Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (15 page)

She reached over and switched off the TV. "It's this or Letterman."

I understood her position immediately.

She pushed one of the sections of peanut butter smeared apple toward me. "I've got leftover
lasagna
in the fridge. I'll heat some."

I wasn't going to say no. I was starving physically, emotionally, and on several other levels. Ma was one of the great holdouts—she didn't own a microwave. Instead, she heated the
lasagna
in a frying pan until the edges of the macaroni were crisp. It no longer looked like
lasagna
as it came out of the frying pan and tumbled onto the dish, but the aroma was amazing and the first taste soothed my last raw nerve. She had a three-liter bottle of
Cribari
under the table. She poured the jug wine into a juice glass. It was also wonderful. "Eat," she said. "We'll talk when you're ready."

I was ready. "I had a fight with Gus." The words came out in between bites.

"Madonna—I knew it. What did you do?"

Now, I have to believe any other mother would have taken her daughter's side. Did you see him with somebody? Did he cheat? What did the louse do? But not Ma, she knew Gus and she knew her daughter. Ma was as direct as a bee sting. She was in my mind, connected to every nerve ending and synapse.

"I had a dream."

"You had a what?"

"I had a dream."

"And this upset him?"

"Very badly."

"Who were you screwing in your dream, Stephanie? Were you talking in your sleep? You did that in your sleep when you were younger."

"I did?"

Ma nodded. "You remember Michael Christopher?"

It took a moment, but it was there. Michael Christopher was a boy I had a crush on in high school. He had dark wavy hair and a cleft in his chin. He lettered in all the major sports: baseball, basketball, and skirt chasing. I was young and unwise then. I didn't give him the time of day, but secretly I thought he was hot. "What of it?"

"I almost poured water on you. You were moaning like it was some kind of voodoo mating ritual. Your father, God rest his soul, I thought he was going to put a gun to his head." Ma crunched down on her apple. "If Gus sat through that...well, what can you expect?"

I was so embarrassed—I began to laugh. I just couldn't help myself.

"Shush, keep it down." Ma was grinning. "I nailed it didn't I?"

I shrugged again. There was no point denying it. I understood why Gus was so upset, but really, think about it, it was just a dream.

"Who was it this time? Stephanie," she said playfully, "you're such a slut."

I wolfed down another bite of
lasagna
and looked down at the dish as I spoke—didn't have it in me to make eye contact. "Nigel Twain."

Ma covered her mouth in shock. "Dr. Twain, Madonna, you too?" It was her turn to be embarrassed. She'd already confided to me Nigel Twain had as much influence on her hormones as the moon had on the tides. "What can I say, Stephanie, you've got me dead to rights. I mean that man—dear God." Ma stood up and filled a glass with water. She was looking flush.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Stephanie, you've got to stop what you're doing. Don't screw up a good thing. Gus is a great guy and oh, just to remind you, he could pass for a young George Clooney. I'm kind of hoping he turns out to be it." Ma knew the term too, it, universally understood as the end of the journey, the man you've been waiting for. My STD carrying friend, Candace was not alone, far from it.

"How do I stop it, Ma? How do I stop myself from dreaming? We all have fantasies. I do. You do. I'm sure Gus dreams about other women—show me a man that doesn't."

"Of course he dreams about other women. He's a man, isn't he? But he keeps his dreams private, whereas you, my darling daughter, do not. Discipline, you've got to discipline yourself. You can't stop yourself from dreaming, nobody can, but the moaning and the groaning...honey, you're throwing it in his face. He's a wonderful guy, but he's got his pride. How would you feel?"

Like shit. Shrug number three. "This is a tough one."

Ma leaned over and kissed me on the forehead. "You'll find a way. You're a smart girl, I'm sure you'll figure it out." She walked to the refrigerator and fished out
a
plate. Something was wrapped in aluminum foil. She set it down in front of me and pulled off the foil. "When all else fails, there's
cannoli.
If you can't satisfy one craving, satisfy another."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, that's the way it works. Don't ask me why, but it does.
Mangia.
"

I ate every last crumb.

Ma made up the bed in the spare room so I could stay the night. In the morning, she told me that I had slept peacefully. In her words, "There were no voodoo ceremonies last night."

I went home in the morning for a shower and change of clothes. The Italian bakery on the corner was already open for business, so I stopped in for pastry. I didn't believe that the dessert had helped me through the night, but I figured what the hell, I could always burn off a few extra calories and Lido, as you know, was well worth it.

Moira
was playing the
ingénue.
She had the look down to a tee: the printed silk dress that played about the knee, not tight but clingy where it needed to be, shoulder-length brown hair, white linen gloves, and heels, not quite spikes, but high enough to make her sway when she walked—signals meant to confuse. An
ingénue,
perhaps one with a twist?

Today was a play day. An onslaught of hard work would begin tomorrow. The plan had been worked and reworked until she was pleased with it and now she was confident that she could pull it off. She found the prospect of a large payday overwhelming. She was giddy with the anticipation of wealth. It had been a very long time coming.

She arrived at the post office and pulled the padded mailer from her
Prada
shoulder bag, the counterfeit she had purchased for twenty bucks in Chinatown. She slipped on her dark sunglasses before entering, paid in cash for overnight delivery and left immediately afterwards.

A man slowed to observe her as she stepped into the sunlight. He was young with the look of success about him—media or brokerage,
Moira
decided. She lowered her sunglasses and smiled in a way that suggested that she approved, not quite, but almost flirting. She couldn't risk encouraging him too much, there was too much at stake. She took the ego boost and turned before he had the time to marshal an advance.

The weather had taken a turn for the better, bright sun and windless. She cinched the belt on her coat and started off toward Fifth Avenue to stroll past the designer shops and jewelry stores. Life had finally become well worth living—it hadn't always been that way. She had grown up in a dirt poor home on the outskirts of Dublin. Her father was a lazy drunk. He'd spent most of his days in front of the TV, watching soccer and dozing. Her return from school was always met with silence and a gesture, his eyes opening just enough to acknowledge her return. He'd pat the side of his recliner, gesturing for her to come and sit alongside him. He'd stroke her head as if she were a puppy. When he stopped, she'd look up at her father and find him asleep.

Moira
would do her homework sitting on the floor with her legs crossed, glancing up occasionally to see if he were asleep, trying not to think about how hungry she was. There was no food, not until her mother returned late in the evening with a bag of groceries and a sore back. Lots of potatoes swimming in leafy, heavily salted vegetables served with a scrap of cheap, chewy meat.

She was always amazed by how little her father ate, a few bites and then into her mother's bag for beer money.
Moira
would never forget what it felt like to be hungry or what it felt like not knowing when the next meal would come. Her mother came down with pneumonia shortly before Moira's thirteenth birthday. She died soon afterward.

Her father took her to the train station the day after the funeral.

"It's your Uncle Mike you'll be living with now."

"But what about school, Daddy, and my friends?"

"You'll have plenty of time for that. It's more important to have a roof over your head, isn't it?" He kicked at a rock. "Your mother was a darling,
Moira.
We'll all miss her. Anyway...the money's all gone now and...your uncle...he's had a bit of good luck. Your belly won't be growling in his house. Be a good girl, do your chores and mind your uncle's wishes." He was looking down at the ground as he spoke. "You know your old man's never been good with a job." The train began to move. He waved goodbye with a bottle of suds in his hand.

He had put her aboard without a dime in her pocket.

Uncle Mike was a gimp, retired on government disability. He was waiting for her at the other end. He hugged her, pressing against her.
Moira
thought that his cane was caught between them. When she pulled away she saw that it wasn't. It only got worse from there. The first time he raped her was his last. She waited until he was asleep next to her before tiptoeing out of bed. She used both hands to plunge an old pair of sewing shears into his chest.

She'd been alone from that moment on.

Moira
window shopped awhile longer before growing bored and ducking into the subway. The sky was dark when she emerged.

Daniel did not speak. He was her hump, always ready with action. He never questioned her, where she had been or what she was thinking. He cared nothing beyond a good orgasm.

Daniel opened the door. The TV was on, MTV blaring out into the hallway. He stood there in a sweater and jeans, smoking a cigarette. Without commenting on her appearance, he placed the cigarette between his lips and while standing outside his door, slipped her dress up and over her head. He turned and walked back into the apartment.
Moira
followed him in obediently and shut the door.

"I bought pastry."

"What?" Lido was working at his desk, facing me. He was staring intently at the computer screen. He didn't seem to grasp what I had said. He wasn't intentionally ignoring me—at least I didn't think so. He was just caught up in his work, zoned in on the case. To the best of my knowledge, the word 'pastry' wasn't normally used in the context of case crime investigation. I guess it came at him out of left field so to speak. I didn't have the heart to say that a box of
cannoli
had been sitting in the fridge for a day and a half and was probably stale. If he agreed, I'd run out and buy some fresh.

"I stopped at the Italian bakery and bought some pastry." I looked around. We were pretty much alone. I whispered all the same, "I thought maybe you'd come over for some coffee. I'd like to sit down and talk."

"Pastry. I was thinking more along the lines of pizza and beer. I'm more agreeable with a slight buzz."

Now we're talking. "Okay, pizza and beer it is. What would you like, regular or Sicilian?"

"Sicilian," he said. "Thick, chewy Sicilian with extra cheese and lots of cold beer." He was grinning. All of a sudden, I was starving. Somehow, he had made pizza and beer sound like a long night of sweaty sex. I could taste it already. I wanted to sprinkle Lido with a mound of hot pepper and leap over the desk.

"Sicilian's good." I leaned forward and mouthed, "I missed you."

Lido winked and went back to his work. Christ, but this was going to be a long day. I was about to hit the ladies room to splash a little cold water on my face...aw, who am I kidding, I was about to hose myself down. Anyway, I saw Sonellio approaching. I switched gears. "Hi, Boss."

"In my office, you two." The ever-personable Sonellio seemed a bit raw about the edges. "Let's run the Thorne case."

“Again?”

"Yes, again," I guess he could read it on my face. As I said, the boss didn't look too happy. Sonellio looked wane. His hairline was receding faster than Napoleon's troops at Waterloo. His suit hung a bit. All in all, I was a little worried about the boss. That healthy glow he usually sported was conspicuously absent.

I looked at Lido. He shrugged. We both grabbed our case folders and followed Sonellio into his office. He sat down at his desk. The boss' office wasn't much larger than a phone booth. Lido insisted that I sit. I shook my head. We both stood.

Sonellio looked somber. He pinched his cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and then sighed, dispelling tension into his tiny office.

"Pressure, Boss?"

He raised his eyebrows and then reached into his desk drawer for a bottle of
Pepto
. He raised the bottle, toasted the two of us, and took a swig—'nuff said. "What've we got?" he asked, washing down the
Pepto
with station house coffee, also known as sulfuric acid. "This Thorne woman, she's reaching out. I've gotten calls from the mayor and the chief of detectives this morning. Hell, I'm surprised I haven't heard from J. Edgar Hoover—this woman knows everyone."

I wasn't surprised.
Celia
Thorne breathed rarified air. She had attained a station in life that few achieve. I was sure she rubbed elbows with all the power brokers. "We're running the prints on the swipe card through IAFIS."

"No hits, I presume?"

"Not yet."

"What other shreds of evidence do we have? There was the strand of red hair from a wig and the boy's last prophecy—can you believe I said that? Prophecy, Jesus Christ, this is like a fucking Stephen King novel."

Sounds like it's time for
a séance.
"The blood drops on the paper were Manny's. Thorne has records on the boy going back to his very first visit to her physician.
CSI
found his hair in the truck as well."

"Anything on the Gillette woman? Anything that'll tie this thing together? Think, people, think."

Just
then my cell phone went off. The caller ID said TWAIN. I wasn't sure if Lido noticed. I let it go to voicemail and looked up just in time to see Lido looking away—bad timing, really bad timing. In my gut, I knew he had seen it. The pizza and beer thing was rapidly going down the drain.