Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (25 page)

I mouthed, "one minute," at him. "We caught a break. Turn around, start heading uptown."

"Are you nuts?" Lido asked. "What's going on?"

"Just do it," I said.

"Just do what?" Riker asked.

"I wasn't talking to you. So, you don't know where he went?"

"Nah, we were just about to take our dinner break," Riker said.

"Call for backup, silent response. I repeat, silent response. I don't want anyone making a move until I get there. Try to determine where the homeless guy went and lay low until I arrive. Copy that?"

"Copy."

"Give me your phone number, Patrolman. Notify me if anything happens, anything at all."

Riker rattled off his cell number. I copied it down on a scrap of paper and repeated it back to him to verify.

Lido was having a coronary. "Jesus, Stephanie, what?"

As much as I hated doing it, I silenced him one more time. "We'll be there in twenty minutes, Riker. Cold out there on the street?"

"Bone
chilling."

"Don't screw up, this is your opportunity to make sergeant—got it?"

"Ten-four," he replied and then disconnected. I could almost sense him grinning on the other end of the line. Riker may not have been officer material. Any self-respecting law enforcement officer with an ounce of initiative would have followed the homeless man but Riker hadn't. I guess he couldn't get his fast food fast enough. I was hoping he'd be able to locate the homeless man and not make a mess of things until we arrived. All my fingers were crossed and then some.

I turned to Lido. He was on the verge of hysterics. "Huge break," I said. "Head up to 116
^th
and Broadway, a homeless man—" I broke off in mid sentence, remembering that Ambler was still holding on the other line. "Shit, Ambler."

Lido glared at me and snatched the cell phone out of my hands. "Screw Ambler." He stuffed the phone between his legs and slammed on the gas.

I'll be damned if I wasn't tempted to go after it, although not for the purpose of bringing Ambler up to speed. I suppose Ambler would just have to wait. Gus Lido was first fiddle in my orchestra. The last thing I wanted was to hurt his feelings over another man again. Speaking of which, I wondered how Twain was doing over in Whopping Fog Hole or wherever it was he was visiting. Those Brits have such wonderfully odd names for their burbs: Stratford-upon-Avon, Piccadilly, Blackburn Lancashire. Whopping Fog Hole didn't sound like much of a stretch.

"A homeless man just handed the Louis Vuitton bag and my business card to a patrolman and told him to call me immediately."

"Empty bag?"

"Didn't ask. Assumption, yes. I think the patrolman would have told me if someone handed him a bagful of cash."

"He describe the homeless man?"

"No." Riker hadn't offered a description but I should have asked. How, I wondered, could a random homeless person have implicated himself in the recovery of Manny Nazzare? I thought about it a second and the answer popped right into my head. The answer was obvious, he couldn't.

They celebrated on top of the money, on top of the bundled stacks of cash strewn haphazardly across the bed. The session was quick but furious. It always was, like the sudden trauma of an explosion. Daniel never spoke. He offered no heated sexual repartee, no direction—nothing, save his beastly grunts that seemed to emanate from the gut.
Moira
had learned to read his creature-like instructions, reacting, countering, moving just so, guaranteeing his pleasure and ultimately her own.

Moira
lit a cigarette. She sucked the smoke deep down into her lungs and blew out a succession of rings. It was her first five million dollar fuck. It had left her exhausted, cleansed of all energy and emotion. For the first time in a great while, her mind was free and unbridled. She inhaled again, feeling peaceful as she exhaled, allowing her mind to wander.

The feeling of being rich pleased her, despite the fact that she had yet to spend the first dollar of her new fortune. She felt complete, lying naked amidst her money, touching it, caressing it, enveloped by it. What would she buy first, cars, clothing or jewelry? They had already decided that the Caymans would be their first port of call: sunshine, the ocean, and a corporation to shelter the cash. Just the first of many installments in a long line of deposits they hoped to make.

She heard the toilet flush. Daniel was well into his post coital cleansing routine. It was the one thing she truly detested about him, the scrubbing and disinfecting ritual he performed the moment they were done. His alcohol and his antibacterial scrubs, they were burrs in her soul. Yes, she had been with other men but she wasn't a sewer. Daniel made her feel as if she was, as if she were unclean and needed to be purged from his every pore.

She was
a slave
to his passion, to the fire he generated that consumed them both. In the shower, in the kitchen, when it was least expected, he would erupt and take her without notice, brutally and selfishly and when he was done he would disengage just as abruptly, withdraw and walk purposely into the bathroom without so much as a loving look in her direction. He'd emerge and dress immediately, not to come near her again until his tide rose again.

She existed between these storms, waiting in anticipation for the next wave to overtake her and to destroy her like a powerful tsunami. It was total satisfaction, followed by utter revolt. He was cold at heart, a coldness
Moira
had become addicted to.

The flushing toilet meant that he was fifty percent done. He had cleansed and voided and would now cleanse himself all over again. She'd spied on him through the door opening, only once; just long enough to grow ill observing the ritual.

Another relaxing puff—she retreated into her mind. She was on the Cayman beach, lying on the sand with small waves lapping over her legs, a slight breeze playing with her hair. Calypso music danced in the air. All senses were content, all worries left behind. This was her new life, the way it would always be, sun and dancing, nights filled with passion. And food, decadent food: lobster and crab, expensive wine to quench her thirst. She thought about how easily they had scammed everyone. They'd be able to use Manny forever, a golden goose that would never cease laying eggs.

She pictured him in his wheelchair with his vacant glance off to nowhere, a multimillion-dollar enigma. He was there on the beach with her, looking at her in his way, I don't understand. I'll never understand. He was so pathetic that it was funny. The shadow from his wheelchair spread over her and then the sun began to fade. Dark clouds filled the sky, and then the sizzle of a lightning bolt.

The crash sounded far away, like thunder rolling in the distance. And then it hit her, it was real. She looked up as the immense black man entered the room, stepping over the door he had battered to the floor. He had traded his tailored suit for street rags but the disfigured ear could not be disguised.

She watched him stride across the room, his gun trained on her, the first round chambered. A towel hung off the back of an old chair. Davis Mack grabbed it and tossed it to her without saying a word.

Moira
listened for sounds from the bathroom but it was silent. She could see that Daniel had switched off the bathroom light. He knows. It gave her hope. She knew she had to distract Mack long enough for Daniel to act. But how she wondered. She didn't think long. Ignoring the towel, she picked up a stack of cash and popped the paper band with her thumb. She probed Mack's eyes as she got off the bed, brazenly taking a step in his direction.

"Sit the fuck back down," Mack ordered.

Moira
continued to advance, looking at Mack with longing. She fanned the hundred dollar bills out over her breasts and let the bills slowly cascade over them, down her torso and legs.

"I told you to—" This time it was Mack that advanced toward her "Nah, fuck this." His left hand was back, cocked and ready to explode. It shot forward like a ramrod, the heel of his open hand slamming into her forehead.
Moira
flew backwards, crashing into the wall. She collapsed onto the floor, her eyes rolling as she surrendered her conscious mind.

The bathroom door swung open. Daniel emerged, firing his gun twice, the bullets hitting Mack squarely in the chest, slamming him into the dresser. He sank to the floor, his eyes wide, pinned on his murderer until he died.

Daniel moved to the center of the room. He was still naked as he quickly looked about, sizing up the situation. He heard noises in the hallway, voices, movement—there wasn't a moment to lose. He lifted the smashed door and put it roughly in place over the opening.

Moira
was just stirring. She had the vague sense of Daniel moving around the room. Help me. The words would not come out of her mouth. Her arms and legs were empty canisters with no power as she tried to push herself off the floor. Daniel...help me, another silent request that was not honored. She could see his naked body kneeling next to Mack's. Daniel? Daniel turned toward her as if he had heard her call his name. He was looking at her so oddly, his face a mixture of coldness and purpose. There was something dark in his hand. She tried to shake the cobwebs away. What's that? She was still trying to comprehend the situation when the bullet slammed into her chest. The light faded and then Daniel disappeared forever.

I spotted Riker leaning against the railing of the subway entrance on the corner of 116
^th
and Broadway, cup of coffee in one hand, a half eaten Big Mac in the other. Let's face it, the man was hungry, not quite hungry enough for a righteous collar, but hungry nonetheless.

I was out of the car before the brakes could haul the unmarked to a stop. Riker's mouth was agape as I approached—to be fair, I didn't know what I looked like at this point: makeup remnants on my face, wild hair, old gal duds, breasts untethered beneath the cashmere Armani sweater—it could have been scary. Not Nightmare on Elm Street scary but scary all the same.

"Riker?"

He nodded and tossed the uneaten portion of his burger into a street trashcan. "Chalice?" He was still chewing. The Louis Vuitton bag was on the sidewalk, partially wrapped in a black trash bag.

Lido was already at my side. I was introducing him to Riker when I spotted a car door opening across the street. The man getting out looked Indian, not an American Indian but one with roots to societies where cows live to a ripe old age, are treated to regular massages, and receive geriatric care when they become incontinent. In any case, I made him for a cop. He was on his cell phone as he crossed the street. From his expression, it looked like he was desperate to get off the phone. He shut down his call just as he approached us.

"Nick Reddy," he said, offering his hand, "Twenty-sixth Precinct." He was short and wiry with a dark moustache. He sounded like any other New York cop, without any hint of an accent in his voice.

"You're in charge?" I asked.

"I'm in charge," he confirmed, opening his coat so that I could see the lieutenant's shield hanging around his neck. "I understand that Riker here stumbled onto your case." He pointed at the recently sated patrolman who had hand to mouth, stifling a yawn. "I've got undercover officers dispersed along the block and snipers on the rooftops."

"You were discreet?" I asked.

"Stealth," Reddy fired back. "What the hell is going on here?"

"It's in all the papers," Lido said. "The abduction of
Celia
Thorne's ward."

Reddy's eyes widened, his nostrils flared—the air was fragrant with the aroma of promotion. "Manny Nazzare, that's what this is about?"

"Maybe. We blew a ransom drop. Riker phoned us saying a homeless man gave him that Louis Vuitton bag and instructed him to call me immediately. The ransom was in that bag."

Reddy glanced down at the bag. "But not anymore."

"No."

"Kidnap...so where's the Fed?"

"Rolling," Lido said. "Be here any minute."

Reddy turned to Riker. "Got anything to contribute, Riker?" he asked, his tone dubious—no doubt he had Riker made as a slacker, the kind that wanted to fly under the radar all the way through to retirement.

Riker rubbed his chin. "Billy Taft, my partner, thinks he went into one of the houses toward the end of the block. That's all I got."

"Any ideas on the homeless man?" Reddy asked, turning toward me.

"Actually, yes. The boy's—" The air hissed out of my lungs as the sound of two gunshots rang through the air. I spun in the direction of the shots, down the block, in the direction in which the homeless man had reportedly gone. We raced back to our cars without saying another word. Lido had us fired up, racing down the block within seconds. I heard a third gunshot and lowered the windows, straining my ears for a sound to help pinpoint where it had come from. Reddy was rolling behind us. I could see him in the rearview mirror, firing instructions to his men over the radio.

It was a tough one, one house after another. The shots could have come from any one of them. We scanned the houses for a few minutes, looking for activity, anything to point the way. I heard a dog barking but it stopped almost immediately. I wasn't happy. We were
so
close and yet
so far.
I had
the feeling
that Manny was
in
one of them, but which one? There were no hysterical screams, no flashing neon arrows, or pointing fingers, nothing to tell us where to go. On top of that something was wrong with the car—it was emitting a maddening beep.

"The hell is that?" I asked.

Lido shook his head. "No idea, no warning lights," he said as he scanned the dashboard.

And then I found my brain. I reached into the glove box and retrieved Ambler's PDA. I had stowed it in there, having decided that it had outlived its usefulness. The damn red blip was flashing. Lido saw it too. "Keep rolling, it's up ahead." The pulsing grew faster as we closed in on the target. A house on our right was clad with asphalt shingles. The red light went solid as we approached it. "This is it."