Don't Close Your Eyes (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 1)

by Lawrence Kelter

  There was a Latino couple at the bar. They were doing calisthenics with their tongues. The guy had his hand up his date’s blouse. Who was I to be outdone? I ground my butt into Lido and gave him the dreamy-eyed look. God, don’t they have air-conditioning in this joint?

  Lido’s arms were around me, holding me tight. It felt so good. I wanted to unzip him and let Little Lido out for a merengue.

  We danced for hours and became drenched, our skin glistening, our libidos steaming. I looked over at the bar. That couple was still doing their oral calisthenics. They were now up to Jane Fonda’s advanced tape. You know, the one where you have to bend backwards until your head is just below your privates. “Hey, let’s throw a bucket of water on those two. I’ve got to sit.”

  Lido smiled. I kissed him on the neck. He was as salty as a bag of Lays potato chips, the original kind. He told me to stay put. He turned and maneuvered his way through the crowd. I saw him talking to one of the gargantuan bouncers. The next thing I knew, we were upstairs in the private lounge: quieter, cooler, and with far fewer inhabitants.

  We started making out. In the middle of a tongue bath, I said, “You’d better take me home. Displays of affection are one thing, but I draw the line at public fornication.” Most guys would have reached down into that muddy testosterone well and dredged up something stupid to say, but Lido didn’t say a word. He just hugged me, gave me a kiss, and took me home.

  Chapter Twenty

  FBI agent, Herbert Ambler pushed the packet holder containing artificial sweetener across the table toward me. “We’re well stocked here, blue stuff and pink stuff. Name your poison.” He smiled wryly.

  I selected a pink packet and winked.

  “Pink for girls?” Ambler mused.

  I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. I didn’t care to address the gender thing. “Carcinogen of choice. The other stuff grows furry little balls on female laboratory rats. Don’t need those. “

  Lido smirked. “No, you don’t.” He was trying to be cute, which I chalked up to SBS, Sudden Boyfriend Syndrome. I wanted to grab his leg and make him scream like a coyote at the height of lunch hour, but Ambler would have jumped on that in a second. Behind the bifocals were the eyes of an eagle. He was smart and savvy, the whole enchilada. I played it cool. My beau’s comment was innocuous enough, typical guy/gal partner stuff.

  Lido grabbed a handful of the granulated white and added six packets to his iced tea. I just rolled my eyes as he stirred.

  “What?” Lido asked, catching my expression. “It’s tough to dissolve.” He wore a quizzical expression.

  “Now we know why you’re so—”

  Lido flicked an intimidating finger in my direction. I should have known better. “Don’t even think about it, Chalice.” Ambler laughed as he wolfed down his hefty chicken-salad club. I figured it was time to move on.

  One more playful little quip and Ambler’d have us cold. “Women are dying, Ambler. What’s the Bureau got for us?” I saw him switch gears, which was exactly what I wanted. The best defense is a strong offense.

  “Almost nothing you haven’t heard already,” Ambler replied.

  I eyed him squarely. He was playing with us. “Then what are we doing here?”

  Ambler held up a wedge of his sandwich. “Best chicken salad in lower Manhattan. Thanks.” He added a shit-eating grin for good measure.

  “Who said I was buying? Come on, Ambler, tell us what you’ve got,” I implored.

  “Can’t I finish my lunch first?”

  “Come on, Ambler, stop dicking around. Tell me something or I’ll empty my clip into you.”

  Ambler put down the sandwich reluctantly. “All right, he’s a kisser.”

  Lido edged forward. “I don’t think I heard you.”

  Ambler touched his finger to his cheek. “Your perp kisses, lays a big, fat, wet one on his victims during the snuff. Both Ellen Redner and the bleach-blonde computer geek had traces of saliva on their right cheeks.”

  “Why didn’t our boys find that?” Lido asked unhappily.

  “The city’s resources suck,” Ambler explained. “If you want good assay, you’ve got to go federal. We’re cross-typing the two DNA samples. Results will be in shortly.”

  “What are we supposed to do with that?” Lido asked. “I mean it’s something, but not much.”

  “Patience, Detective.” Ambler shifted in his chair and picked up his sandwich. I watched him play Lido. I knew Ambler too well. There was more. “Lysergic acid diethylamide.”

  That brought me a smile. “So our boy’s a user,” I ventured.

  “Long term, Chalice. Preliminary DNA analysis shows genetic deformations on the chromosome bundles from both samples. It’s consistent with long-term use. LSD is a mutagen. We found traces in the saliva.”

  “I love you, Ambler.” My smile beamed across the table. Put enough money out on the street and something usually came back. That’s the way it was in the drug world. The only problem was separating the good information from the bad. Chronic stoolies are often unreliable.

  “I can start making calls.” Lido drained the last of his sugar water, wiped his chin and stood up. He knew exactly what to do, Snitches and Informants 101. His derriere was at eye level now. Bless his heart; he had a butt you could bounce a quarter off of.

  It was an effort, but I finally pulled my eyes off his rear end and met his gaze. I’ll catch up. I want to squeeze the Fed here. Who knows what else he’ll give up?” I winked. Lido seemed disappointed that I wasn’t leaving with him. I’m sure Ambler saw it too. Lido, you’re such a dope.

  “Fine. Catch ya back at the house.” Lido saluted Ambler with two fingers. “Much obliged.”

  I followed Lido until he was outside the restaurant before turning back to Ambler. “Thanks.”

  “Ain’t no thang.”

  “Spare me the urban shtick. You’ve got about as much soul as Al Gore.”

  “Ouch! That was cruel.”

  “You love it when I’m cruel.”

  He chuckled. “How’s Ma?”

  “As always.”

  “Still sneaking the chocolate bars?” I nodded. “Some things never change.”

  “I guess not.”

  Ambler washed down his meal with coffee. “That wasn’t half bad.” He rubbed his tummy.

  “I’d hate to see how you wolf down something you really like.”

  “Same old Stephanie. So, how long have you and Lido been an item?” He glared at me, defying me to refute his claim.

  “No. Absolutely not.” I shook my head and squirmed in my chair. “You’re way off base here.” I fished in my purse, took out my compact, and started checking my face. Girls are allowed to do that, even if they are cops. Ambler just sat there and waited. The old pro knew to follow his instincts. I milked the makeup thing as long as I could,

  “Two attractive people: opportunity and proximity.”

  “You sound like my father.”

  “He was one terrific cop.”

  “Bet your ass he was.” I don’t know why I got so defensive. After all, Ambler was like an uncle to me. I could tell him if I wanted to. I just didn’t want to.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I spotted Twain on the aisle, eighth row back, at Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. He was cloaked in black, a hood veiled his head. The heavens rumbled outside. Storm clouds gathered. The closing of the cathedral’s heavy door behind me restored silence. It was a quarter past four. The great church was mostly empty. Dim light filtering through the stained glass painted Twain in a gothic light. I kneeled and blessed myself before approaching him.

  “A Chalice in the house of the Lord? You honor me, Detective. You honor me by seeking me out.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “By your walk, Detective. It’s distinctive, like the strut of a panther.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “As you wish. I suppose skepticism is a valuable trait in an investigator.” Twain rose. I could see him
glance at me from behind his hood.

  “I love the cloak. Versace?”

  “Testy, Detective? You must be haunted by nightmares.”

  “I’m haunted by a great many things, Twain, you among them.”

  “Once again, flattery.” Twain slid farther down the pew. He gestured to the space he had vacated and lowered his head. I sat down, facing him. “This cloak gives me comfort and you’d be surprised at how little attention it draws.”

  “I’m sorry you feel the need to hide.”

  “One does not need a cloak in order to hide, but I see that it’s losing its effectiveness. Saint Patrick’s is a poor setting for a therapy session. Why didn’t you call for an appointment?”

  “I’m not here for therapy, Twain. I came for help with my case.” Damn, it hurt to say it. It was hard admitting that the psychopath had stymied us. Days were passing without us getting any closer to our killer. I wasn’t too proud to ask for help.

  “Oh. The other matter, is it? The well being of citizens before that of your own? That’s admirable.” He was so handsome that I just couldn’t stand it. Cloaked and behind a mask, it was like sitting next to a dark knight. “It’s all right, Detective, let the defenses down. We all need help from time to time. I’ve helped many over the course of my professional career.”

  “We think our psychopath uses LSD. We found traces of it in the saliva he left on the cheeks of the two female victims.”

  Twain’s eyes sparkled. “He kisses them? How intriguing. He loves his victims, Detective. He loves them very much.”

  “Then why does he kill them?”

  “Crimes of passion, Detective. You can love someone and still cause him or her pain. It happens every day. You know that. I’m sure he has a good reason for taking their lives, a very good reason. Go on, I’d like to know more.”

  “We’ve been combing the streets for a week, looking for our perp’s connection. No leads. He’s getting his stuff from a source we’re not familiar with.”

  “And so you’ve come to me, your resident expert on psychedelic drugs. You know, Detective, I haven’t been involved with hallucinogenic drugs in several decades. It’s so sixties. “

  “I love it when you’re flippant.” He chuckled in that lovely, deep, British tone. I could feel it echo within me. I wondered what he was wearing under that cloak. Was he bare beneath the black silk? Stephanie, my God, you’re in church.

  “Ah, the mystical LSD. Is it powerful medicine or the devil’s drug? I know LSD. I know it well. It can be a lovely maiden or the ghastly hydra. It all depends, doesn’t it, Detective?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Twain focused on the statue of the Blessed Mother. “Why do people alter their minds, Detective? They do so in order to see things differently. Haven’t you ever wanted to see differently, Detective? Individuals have used it to gain profound insights into the nature of religion. I used it as a microscope into the psyche, and the army has used it as an instrument of destruction.” He turned to me and smiled slyly. “Most use it to get blitzed.” In spite of the tension, we both laughed. “Good, laughter is so very often the basis for cure.”

  “I’d like to use it to find a murderer, Dr. Twain. Can we use it for that?”

  “Let’s pray.” Twain lowered his head again and closed his eyes. Is this guy for real? Twenty seconds passed, thirty. “Your mouth’s agape, Detective. Is it so bizarre to petition God for his support?”

  My mouth was open. I closed it quickly. “You’re praying for him to help with the case? That I don’t believe.”

  “Astute of you, Detective. It’s so hard sitting here alone with you.

  “What?”

  “Your mouth’s open again.”

  “Look, Twain, try to remember that I’m a cop.” I shot him a scowl for good measure.

  “You’ve got absolutely gorgeous legs.” I tugged down my skirt, couldn’t cover up as much as I wanted to. “It’s no use, Detective. LSD has heightened my senses forever. I can see you as if you were wearing nothing at all. It’s a gift.” I wanted to slug him, but his smile was sinful. I don’t know how I kept from blushing.

  Change the subject, Stephanie. Distract him. “What were you praying for?”

  “A cure for my phobia, to live as part of the germ-infested world, to take you in my arms and ravage you.”

  I shot out of my seat. “For Christ’s sake, Twain. One more crack and I’ll slap a pair of grimy cuffs on you.”

  He bore a look of tortured nobility. “Enslave me? You are such a tantalizing little minx. Yes, very well. Put me in irons.”

  “Man, you’re fucked up!” I bolted out of the church, angry, scowling, hot, and confused.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Bastard!” The door of the cathedral slammed behind me, delivering me from its sanctuary. We had angered God, Twain and I. Water poured from the sky as I imagine it must have in biblical times, the days of fire and brimstone. My kingdom for an ark. Water rose along the gutters of Fifth Avenue, rising above the curb, spilling onto the sidewalk. The sky was black. Traffic had ground to a stop. Horns blared in frustration all along Fifth Avenue. And there I was, without an umbrella or a car, unable to go forward or back.

  “I’m sorry.” He was there beside me. His movements were so stealthy that he seemed to materialize out of thin air. He pulled back his hood. His looks were devastating, my dark, brooding prince. “Truly sorry. Let’s go back inside.”

  “Not a chance. You’re an easy target for a lightning bolt out here. I’d be careful if I’d defiled God’s house as you just did.”

  “I’d really like to help you, Detective Chalice. May I?”

  “All right, but I want you to think of me as Typhoid Mary. Can you do that?”

  He closed his eyes and then reopened them. “Easily.”

  Hey, I don’t think I liked that.

  Twain gazed at the pitch-black sky. It was as midnight. His name defined him, destined from birth. Twain, he was two men, not one: the handsome, powerful brute and the helplessly phobic doctor. Which one would win? I could tell you how I’d cast my vote.

  “Give me something, Twain. Give me something I can use. I’m looking for a psychopath who uses LSD. Now can you tell me something, or can’t you?”

  “I used LSD as an amplifier of the psyche. The mind is filled with so many little bits, billions of nooks and crannies, most too small to get at through conventional psychotherapy. LSD helped me to help more of my patients than hypnosis ever could. It allowed me to ferret out vital clues and amplify them so that they were large enough to observe. I was not a flower child. Do you understand?”

  “I can see why you gave it to your patients. Why’d you take it yourself?”

  Twain looked sad, introspective, and absolutely vulnerable. Physically, he had it all. Mentally, well, that was another story. “I couldn’t get close enough to God without it.”

  “I don’t understand.” The wind began to whip up. It came in fierce gusts. I pulled my jacket tight.

  “My upbringing was devoutly religious. My parents forced me to worship. I didn’t know whether my devotion was the result of brainwashing or if I was truly in love with the Almighty. The drug helped me to see more clearly.”

  “How?”

  “To see, you have to experience. Pious men have been using hallucinogens since the beginning of time. Shamans, tribal priests, modern day clergy, you have no idea. There are documented cases of profound, life-changing spiritual experiences as a result of hallucinogens. Perhaps one day we’ll get close enough so that you can understand.”

  “Look what it did to you. It’s caused you such problems, life-changing problems.” Lightning flashed above. The air sizzled around us.

  “There’s good and bad in everything. My journey has been an intensely interesting one.”

  No doubt.

  “My phobias were not caused by LSD. They were caused by BZ.”

  “And that is?”

  “A very long story.
The short of it is that it’s the very last word in mind-altering substances. Think of it as LSD on steroids . . . But let’s talk about your case, shall we?”

  Finally. Thunder exploded. I nearly jumped into his arms. We were just inches apart, breathless. I stepped back quickly. “You said he loves his victims. Let’s go there.” Good recovery, Steph.

  “Isn’t that why we kiss, to show affection? Doesn’t that make sense?”

  Hey, make sense of this. “You’re telling me he loved both of those women. I really doubt that.”

  “I believe he did, but not as you’re thinking. He killed those women and likely several others, and he did it because he loved them. I tell you there were others, other women who fit the mold. Every time he murders, he’s killing the same girl. He’s doing it over and over again. The recent fatalities have something in common with his first victim. Find the first one and you’ll have him.”

  “He left us a clue each time. He tells us to look back.” The air had turned ice cold. Twain’s black cape flapped like a flag in the blustery wind.

  “Have you looked back, Detective?”

  “There are only two cases that fit his MO.”

  “The gunshot victims? Dismiss them. He wanted your attention. There must have been other suffocation victims that he’s responsible for. I’ll bet there are other women who got the big wet kiss. Check it out. There must have been other fatalities. The two men would never have been shot if you were giving him the attention he was looking for. He’s leaving clues, Detective Chalice. Doesn’t that make sense as well?”

  “You’re saying he’s got a hard-on for the NYPD.”

  “No, Stephanie Chalice. His boner is for you.”

  I was stunned. I remained silent while my brain raced to compute what Twain had just told me. My cell phone rang, snapping me back to attention. “Chalice.” My voice had a desperate, emotional quality to it. Twain’s comment was still processing. It was gradually eating into my brain.