The Brain Vault (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 3)

by Lawrence Kelter

  “You’re sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. You think I’m stu-nod (that’s Italian for dopey)?”

  “Anything but.” Okay, it was just one little piece of chocolate—I guess I could cut her some slack. I looked over her shoulder into the apartment. “Where’s my darling brother?”

  “You don’t know his hours yet? Ricky is still at work. He doesn’t get home until half past four.”

  Now this was a new thing. Ricky had begun working part-time for the local hardware store. It wasn’t so much about the money, but more to advance his development, teach him responsibility, and give his life a sense of purpose. He had been seeing Dr. Twain for almost a year and making great strides. Yes, this is the same Dr. Nigel Twain that appeared before me in my reverie wearing nothing but a loincloth. Twain and I go way back, but for the moment, suffice it to say, that in addition to being a hottie, Nigel Twain is one of the most brilliant, albeit controversial, psychiatrists in the world. Okay, New York City, but to those of us residing between the Hudson and East Rivers, New York is the world.

  “Right, I forgot. How’s that working out?”

  “Wonderful. Yesterday he brought home a caulking gun.”

  “Why?”

  “It was on sale.” Ma shrugged. “What do you want me to tell you—he wanted to give me a present. He gets a discount too.”

  “Do you want me to bring it back?”

  “Bring it back? Forget about it, I’m going to have it framed. You should see how proud he was.”

  I started to mist up. I’ve got so much going on, for the moment I’d forgotten how far he’d come.

  “So, you gonna stand out in the hall all day?” Ma grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me inside. “I got stuffed peppers—you hungry?”

  I really didn’t have much of an appetite, but there’s no way to resist Ma’s cooking.

  Ma gave me the usual mother’s once over. “You look thin.”

  “I’m not thin, I’m wearing black.”

  “Why, did someone die? It’s spring, wear something colorful.” Her words were music to my ears. Now, you’ve probably seen those old Italian women who wear nothing but black and keep their hair in hairnets after they suffer a loss. Well Ma wasn’t as bad as that, but for a few years after my father passed away she wore nothing but housecoats. So it was great hearing her address fashion in such an uplifting way.

  “Black’s fashionable.”

  She opened my blazer, which was unbuttoned, so that she could opine on my weight. “You look skinny, all except for the boobs—you got your period?”

  “No, Ma,”

  “God bless.” She turned and walked into the kitchen. “I got lots of leftovers—sit down.” Now Ma loved to cook, and with a hungry man like Ricky around— All I can say is that you couldn’t walk through the door of that apartment without getting a meal and a doggie bag to take home with you. She took out the tray of stuffed peppers and a dish of caponata, leftovers from dinner—the tray of peppers was still half full. She whipped out a fresh loaf of semolina bread to seal the deal.

  Okay, now I was hungry, salivating on the verge of drooling hunger. Why did I ever move out on my own?

  “So what brings you into this neck of the woods?”

  God only knew what she was talking about. As I said, I live within walking distance. I work here. I shop here. You’d think I had just flown in from Palermo. “What neck of the woods?”

  “Here, to my house.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m here all the time.”

  “You’re a stranger—I never see you.”

  “Ma, I was here over the weekend.”

  “So what, I’m supposed to be impressed by that? Mrs. Peckem’s son visits her every day.”

  “Ma, the man’s thirty-five years old and doesn’t know how to boil water—he’s helpless. I don’t know what he’d do without his mother.”

  “Whatayamean, helpless? The man’s a podiatrist.”

  “Honestly, Ma, I’m surprised the man can find his way back from the bathroom. I think she still buys his clothing.”

  “Ba! Get a dish.”

  Ma heated my food in a frying pan. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her use the microwave. It took longer, but I couldn’t complain. Her food is incredible. I tore off a hunk of bread and wolfed down the entire bowl. I’d have to hit the gym on the way home. I’d have to hit it hard, but the food was truly delicious, and I didn’t regret wiping the bowl with my bread to get the last morsel.

  Ma was smiling as I finished. “Madonna,” she said, “this one can eat. Leave the dishes. I want to show you what I bought.”

  Being the good daughter, I smiled broadly and followed her into the bedroom. I was hoping that she wasn’t going to show me the housecoats she scored at three for twenty at WAL*MART. All right, NYPD cops don’t make that much, but I had a flair for fine clothing. I’m not a snob, but the truth be told, I found mass-market body covering a tad icky. “So what’d you get?” I said sounding excited despite a growing level of apprehension.

  Ma took a small box out of her dresser drawer and handed it to me. “I bought it on the Home Shopping Channel.” The box contained a man’s ring, gold in color with a tiger eye. “I bought it for Ricky.”

  “It’s nice.” It really wasn’t half-bad, but I had a strong aversion to the schlock merchandise the television merchants hawked twenty-four/seven.

  “Do you think he’ll like it?”

  “No doubt.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek. “That was very sweet of you.”

  “It’s a genuine tiger eye. It’s very rare.”

  This is where I get myself into trouble. Anyone with half a brain would’ve let it slide—fool that I was, I just couldn’t. “Is that what they said on TV?”

  Ma nodded. “Three carats.”

  “Three carats of rock.”

  “What are you talking about, it’s a genuine stone.”

  “It’s not a stone, Ma. Tiger eye is an inexpensive rock; polished and coated, but it’s a rock. Caveat emptor.”

  “Caviar what?”

  “Caveat Emptor; buyer beware. Those TV merchants are snake oil salesmen at best. They prey on insomniacs and the uninformed.”

  “Ba!” Her Sicilian blood was really flowing now. “All of a sudden you’re a jeweler? They said it was a rare tiger eye.”

  “Ma, listen to me.”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  Thank God, just then the doorbell rang.

  “Who’s that?” she said.

  “I don’t know—expecting more estate jewelry from QVC? Maybe someone’s here with some rare rhinestones.” Of course I knew who it was—after all, I had extended the invitation myself. Sometimes I just can’t help breaking her chops.

  She dismissed me with a wave of her hand.

  “I’ll get it.” I rushed to the door. Now a cop should know better than to open the door without checking to see who’s on the other side, but as I said, I’d invited someone. Moreover you tend to be rather self-assured with a .45 wedged in under your armpit. The man standing in the doorway was no stranger. It was my dear friend, FBI Agent Herbert Ambler.

  Seven

  “Herbert.” I threw my arms around my old friend and gave him a hug. I’d asked him to meet me here to discuss the connection in our cases. He hadn’t wasted any time.

  He sniffed the air. “My keen nose tells me that I’m just in time for a late lunch—sausage and peppers?”

  “Stuffed peppers, but that was one hell of a good guess coming from an old Fed like you.”

  Ambler was no stranger to our home. He and my dad went way back; comrades in arms as it were.

  I heard Ma accelerating through the apartment. She was approaching critical velocity when she hit the door. “Herb, is that you?” She gave him a bear hug and a big fat wet one on the cheek.”

  Ambler had a head as large as a Kodiak bear and a huge smile that stretched from one ear to the other. “I can’t remember the last time I
got such a reception from two beautiful women.”

  “Don’t let him sweet talk you, Ma. He knows you made stuffed peppers.”

  Ma glared at me and whacked me on the arm.“ I thought you didn’t know who it was?” She laughed and turned back to Ambler. “It’s so good to see you.” Ma took him by the arm and led him into the apartment. “Sit down, sit down. How are you?”

  “No complaints, Lisa—and you?”

  “Complaints? Are you kidding; with my house filled with friends and family? Tell me, you didn’t have lunch, did you?”

  “Trust me, I know better than to show up at your doorstep unprepared to be plied with food.”

  “You’re a smart man.” She pinched his arm. “Good, wait right here, I’ll bring you a big dish of stuffed peppers. Stephanie just had some.” I could see that Ma was dying to sit down with us, but her instinct to mother one and all wouldn’t let her do so until she was sure that Ambler had been stuffed to the gills. “I’ll be back in a jiffy. I’m sure you’ve got business to discuss with my daughter anyway. I’ll be right back.” Ma was backpedaling toward the kitchen. “I’m so happy you’re here. I’ll get you something to eat. You look a little thin to me.”

  I turned to Ambler. Our eyes met and we both grinned. “It’s one of life’s great mysteries,” I said, “Everyone who walks through this door suddenly becomes emaciated—It’s on a par with the Bermuda Triangle.” Ambler was chuckling behind his vintage aviator glasses. “What the hell is so funny?”

  Ambler leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “I already ate. I just don’t have the heart to tell her.”

  “Or the strength to fight with her?”

  Ambler nodded. “Amen. Your mother hasn’t lost a step, God bless her. Still sneaking the chocolate bars?”

  “Nothing’s changed.” I crossed myself and then the moment of our reunion had passed. Ambler, as we know, had not come for the blue plate special.

  I knew that Ambler and I were already on the same page. My veteran FBI friend knew there was a connection as well; a link between the skull we recovered and the murder that had taken place in Central Park sometime earlier.

  “You’re familiar with my case?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I am, but why don’t you give me the high profile on it. I’m only familiar with the details as an outsider.”

  “If you recall, two guys went on a nature walk, neither returned. We identified the decapitated victim from his fingerprints. His name was Kevin Lee, a thirty-year-old commercial photographer, living on West End Avenue. We’ve conducted a very concentrated investigation, virtually tore apart sections of Central Park and put it back together again when we were done—like I said, we’ve come up with nothing. If your skull fits our body—It would be a freaking miracle—you say an elementary school kid had it in his backpack?”

  “Yes, but probably less than an hour—I’m sure it was Doe that brought the skull with him to Central Park. He would’ve had it in his grasp if he had stayed conscious.”

  “And you’re so sure of this, why?”

  “My John Doe had been badly tortured. Although we still don’t have an idea of how long he was incarcerated, I’ll bet you dollars to Krispy Kreme donuts that he’s been working on his escape for quite a while and was planning on taking the skull with him when he got free. Unfortunately, his captor followed him to Central Park. I don’t know if he was unconscious from blood loss, the Taser, or a combination of both. We’re just lucky that the bastard that Tasered Doe and me didn’t risk coming back for it last night. Corey, the school kid, must’ve stumbled across it that morning on his school trip.

  “You’re so smart,” Ambler said, teasing me.

  “I try not to let it go to my head. You know what Einstein said?”

  Ambler shook his head. “What, E=mc2?”

  “Among other things, yes, but that’s not what I was going for.”

  “Well hell, Stephanie, what did he say?”

  ‘“Before God, we are all equally wise and equally foolish.”’

  “That’s extremely philosophical.”

  “Hey, you’re talking about the scientist who theorized relativity. The man wasn’t exactly a chicken plucker.”

  “No, I guess not. Lee and his companion had a long-standing relationship and were last seen together the morning of Lee’s disappearance. His companion was never found, not his skull, nor his body, not anything. We’re kind of hoping he’s still alive. I’m sure you already know that the missing person is Paul Liu, and that his father is R.C. Liu, the Chinese ambassador to the United States.”

  Ambler hadn’t added much to what I already knew. I did, however, want to get my greedy little hands on his case files ASAP. I’m sure there were details in the records that would contribute to my understanding of the case.

  Ma was already on her way out of the kitchen. She had Ambler’s second lunch on a serving tray. “Piping hot,” she said. “How about a glass of wine?”

  “No thank you, Lisa, this will be fine. It looks delicious.”

  “The bread, oh my God, I forgot the bread.” Ma did an about face, rushing back to the kitchen.

  Ambler lifted the fork. He paused just before putting the first sumptuous bite into his mouth and looked me in the eye. “So, are we gonna play nice?”

  “Ma always taught me to share. How about you?”

  Eight

  The ICU nurse wrapped the blood pressure cuff around John Doe’s arm and began squeezing the bulb that forced air into the bladder. She looked away as she was doing it in an effort to remain detached. She was a veteran who had seen intense amounts of suffering, the elderly, infants, and small children, victims of terrible accidents, and cancer patients. She had developed a thick skin, but this one, Doe, it hurt for her to look at him. The scars and burns speaking on his behalf, saying to her that which he could no longer express verbally. Somehow his silence bypassed her ears and found a place in her heart. Who could do such a thing? She shook her head and then noted his blood pressure on the chart. Despite her best efforts, her gaze drifted, falling upon his face. Her thoughts ran to her son who had just returned from Iraq. He had been injured during his final tour of duty and was now home. He was still in physical therapy, but would be fine. Best of all, he was never going back. He had been honorably discharged. Thank God. She made the sign of the cross and then said a prayer for John Doe, a man she didn’t and might never have the opportunity to know. “You poor man,” she said, “What happened to you?”

  The odor of cigarettes was heavy in the air, as the bedroom door was pulled shut. John Doe could hear the metallic thud of the dead bolt as it slammed home. He knew the sound by heart, the terrifying clang he had endured on a daily basis for weeks on end. He was once more alone in his cell.

  The room in which Doe was held captive was on the top floor of a brownstone. The room was large, with a high ceiling. A skylight with security bars kept the room bright during the daylight hours. No shadows crossed the light during the daylight hours, and Doe intuited that to mean that no tall trees or large buildings were close in vicinity. All in all, it was a very pleasant room, had it not existed for the express purposes of incarceration and torture.

  Doe was naked in the center of the bed—just where he had been left. A wall-mounted surveillance camera was focused on the bed. It had been turned off for some time. Doe had grown into the habit of listening for the hum of the camera’s reciprocating motor which would come on at the end of each session. The camera was frozen now, as it had been for weeks. The reason was obvious to Doe—his captor had tired of him or was no longer concerned with his escape, perhaps both. Either explanation reinforced Doe’s belief. He was no longer worthy of anyone’s attention.

  “Maybe I’ll feed you today, maybe I won’t.” The captor’s adenoid voice was callous. He abruptly dabbed out his eighteenth cigarette of the day and shut the video camera. “You’re fucking useless, you know that?” He said nothing else before leaving the room.

  Sound and
smell were all that Doe had left. He had been blinded by repeated injections of Drano to his eyes. The room’s freshly painted white walls had become a canvas upon which he saw, or imagined only shadows. The muscles in his hands and arms were almost useless from constant restraint with piano wire.

  The room was silent now in the aftermath. The captor had satisfied his curiosity and had left Doe to his solitude.

  Doe sank back onto the pillow, careful not to allow the piano wires that bound him to cut into his already raw wounds. There was no way for Doe to avoid the pain when the captor was in the room with him. The best he could do was shrink into a corner of his mind and wait for the humiliation to end.

  He felt tears rising up again; tears that consistently followed each encounter. He had been imprisoned a very long time and now accepted the fact that he would never know freedom again. He tried humming but his throat still ached from the needle that had been thrust into his voice box. He swallowed gingerly—it ached as if the needle was still in there, still lodged in his throat, preventing the swallowing mechanism to function normally. He wasn’t sure who could hear him, but apparently the captor wanted to safeguard against Doe screaming and being overheard. Drano had been injected into his throat as well, and it had destroyed his vocal cords. But he had taught himself to hum, using only the canals of the nose and throat as resonating chambers.

  The windows were open, allowing the warm spring air to wash over him. He had a vague memory of how the room looked, memories from before he had lost his vision. Wrought iron bars were bolted on the inside of the windows over heavy white shades. The floor was composed of tan and brown linoleum squares. The walls were a glossy white. That was how Doe remembered it. He had been heavily sedated in the early days, the days when he still had the strength to resist.

  The piano wires were anchored to the ceiling. They allowed him access to a sink and toilet on the north side of the room away from the windows. Not that it mattered. Doe lacked the strength to escape. He no longer fought back when he was tortured. He was fed enough to stay alive, but not enough for adequate nutrition. His muscles were badly atrophied. His will had been crushed.