Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2)

by Lawrence Kelter

  "How do you know what I'm thinking?"

  "I'm a cop. Let me give you my five cents worth. After that you can do whatever you like. I can't stop you."

  "You're damn right you can't stop me, I'm Celia Thorne."

  "That's right, and as a good executive you should know that sometimes you have to put ego aside and listen to the experts."

  "Who's an expert—you? You didn't even expect a ransom demand."

  "I thought it was unlikely, but now that we've received one, I know exactly how to proceed." I had to confront her physically. We were now eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe. I had to establish the fact that I meant business. You can't back down in front of a woman like Celia Thorne. She'll build up a head of steam and roll right over you. She glared at me in defiance. A long moment passed before she backed down.

  "Alright, you've got five minutes." She tapped her watch. She'd given me the time-is-of-the-essence routine once before.

  "No dice, Ms. Thorne. I'm going to lay this out the way I see it and I'm going to take all the time I need to make my point. You're a great marketer, but I'm a cop. This is what you need to know." I took the expensive tote bag out of her hand and pointed to the settee. "Take a seat."

  Twenty-six—BETRAYED

  Carl made for the closet the second he saw the female detective close the door to Thorne's bedroom. He grabbed his coat and rang for the elevator. He was an hour late for his meeting with the High Coptic. It was a disgrace and an embarrassment for a man of Carl's meager station to miss a meeting with someone as revered as The Faith's High Coptic.

  The clerics were complaining bitterly about the delay in producing the boy. Unlike the Catholic Church, The Faith was not a rich organization. Its walls were not adorned with the works of Michelangelo and its coffers were not flush. They had sacrificed dearly to amass the money necessary to secure the boy's delivery. Many doubted Carl's ability to obtain the prize. He was not thought of as clever. He was not thought of as a leader, but the prize was so great, the reward so promising—they let greed cloud their judgment.

  Their eyes were beginning to clear.

  Carl pushed the elevator button repeatedly, growing impatient for its arrival. He felt the entire weight of The Faith upon him. It was collapsing on him, crushing him, preventing air from entering his lungs.

  He was crazed, trying to invent an excuse for the High Coptic, but what could he say? That all had failed, that the person he had placed his trust in had betrayed him?

  Within the confines of Thorne's penthouse, he was thought of as part of the environment. Thorne spoke to the authorities freely in front of him. He was always there, aware of all comings and goings. Further, he had been the one to take the delivery of the ransom package. Five million dollars...the number made his head throb. It was twenty times the amount Black had asked from The Faith. He'd been used. He had given her half up front. The one-hundred-twenty-five thousand had been nothing more than the money she needed to arrange the abduction. He could see it clearly now, now that it was too late. The Faith would brand him a thief and label him party to the conspiracy.

  His cell phone began to buzz. He recognized the number of The Faith. He glanced around. The authorities were within earshot. He couldn't chance answering the phone, not even to say he'd call right back. Where the hell is the elevator? He continued to jab his finger at the button. Sweat began to run from his temple. Damn it. Come already! The High Coptic was waiting for him to answer the call, waiting for reassurance that all was in order and their wait would soon be over. He needed to lie. The elevator doors opened and he dashed in.

  Ambler had been on the phone in the den, in the massive room the FBI was using as its command center. He'd taken it all in with not so much as a twitch as he observed the servant. He saw him standing in view of Thorne's bedroom and the way he bolted for the closet the split second Chalice had closed the door. He saw him at the elevator and the way his feet shuffled as he waited for it to arrive, repeatedly pushing the call button.

  Ambler was an expert at reading body language. He cleared his throat to grab the attention of Ken Smith, one of his subordinates, and with his eyes directed Smith's attention toward the elevator. Smith hustled off toward the service elevator near the kitchen, hoping he'd hit the street before he lost sight of the servant.

  Twenty-seven—REASON

  "Five million dollars is a lot of money."

  Celia Thorne jerked her head, disputing my statement. "It's a phone call. I know it. You know it, and the bastards that have Manny know it. I'll hardly know it's gone."

  "That's not the point."

  "No?" she scowled. "What the hell is the point? These bastards want money. I'll give them what they want. I'll give them whatever they want. They want Celia Thorne to deliver it, I'll deliver it. Anything it takes."

  "And what if that's not enough?"

  "Plain English, honey, there's no such thing as not enough. Talk sense, would you please?"

  God, it must be nice to be that wealthy, to pay out five million dollars the way most of us pay for groceries. Still, I couldn't allow Thorne's wealth to cloud her judgment. "I—" I stopped myself. I didn't want to present the argument in terms of it being my thinking and my thinking alone. "We don't believe Manny will be there at the ransom drop. You read the ransom note. You're an intuitive woman. What do you think? Your heart, Ms. Thorne, tell me what it says."

  "They're telling us that they're giving us one chance and I for one won't allow you or anyone else to screw it up. That's what my heart tells me."

  "You're telling yourself what you want to hear."

  Thorne looked away from me. "That's ridiculous."

  "No, they're telling us their game plan. They said no deviation or Manny goes to the highest bidder. Trust me, we've seen this before. They know what Manny is worth and it's a hundred times more than the five million they're asking from you. The FBI's computers are working around the clock trying to ascertain the geopolitical groups most interested in Manny's talents. There are hundreds of possibilities—religious groups, terrorist factions, fanatic multimillionaires—the list is endless. All they need to do is keep Manny alive and shepherd him from one location to the next, pulling the scam over and over again. So, if you want to throw out your money and risk your life, go ahead. We already know that one of the conspirators is a cold-blooded murderer. Helen Gillette was the physical therapist that was impersonated at NYU. Her spinal cord was severed at the back of her neck."

  Thorne shuddered and then it looked like she would retch. She was boardroom tough, but not cold-blooded murder tough. I saw her wither in front of me. She picked up the Louis Vuitton duffel bag. "This is a good choice, don't you think? I mean the money will fit in here. They'd expect a woman like Celia Thorne to carry a good bag, wouldn't they?" She was babbling. Celia Thorne, head of a multibillion dollar corporation had lost the thread. She could hire and fire, she could buy and sell, but she was powerless to retrieve that which was dearest to her heart: Manny Nazzare, the child that existed as a living legacy to her sister.

  "Are you listening to me?"

  She nodded and then the glacier melted. "What's going to happen to him? What's going to happen to Manny?" I could see her throat tighten. "Did you see that picture? Dear God...those animals... he's just a simple boy."

  I had gotten to her and felt with certainty that she would listen to a reasonable plan. It was time to shore up the foundation. I didn't want her suffering from a mental breakdown. She had already been torn down emotionally. "They have to keep him healthy, Ms. Thorne. Manny only has value as long as he can channel his ancestor's prophecies. I doubt they're abusing him." I really wasn't sure, especially after having seen what our perp was capable of, but I had to say so, for her sake. "They may have slapped him around just to take that picture. They probably took a hundred to have available for their other marks. I doubt they'll lay a hand on him again."

  "Do you truly believe that?" Thorne was not so much asking as hoping.

  The only ans
wer I could possibly give her, the only answer she had the strength to hear, was "Yes...he's their golden goose."

  She stared off into the distance, biting on her fingernail. "What are we going to do?" She looked lost and alone, helpless before a perfect stranger.

  I moved closer to her and took her hand. I smiled at her, expressing sympathy and strength. "Don't worry, Ms. Thorne, I have a plan."

  Twenty-eight—HOPE AGAINST HOPE

  Carl walked briskly in the cold air, taking long strides to expedite his trip. He'd dialed Black a dozen times with no success. He was growing angrier and more desperate with each passing moment. Where the hell is she? Why doesn't she answer? He knew the answer to both questions: he had been had. She was gone and with her, The Faith's money. In his mind, he ran through a litany of excuses—what would he tell The High Coptic who had grown more impatient with each passing day? His mind refused to work. It was as if the thought process had been suspended, leaving him defenseless to fend off the attack he would surely receive.

  One more attempt—he pressed the send button and placed the phone to his ear; three rings...four.

  "What the fuck do you want?" Black's voice was hot, furious. "How many times are you going to call? I'll answer when I'm good and goddamn ready."

  He was taken aback by her level of hostility and was certain that she had only answered to prevent him from calling yet again. He had contemplated screaming at her over the phone. Now he decided to take a more congenial tone. "Where is he? You promised to deliver the boy and you have not. I can wait no longer."

  "You'll wait until I'm ready. Got that? I'll let you know when I can produce the boy, not before."

  "These are excuses. Do you have the boy or not? I have paid you one hundred twenty-five thousand dollars. I demand to know."

  It took Black a long moment to answer. "Not yet."

  "Not yet? This is beyond belief—can you deliver the boy or not?"

  "Yes."

  "Then when?"

  "Like I told you, when I'm ready."

  Carl was beyond exasperated. He was just a block from the sanctuary. He had no information and no excuses to offer The High Coptic. Followers were not expelled from The Faith; they simply disappeared. He didn't know the how or the why. They were simply here one day and gone the next. They were not mentioned or discussed. It was as if they fell off the face of the earth. Worse still, it was as if they had never existed. Surely, the same future awaited him. He had made promises well beyond the scope of his ability to deliver. He'd heard that The High Coptic had relationships with unsavory types in Astoria, Queens, the Greek equivalent of the Cosa Nostra. "You have deceived me."

  "I fucking what?”

  "You have deceived me. You have no intention of making good on your promise."

  "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "Yes, yes, you are a liar. I have dealt with you in good faith and you have betrayed me."

  "Betrayed you—you have no idea. You'll know betrayal when I cut out your tongue and bury you face down in the cold dirt. You can take your paltry money and stick it up your ass." In her anger, the brogue returned to her voice.

  Carl was aware of it immediately. He was in front of the sanctuary, listening to the dire news, the confirmation that all his suspicions were true. He had been deceived and betrayed. "How dare you talk to me in such a way? We have ways of dealing with your type."

  "We who? You and your shit eating bunch of monks? You've got to be kidding. Now you listen to me—forget my phone number. Call me again and I'll make good on my promise. You won't be safe anywhere on earth. I'll track you down no matter where you go and I'll do it, I'll goddamn do it."

  The phone went dead in his hand. He stared at it—his last hope had disappeared. He scanned the street in both directions. She was right. His only hope was to disappear. He had given most of his earnings to The Faith but had held back a little. He had a small account at the bank. If he could get to it, then perhaps there was a chance. The Faith had large hopes, but in truth, it was a meager fraternity. He'd get on a bus and go as far as the money would take him. He had learned to be an excellent servant and though it cut against the grain of everything he believed in, it was better than death, far better.

  He hesitated just a second as he wrestled to find the guts to flee. In that moment, the door of the sanctuary opened and The High Coptic stepped outside, his eyes blazing with fire. Carl abandoned his plan to escape and obediently entered the sanctuary.

  Twenty-nine—BIG SHOES

  "What about the bag?"

  It was in Thorne's nature to get involved. Running the show was now completely out of the question and so she accepted a supporting role, trying to help out in any way she could. She wanted Manny back so badly that I ached for her—we all did. I couldn't imagine the pain she felt. How could any parent, for that matter? How do you go on when your life has been ripped away?

  "Excuse me?"

  "What about the bag, detective? I asked you about it before but you didn't give me an answer." She lifted one of the bags she had yanked out of the closet. She weighed the black Prada tote in her left hand and the Louis Vuitton in the right. "The Louis Vuitton, don't you think?"

  I didn't see why it mattered but obviously she thought it did. "That's a nice one," I answered in an uncolored voice. I was about to say, "It's a very popular choice and it goes well with the color of your eyes," when Thorne snapped at me.

  "Oh don't be so fucking polite, I asked you for a reason."

  I knew the cost of the bags carried no weight in her decision. Still, I figured I owed her honesty at the very least. "It doesn't matter. Whoever it is that's behind this is smart enough to know that we'd sew a tracing device into the bag's lining. They'll switch bags at the first opportunity."

  "Well of course they will. I watch TV, Detective. I know how it's done, but someone's going to impersonate me and if they're going to do it right, they'll use a good bag. These kidnappers... you don't think they're idiots, do you?"

  Thorne had a point. It wasn't much of a point, but there was no sense hurting her feelings. "Okay then, let's go with the LV, it's more recognizable than the Prada—I doubt the drop will be well lit."

  "Fine." Thorne discarded the gorgeous Prada bag as if it was the wax paper wrapper from a Taco Bell quesadilla. "It's a two thousand dollar bag. Perhaps they'll think twice before throwing it away."

  "Perhaps."

  Thorne rubbed her chin—she was deep in thought. "What else, what else? Shoes. A coat." She was very concerned about the appearance of the law enforcement agent that would stand in for her at the drop. "Hair," she muttered. "I'll call Victoria and see if they can squeeze us in. Have you decided who's going to do this? The hair, it's got to be just right. Do you think we'll need a wig?"

  Filling Celia Thorne's shoes was a tall order for any mortal. She had already told me that she would instruct the stand-in as to how to walk and how to carry herself. She was very serious about it all, the makeup, the hair, and the clothes. Not just any slouch would do. As I said, filling Celia Thorne's shoes would not be easy, but fill them I would. "I'm going."

  I knew she had heard me. I could also tell that it hadn't registered. She was back at it, digging through the closet for a coat. "A long one," she said, "In case she's on the thick side."

  Excuse me? "Ms. Thorne...I'm going."

  She slowly pulled her head out of the closet. She was about to say something but it disappeared and she began looking at me from a different perspective. "You're lovely, my dear, but you're not me." Of course not, no one was, no one could ever be. I was just a cop, a mere mortal, but worlds better prepared to go the distance with Manny's kidnappers than anyone else. She approached and examined my face, turning it gently from side to side. "You're so young. How can you fool them?"

  "We can do wonders with makeup, Ms. Thorne. I doubt the kidnappers have ever seen you in the flesh. Grainy newspaper photos, telephoto magazine shots—they'll be focusing on the bag of money anyway."

&
nbsp; "How can you be sure about this?"

  "I can't." I stepped away, turning to gaze out of the huge bedroom window. "It's not an exact science." I wasn't going to tell her what everyone in my place already knew, that the kidnappers would shoot first and ask questions later and that I was risking my life to bring back Manny, and despite all their considerable expertise, if I needed backup, it wouldn't arrive in sufficient time to save my life. I didn't say any of that. I was a cop with a job to do. "I can make it work, Ms. Thorne—I can be quite the actress."

  Thorne came to the window and looked out with me. Frost had formed on the outer glass. "Oh I don't think you're any bit an actress, but I wouldn't trust this job to anyone else." I could see that her throat was tightening. "I know you're risking your life, Detective, and I thank you."

  We both needed a hug. We did and then Thorne pulled herself together once more. She returned to her massive closet and continued to select my wardrobe. I watched for a moment and then fresh thoughts flooded my mind.

  At night they will think they have seen the sun,

  When they see the half pig man:

  Noise, screams, battles seen fought in the skies.

  The brute beasts will be heard to speak.

  It was the translation of the sixty-fourth quatrain, the one that had been delivered along with the ransom demand. It had been eating at me from the moment I had first seen it. At night they will think they have seen the sun. I had decided at the beginning of the case that I wasn't going to put any stock in Manny's prophecies. I knew that I had to pursue this case as I would any other, not allowing myself to be distracted by smoke and mirror prophecies that might or might not have to do with anything. Still, there was something about those words that left me cold. I couldn't honestly tell you what it was—not just then. Perhaps it was just that sixth sense cops develop and perhaps it was something more. I kept reminding myself that these were not Manny's words and that he was no more than a channel for a prophet that had died some four hundred years before. I also thought about the information I'd gotten from Twain...being that Nostradamus' prophecies were so vague, that they could seemingly apply to any number of circumstances.