of the world. Hitler, as an example, was addicted to methamphetamine and so were many of his soldiers."

  "That explains his delusions of grandeur." Suddenly I felt like the last straight person on earth.

  "Most certainly. Hallucinogens took me deeper into the psyche of my patients than I would have gotten in a hundred years of conventional therapy, and devoutly pious men have used drugs for centuries because they thought it would bring them just a little closer to the Almighty. Why not our friend Nostradamus? He certainly had the means and the know-how."

  Twain had told me a great deal, but nothing that would bring me closer to Manny. I had hoped he would have enlightened me and he did, to some degree. Bottom line, in the morning there'd be some hardnosed sleuthing to do. The debate as to the validity of Nostradamus' predictions would likely go on for eternity. Whether he used drugs to see further than other men or just to blow his mind was not germane to my investigation. I would have to put all the hocus pocus aside if I was going to find Emanuel Navarre. For now though, I was frustrated. Twain had not satisfied me on a physical or emotional level, so I cranked the unmarked and slammed it into gear. Suddenly, firing a gun didn't seem like a bad idea.

  Thirteen—DECK THE HALLS

  Tommy Shipley sold arms and ammo out of a small storefront on Houston Street and operated a range in the basement. Nothing elaborate, just a bunch of shooter's targets lined up in front of slug absorbing material. I figured we wouldn't attract a lot of attention in a place like his. Tommy didn't ask many questions and I was in no mood to supply answers.

  Tommy was an okay guy, but I knew he liked to sleaze around. I only saw him a couple of times a year, but he'd hit on me every time. I heard that he and his wife, Eunice, had separated on account of he was diddling some barfly over at O'Toole's Bar and Grill, and that Tommy was living alone in his house on Staten Island. I'd met her once. Eunice was definitely a no bullshit kind of girl—definitely not the kind to put up with hubby's casual affairs.

  Tommy had his hands planted on top of the glass display case, on either side of the evening Post. His head was bent over, reading the sports page. Tommy was a heavy gambler—played the ponies, football, and what have you. He liked action. He picked up a pencil and circled something on the newspaper, probably the sixth race at Pimlico. He looked up, smiling. "Chalice. Wow. It's been forever. How are you, sweetness?" He came around the counter and extended his arms, looking for a hug. I leaned forward, giving him shoulders only in the embrace.

  Shipley always looked the same—his red hair was always crew cut. He was wearing the same tee shirt I had seen him in the last time I was in his store. His gut was still huge—it looked like he was smuggling a keg of Miller. He scratched his crotch as inconspicuously as possible, but a woman notices that sort of thing. "How's it hanging, Tommy?"

  "Good. Good," he replied in an exuberant tone. "Wow, Stephanie Chalice, you're a sight for sore eyes. How's Ma?"

  "She's well, Tommy, thanks." Tommy had been in the same location for thirty years. He knew my dad and had met Ma several times over the years.

  He looked past me to Twain. "This is a new face." He extended his hand. "Tommy Shipley, pleased to meet you." He scratched himself again.

  Twain took note of the gesture. He extended his hand reluctantly. "Nigel Twain. It's a pleasure."

  "Blimme, an English bloke. I'm charmed."

  Twain chuckled at Shipley's abuse of his native language. "As am I."

  "Twain's on the job in the UK. He's had an eye on my LDA. Okay if he goes downstairs to check it out?"

  "MI-6?" Shipley asked.

  Twain gave him the members only-circle of trust-take the secret to your grave wink.

  Shipley bought right into it. "Sure, we're empty downstairs. Thirty minutes okay? I'd like to close up on time."

  "Plenty," I replied. "Much appreciated."

  Shipley walked toward the counter. "I'll log you in." He opened his register and began making the entry. He stopped and looked up at Twain. "Hey, big fella, why don't you head downstairs and have a look around?" Shipley pointed to the stairwell.

  A real cop wouldn't have been too anxious, but Twain was like a kid in a candy store. "Meet you downstairs?" he asked with a smile.

  "Sure," I replied. "I'll sign in and grab some ammo."

  Twain headed down and I approached the counter.

  "Give me a couple boxes of wad cutters, Tommy."

  He grinned, turned to the shelf behind him, and pulled out two boxes of cheap ammo. "You want to pay for these or start a fresh tab?"

  "Is my credit still good?"

  "Natch."

  "Put it on my tab. I've been Christmas shopping up the kazoo."

  "Sure thing. So, Chalice, when you gonna come out to the house?" Shipley didn't know about Lido and I, few did. "A lot of the guys on the job have been out. I got a nice little spread, wood-burning stove...big screen TV."

  Big turn on, throw in some cold beer and I'm yours for the taking. "Sounds nice." He really wasn't the least bit subtle. "Little lonely out there?" I asked.

  Shipley continued to write. "Been damn lonely since Eunice left. I been doing a lot of work around the house to keep myself busy—just finished building a deck. You should see it."

  "I'll bet you got a nice big deck." Okay, that was an awful play on words, I admit it. Sometimes I find it difficult resisting temptation.

  "No, it's not so big."

  That's what I've heard. "I'm sure it's nice. Make sure you waterproof it, I hear those things turn gray and warp."

  Shipley nodded. I don't think he had a clue. "I had a deck party. Lots of people came over and helped me build it."

  Shipley reached down and scratched again.

  "You ought to get yourself some Lamisil. Word around the squad's that it's like a fire extinguisher for your pants
."

  "Lamisil?"

  "It's an antifungal cream. It'll kill that itch."

  "Will it kill crabs?"

  I shuddered. I dropped the pen and stepped back from the counter. "No, I don't think so." I wasn't sure how far one of those buggers could jump. I began to feel itchy all over.

  "Well that's what I think I got. Pubic lice, ever have that?"

  You've got to be kidding. "Can't say that I have." I picked up the ammo and began to walk to the stairwell.

  "You know what I should use to get rid of it?"

  "No, but I hear that's what happens when you let a lot of people play with your deck." Shipley shrugged and I took off, quick—couldn't get out of there fast enough.

  Twain seemed intrigued by the range's mystique—the lingering fragrance of burnt gunpowder and the sparkle of brass shell casings lying about in indiscriminant locations on the floor. He was still looking around when I found him, examining a used bull's eye that had been reeled in and left for everyone at the range to see.

  Twain turned and flashed a smile. He had the bottom of the target in his hands. "Someone's a crack shot."

  "Bragging rights," I replied. "Nice grouping." With my finger, I circled the area where all but one of the slugs had pierced the target. "Small caliber gun, though. Whoever did this was good, but these look like .22's—probably used a long barrel target gun. Reel the target back out—I'll show you how it's done."

  Twain gave me a curious look and then complied while I took off my coat. "Stop there," I instructed. The target was just twenty feet out, close enough to give Twain a real performance. I handed Twain a pair of shooter's muffs and then put on a pair myself. "Give me a little room." Twain wasn't sure what I had said, so I shooed him away and he got the message. I yanked the LDA from the cross draw and emptied the clip from a combat stance. When I was done, I holstered the LDA and took off the muffs. "Take a look." I was doing my best not to sound cocky.

  Twain pursed his lips and then proceeded to reel in the target. He examined it momentarily and then turned to me with a puzzled look on his face. "Stephanie, I...I think you missed."

  "The hell I did." I pointed at a solitary .22 puncture. "See the diameter of the hole?" Twain nodded. I then pointed at the scalloping around the grouping he had seen before. "Look how much larger these rings are. These are mine."

  "You shot out the other grouping?" He seemed astounded.

  "Bingo."

  "Bloody marvelous." Twain turned to me with the most excited look I had ever seen on his face. "Stephanie, you must teach me how to shoot. You simply must. Show me how to do that."

  "All in good time," I explained. I gave Twain a crash course in marksmanship 101 put my hands over his on the LDA and showed him how it felt to squeeze off a round. His arms were like steel and I had little doubt he'd be able to handle my automatic after he got the feel of it. The instruction necessitated more body contact than he or I were accustomed to. The man was like sculpted onyx. I tried not to pay attention, but a sheepish grin betrayed me. I sighed and clamped a pair of shooter's muffs over Twain's shaven head. Intentional or not, Nigel Twain was playing havoc with the emotions of the Chalice women tonight. I thought of Ma. I thought about Twain and how our relationship had evolved since I had met him last spring. Twain had become an integral part of my life. He was an odd man but one I knew would always be there for me. Lido's smiling face appeared somewhere in my mind. He was always there too, amidst the clutter and baggage I carried with me. I focused on that thought and stepped aside.

  I saw Twain's hand twitch as he fired his first shot. It went high and to the right. Twain smiled at me and shrugged. I winked back at him and mouthed, "Takes time," knowing he'd never hear me with the shooter's muffs on.

  His shot had nicked the target high on the side of the head, not far from where Davis Mack's bullet had entered Luis Reyes' skull. It brought me back to the case, a case so odd that the facts themselves seemed utterly unbelievable. Celia Thorne had dashed off a list of anyone she thought might have had a motive for abducting Manny. The list was under scrutiny of course, but it appeared to be more of a Who's Who of competing cosmetics firms—a list of companies Thorne would like to see eliminated from the marketplace.

  A woman like Celia Thorne had undoubtedly ruffled many feathers in her day and whether she was conscious of it or not, it had become our job to find every quill she had yanked out on her climb to the top. We were conducting interviews of every employee Thorne had shit canned over the last decade. On a corporate level, Thorne kept herself isolated—there were half a dozen direct reports that she interacted with. Few others ever had direct contact with her. Hiring and firing was carried out by her subordinates. Thorne Cosmetics employed thousands on a worldwide level. To the best of her knowledge, she had never discussed Manny's gift with any of them. But as we already knew, this secret was no secret. Twain, an utter outsider was fully familiar with the details. God knew how many others there were.

  We checked with the agency that supplied her domestic help as well. It appeared that Celia Thorne's conscience was as big as her ego. We had learned that although she had gone through a great number of household staff over the years, termination had come with an exceptionally generous severance package and a letter of recommendation. Carl had been with her almost two years. He had been hired from the same agency as all the rest. He had been promoted and was now in charge of all household staff. I'd be back at Thorne's penthouse early in the morning and see if I could worm my way into his subservient little head. He was so quiet and unobtrusive. I'm sure he had seen and heard plenty. Thorne's ego was so big that I doubt she was ever aware of his presence. I wondered how a man like Carl would react to a one on one interview with yours truly. I'd soon find out.

  Twain had emptied the clip. He had started to put together something of a grouping. It was low on the torso—close to the groin, but all in all not bad for a beginner. He was eyeing the box of wad cutters, no doubt eager to reload and empty another clip.

  "Good job," I said, forgetting that he couldn't hear me.

  "What?" Twain pried the muffs off his head as I reeled in the target. "I didn't hear you."

  "Good job," I said as I circled the hole in the target with my finger. "He'll never reproduce again."

  Twain chuckled and then I showed him how to eject the clip and reload.

  Fourteen—BAD MOON RISING

  Herbert Ambler never started the day without a good hearty breakfast. He had removed his aviators which were lying on the table as he bit into the deli special: scrambled eggs, bacon, and American cheese on a Kaiser roll. His coffee was office brew. There was a setup in the corner, one of those coffee by the cup machines: the ones where you place a tin of ground coffee in the tiny press and presto, thirty seconds later you have a cup of horrendous, watery, tasteless coffee as if by magic—technology at its best.

  Lido and I were brown bagging it too—a 7:00 AM start at 26 Federal Plaza doesn't allow time for eggs benedict. Ambler winked at us as he wolfed down his sandwich. Something was going on with Lido. He had been quiet all morning. He said that he hadn't slept well, but I had a feeling there was more to it than that. What was it, I wondered, that was eating at him?

  It took Ambler no time to devour his morning repast. He was rolling his tin foil into a ball before I had a chance to open my yogurt. He put a ten-footer into the corner trash pail and then rubbed his hands together vigorously, ready to start his day.

  "Got a foil tank, G-man?"

  Ambler smacked his lips. "Breakfast of champions, darling—been eating the same thing, day in and day out for the better part of ten years."

  "Ever have your cholesterol checked?" I asked.

  "Religiously." He raised his eyebrows, daring me to ask what his serum cholesterol level was. I wasn't biting. He was probably one of the lucky ones that could eat sludge if he wanted to and not have his cholesterol jump one point. Probably brushes his teeth with Hàagen-Dazs. Not to change the subject, but Ambler had a car
catalogue open in front of him.

  "Buying a car?" I asked.

  Ambler turned the catalogue around for me, but he didn't need to. It was a cherry red Ford Mustang. I'd had my eye on it ever since it had been restyled to look like the old 1960's Mustang. "I love that car.”

  "Yeah, me too," Ambler said. "You think an aging Fed can afford one of these? The old Firebird's rusting out."

  "Go for it," I said.

  "Just looking at it makes me feel like a teenager again," Ambler said. "That commercial with Steve McQueen drives me nuts."

  "Me too. Thank God Ford changed their advertising campaign."

  Ambler grinned. "You mean those ridiculous ads with preppy Bill Ford, Jr. preaching how his favorite car is a Mustang with a throaty V8 and a great sound system?"

  "Exactly," I replied. "Do you think there's really an advertising exec dumb enough to think Bill Jr. was charismatic enough to sell cars? I'll bet that guy came out of the womb wearing wingtips."

  Ambler chuckled.

  "Let's get down to it," Lido said in a way that was less than cordial. "I didn't get up at the crack of dawn to discuss muscle cars."

  Ambler's eyes were large with surprise. Mine mirrored his.

  "Sure," Ambler said, closing the Mustang catalogue and pulling a folder in front of him. He was about to get into it when he stopped and turned to Lido. "You okay, Gus? Something wrong?"

  "I just want to get started without the usual round of morning bullshit, alright? Can we just fucking get to work before this kid is halfway to Cairo?"

  I put my hand on Gus' arm, but he didn't respond to the gesture. "Gus?" Still nothing. He didn't even turn toward me. I didn't know what I had done wrong, but clearly I had screwed up big time. I waited a moment and then gave Ambler the we'd-better-walk-on-eggshells expression.

  "I had a forensic accountant go over the books of Thorne Cosmetics. The company's privately held, but it reports its financial results to D & B, Lexis Nexus and the like to obtain trade credit lines." Ambler turned a couple of pages, reviewing comments that I could see had been written in the margins. "The company is highly leveraged, major expenditures in R & D, marketing, especially celebrity endorsements."