Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (14 page)

Standing over the body, I could see that Helen's corpse was a lifeless white. I could see in her face that which I had determined by looking at her photographs—Helen Gillette was not a criminal—a victim perhaps, a victim of loneliness, someone easily taken in. She was someone hoping that life would smile down on her occasionally. It hadn't.

Her clothes had been removed for the autopsy procedure. She was not tall, perhaps five-three, very thin, and as many might have said, nondescript. Davis Mack's description of the woman that had abducted Manny included straight, red hair, brightly colored. Helen's was not. It had the mildest red tint. Her hair was much closer to auburn and it was wavy. Her murderer had not even seen fit to buy an authentic wig. This other woman, the one that had used Helen Gillette's life as a chess piece, was cocky—couldn't wait for her first slip up. I'd be there to nail her cold when she did.

Tully rolled over his cart of instruments. He was murmuring as he arrived. "Pure evil,
mon.
Whoever done this had no heart and no soul." He turned to Lido. "Gus, help me turn her over. I'll show you how she was killed."

Helen's body was turned until it was face down. Tully lifted her wavy hair, exposing the entry wound, which appeared to be a single stab wound to the back of the neck.

"She never saw it coming, did she?" I asked.

"When did this take place?" Lido asked.

"Maybe seventy-two hours ago. The body's in full rigor, but the temperature in the dumpster was below freezing. So I can't be more specific than that—not just yet,
mon."

"Murdered the night before the abduction—the timing fits," I said.

"What can you tell us about the murder weapon?" Lido asked.

"Maybe an inch thick—serrated."

"Like a steak knife?" I asked.

Lido beamed at me. I began to tingle all over.

"I'll get right on that," he said.

Tully gave us another woebegone shake of the head. "Her murderer was cowardly. This poor woman was here one minute, gone the next. Her
life
ended that fast. You two familiar with this kind of attack?"

Lido and I both knew. We had learned the technique as part of our antiterrorist training. It was taught as a technique for disarming a suicide bomber. By severing the spinal cord at the base of the brain, all neural impulses are cut off to the body, preventing the would-be bomber from detonating his explosives. It was a technique that was rarely used. First, even a reasonably clever terrorist would use a dead man's detonator, a device which required the bomber to maintain constant pressure on the detonator button and would activate in the event of its release. Secondly, you had to be a crack shot—the bullet had to sever the spinal cord entirely, a difficult task even if you had a clean shot, considerably harder without being able to see the spinal cord's placement within the neck.

In Helen's case, it was different. She had received a single stab wound at close range. The wound was inflicted by someone standing behind her. It was likely someone she trusted. When the knife severed the brain stem, the brain likely continued to function for a short time. I wonder if Helen was able to see her assailant after her body collapsed to the ground. It's a bewildering death. You feel the piercing stab of the knife and then nothing. All sense of pain is gone. Helen Gillette did not scream or struggle. Lido told me that the body was found
in a commercial
sanitation
dumpster.
I wonder if Helen was eye to eye with her killer as her benign body was lifted into it. I wonder if she had a sense of what was happening to her. What was that pain at the back of my neck? Why am I lying on the floor? I can't feel anything. I can't get up. What's going on? And then finally, the benevolent end.

The body was not discovered until it was dumped out at the Staten Island Kills, a dump that could be spotted from miles away by the clouds overhead, clouds made up of thousands of scavenger seagulls that continually circled over the area.

The numbered dumpster had been traced back to a restaurant named the Red Bird Grill. The bartender and waiter remembered seeing Helen a few nights back. The bartender had described her as bubbly.

The waiter also remembered her very well. He recalled that she and her friend had both eaten steak and that Helen had turned red when she saw the bill for dinner. The woman with her was a flirt. He recognized her from the sketch he was shown. The same woman that had abducted Manny had murdered Helen Gillette. As I said, this woman was cocky. She was not afraid to show her face. She was a redhead for the abduction, and a blonde for Helen Gillette's murder. I was guessing she was a brunette by now. Hair color is hair color and facial anatomy is quite another. I knew what she looked like and sooner or later I'd take her down. She was just too damn brazen to know it.

It was past 6:30 PM. As is true of winter, night had long ago fallen. The character of the neighborhood had changed substantially, taking on a troublesome guise. Driving down the streets of Washington Heights, I sensed that many a misdeed was being planned. All smalltime stuff. It was in the air. It was in the eyes of the street urchins, their surreptitious glances at my unmarked as I drove by—was I a threat to them or not? I studied them quickly and then glanced away. Local law enforcement had a far better handle on it than I did. My purpose was clear; I was looking for the woman that had murdered Helen Gillette and abducted Manny Nazzare. A smalltime collar was hardly going to ring my bell.

Ernie,
I would learn, was the name of the kid I had seen on the street outside Rousseau Brothers Garage. He should have been home doing his homework, eating dinner, or helping with the dishes. He wasn't. I decided it was time for the two of us to get acquainted.

His bright blue do-rag glowed like a polar icecap beneath the light of a street lamp. He was attempting to clip the chain of an unattended bicycle. I'd parked slightly up the block and approached on foot. "Hey there," I said, preempting Ernie's attempt at petty larceny.

I truly expected him to be flustered, to register fear, grin sheepishly at the very least. Man, was I mistaken.

He peeked at me quickly and then his eyes were back on the bolt cutter. "There something I can do for you?" he said, his tone clearly establishing that I had no place in his business.

I made a quick adjustment. I mean the kid had barely scratched puberty and he was all attitude. Ballsy, don't you think? "NYPD," I said. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Ernie
looked up reluctantly. "You think it's a good idea for you to be out here by yourself? I mean you being a woman and all."

I mean who does this kid think he is—Tony Soprano? "That's it!" My cuffs were out in an instant. "Turn around, hands out. You got a
tude
problem, young man. You think a little menace like you is going to be safe in juvie?"

"Aw, stop it, lady, you ain't gonna lock me up."

Ernie had yet to comply with my instructions. I spun him around and ratcheted the cuffs down on his bony little wrists just tight enough so that he'd know I meant business. "Wrong!" I shoved him up the block toward the car. He made a puss and dragged his feet. Nonetheless, he was sitting in the back of the unmarked faster than you could say
gansta
.

"You got a name?" I asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror.

He stared unhappily out the window. It took a moment before he realized that I was in no rush to set him on his merry way. "Ernie," he said—nothing more.

"Ernie what?"

He scrunched his lips. "Velez."

"Where do you live, Ernie Velez?"

He glanced toward the third floor window, just above us. "3D. Look, lady, what I done wrong?"

Ernie was a little bit of a thing with cornrows cropping out beneath the edge of his do-rag. He had tough guy down to a tee. "Don't try to play me, kid, I caught you red handed."

"What crime? That's my bike."

"Good one, Ernie. Try shitting me again, I'll stop talking and start driving. I'll have you in lockup so fast it'll make your head spin." I hated bullying a kid, but really, it was for his own good. "You got that?"

"Uh
huh."

"Why were you stealing the bike, Ernie?"

He gave me one of those expressions—the one young teens do so well. They make you feel like a moron. It read, you for real? "Ain't got one. It's simple economics, man. You need something, you take it."

Who's your economics professor, Snoop Dogg? "Not exactly, young man. You need something? You get a job. You earn money. You buy what you need. It goes more like that. Now your butt's in a sling—what's your street economics going to do for you now?"

"I wanna cop a plea."

"You wanna cop a what?” Now I was flustered—Ernie was the most impressive aspiring criminal I'd ever met. He'd be on the cover of Felon magazine in no time. "You've been watching too much television, my friend. What do you have to bargain with? Where's your leverage?"

"I seen the truck."

Bingo! Thank God I was still facing forward so that he didn't see the excitement in my eyes.

"That's worth something, ain't it?"

"What truck?"

"Ah come on, lady, I know you're here about the truck. I seen the police tow it away."

"Maybe I am and maybe I'm not—what have you got for me?"

"I seen the truck going into the garage."

"When was that?"

"Couple nights ago."

"You see who was driving the truck?"

"A guy."

"A guy—not a girl?"

"There was a girl there too, in another car. She opened the garage and let the truck in."

I took out the lady killer sketch and held it over the top of the seat so that Ernie could see it. "This her?"

Ernie glanced at the sketch. "What if it is? I got leverage yet?"

"Just answer the question, Ernie. I'll let you know when you've racked up enough points."

"Yeah, that's her."

"What color was her hair? What was she wearing?"

"Black hair, nose ring, she looked like one of those vampire girls."

"Goth?"

"Uh
huh." Ernie wrinkled his nose. I take it he didn't go for the black makeup thing.

"What about the guy?"

"Never seen him. He never got out of the truck."

"The girl knew the combination to the key pad?"

"Nah, she swiped it."

"I see." I had only looked at the keypad quickly. It obviously had a swipe mechanism beneath it. The question was where had she gotten a coded card from? "Any idea where someone could get one of those swipe cards from, Ernie?"

Ernie
didn't respond. I was still monitoring him in the rearview mirror. His attempt at deadpan was good but not great. I gave him a moment to cook his own goose. "Hear that, Ernie?"

"Hear what? I don't hear nothing."

"That's the sound of your leverage getting flushed down the toilet. Weigh your options, young man, information or incarceration, your choice. I'm going to count to ten. One, two, three, four, five—"

"
Awright
. Here, man, in my pocket."

I swiveled in my seat. Following his gaze, I reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a coded swipe card with my fingernails. I dropped it into an evidence bag before looking it over. "Where'd you get this?"

"She left it on top of the key pad."

"She see you?" I was asking for his protection. I didn't want her coming back to take care of loose ends.

"No way. I waited until they were long gone."

"Your leverage is growing, kid. I'm going to reduce your charges."

"Reduce 'em? Man, I just solved your whole damn case." Ernie was quite dramatic, but we were going to pay a visit to his mother no matter which way you sliced it.

"You're getting off easy, kid. Let's go."

I brought him upstairs to let his mother mete out the justice. I hoped I'd opened his eyes a little—put a scare into him, but really, I wasn't quite sure. We all know that kids are resilient—sometimes that cuts both ways. My guess was he'd be back on the street as soon as things cooled off. Ernie didn't strike me as the kind of kid that would give up easily. He'd boost that bike yet.

I had gained something in the bargain—the plastic swipe card used to obtain access to the garage. With any luck, we'd find a worthwhile print on it.

The pieces were falling into place. I truly hoped my villainess was too smug to see it coming. I ached to see the look on her face when I tapped her on the shoulder and placed her under arrest.

I dropped the swipe card off at the crime lab and headed off for home. It was late and I was tired and hungry. I thought about pizza and a mellow cabernet. I could almost taste it when it dawned on me I'd be dining alone. I changed directions and headed for Ma's. I was in no mood to be alone.

It was almost midnight by the time I arrived. I rapped lightly on the door with my college ring. Ma usually goes to bed about 1:00 AM. I knew she'd be up watching the tube.

"Stephanie, is that you?" Ma's voice was a whisper passing through the door.

"Yeah, Ma, did I wake you?"

"You know you didn't." She opened the door. "Ricky's asleep. Be quiet."

We tiptoed into the kitchen.

Ma was in her jammies and a housecoat. A quartered apple lay on the kitchen table alongside a jar of carb control peanut butter.

I kissed her on the forehead. Ma was a diabetic with a powerful chocolate
jones.
She had an episode last spring that landed her in the hospital. I almost lost her. She's been a good girl since then.

"What's that for?" she asked.

There were no words. I shrugged.

"Oh boy, what's wrong? Where's Gus? You haven't eaten, have you?"

And that's why they're mothers—they can see through you in an instant. It was that uncanny sixth sense, that ability to reconnect with you as if the umbilical cord was still attached—light years more advanced than the Vulcan mind meld.

As expected, the small TV was on. She was watching Howard Stern. The shock-jock-turned-media-impresario was at the height of his powers, attempting to negotiate a pretty blonde out of her clothes, offering implants as bait. "Ma, you watch this?"