Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) (19 page)

"Hey, how about the Poconos?"

"One of those places with the heart-shaped tub?"

"Uh
huh. Hey, what about the beer? I mean all that pizza and no beer?"

"I'll bathe you in beer."

"Oh, Jesus...I'm sold."

"Great, I'll wear these shoes." I stuck my foot out, showing off one of my none too enticing
Gucci
loafers. "There's something to be said for sensible shoes."

"Yeah, nice."

"No really, they're super comfy. I think they're padded."

Lido snickered. "Sweetie, Joan Crawford wouldn't get any wearing those."

"Do I really look that bad?" I knew I did but I was determined to test him anyway. "I'm going to look like this one day."

"Stephanie, do you see yourself? You look like a decomposing Gloria Vanderbilt."

"That mean I won't get any?" I said, pretending to sniffle. It was fun playing pretend, knowing how hot Lido was for my body. We hadn't done it in days, which, for us, was some kind of record.

There was a soft look in Lido's eyes. "You're not going to look like this. Your hips will get a little rounder. That big chest of yours will get even bigger. I see you more like a maturing Sophia Loren—believe you me, I'd do her in a heartbeat." He winked at me.

I thought that was really touching, romantic in fact...Gus picturing us growing old together and all. And the Sophia Loren thing—God, I wouldn't mind maturing into a woman that looked like her. Sophia's beauty is classic. She was still turning heads while most women her age were incapable of turning a corkscrew. I could never see myself down in Boca wearing a polyester warm up suit and cutting the 4:00 PM line for the early bird special. Christ, I'm only twenty-eight, so what the hell am I worrying about? All the same, I wanted to plant one on Lido and couldn't because I was afraid my face would fall off in the process. I gave him an air kiss. It sucked and was no substitute for the real thing, but this was no time for us to start generating body heat.

Anyway, we've got bigger fish to fry, right? We had a long day ahead of us. "Let's go check my audio, you silly, sentimental jerk. There's a kid needs saving."

Gus and I set off to find Ambler. Like all cops do, we put our future together on the backburner to make sure that someone else would have one.

"We've got
a
fresh wrinkle," Ambler said. He was pacing about as we walked in. He hadn't seen me made up and was quite obviously taken aback by my appearance—his expression said so. "Honey, you've got to start taking better care of yourself—vitamins, calcium, try something." He switched gears again, instantly back to his deep in thought mode, contemplating ideas at the speed of light. He looked troubled. I really didn't need that right now.

"What is it, Herb?"

He continued to shake his head and pace. "I don't like the timing, no sir, not at all."

"Just say it. I've got places to go and the
Yoda
face your technicians painted on me weighs a thousand pounds."

"Carl's gone," he said.

"Carl...Thorne's servant?" Lido asked.

"Yeah, him. Took off right after the ransom demand came in. He looked suspicious, so I had him followed."

"To where?"

"A townhouse, west of Thorne's place." Ambler finally slowed down. He put his foot up on the desk, peering over his knee at Lido and me with that worried parent look. "Power-walked cross town. Went in and never came out."

"So what do we know, Herb? I'm on my way to the front line."

"Property is deeded to a not for profit, a church."

On the surface, you'd think of a church as the most innocent of all options, but I knew better. I was sure that Ambler had more to tell us. "What kind of a church has you so worried, Herb?"

"Ever hear of The Faith?"

The Faith...it sounded as if it could have been any of a dozen religious entities I'd heard about over the years. I racked my brain but came up blank. I shrugged, Lido shrugged. Ambler noted our gestures and continued.

"We've got a small file on them. All pretty low level up until now. It's a group of fanatics that practice the Gnostic faith. Never mind what they believe in...the bottom line is that they've vowed to overturn the cornerstones of Catholicism. The Gnostic faith predates Catholicism. They're convinced that the Church has conspired to suppress them for thousands of years. We keep tabs on them for precautionary purposes but it's been all bark and no bite. They're poorly funded and poorly connected, led by someone known as The High Coptic."

"So, what you're saying is that these people have literally waited thousands of years for the opportunity to reestablish themselves as a
dominât
religious faith. Is that about the size of it?"

Lido nodded. Ambler took his size twelve triple
Es
off the desk.

"And just maybe they believe that Manny Nazzare, miracle child, last living descendant and channel for the most credible prophet of all time, holds the key to their reemergence."

"How so?" Lido asked.

"Perhaps they think that one day he'll channel one of those long lost prophecies that no one has ever heard of before, a prophecy that will set the world straight. Maybe they blame the Catholic Church for stealing the prophecies. Who knows?"

"That's just ridiculous enough to be believable," Ambler said. "I mean we are talking about religion here, right? It's the world of miracles and resurrection, babies born to virgins, walking on water—how much of a stretch is it? 'And a child shall deliver the wisdom of the ages and we will rise again.' I can see it, can't you? These religious muckety-mucks chanting around a burning bush or whatever it is they worship." Ambler looked at me as if he were impressed. "And once again we owe our thanks to you, Ms. Methuselah."

I flipped Ambler a playful bird, a lark perhaps. "I think the burning bush is Hebrew lore, not Gnostic."

"Maybe the bush gets around," Lido chuckled.

"I'm sure a lot of bushes get around," I said pointedly, "but not the bush of Moses. That's a one-man bush." I should have flipped Lido a bird too but I didn't, you can only flip so many birds and still maintain a serious conversation.

Ambler's phone rang. He listened for a few seconds and then asked the requisite questions, the where, when, and how questions.

Lido
and I looked at each other and shrugged as Ambler made notes on his pad. My nose itched so badly I wanted to rip it off—it was like a chicken pox itch, I swear to you.

"Carl's on the move," he said the moment he hung up. "He was put—emphasis on put—into a van. We're tailing it...just went over the 59
^th
Street Bridge."

"He was forced into the car?" Lido asked.

"More or less. Not strong armed so much as accompanied by a pair of goons."

Not looking good for Carl. Perhaps one of Thorne's exotic plants expired and Thorne was having him rubbed out. "So maybe Carl had more than a little to do with Manny's abduction. Either he fucked up or for some reason The Faith now considers him a liability. Wouldn't be the first time someone died in the name of God. These Gnostics, they believe in God, don't they?"

"Believe so," Ambler said.

"So who are these goons and where are they headed?" Lido asked. "What about making a move on this townhouse? I'm sure we can establish sufficient motive to get a warrant."

"Yes," Ambler replied. "But as I said when you walked in, the timing blows. Stephanie's going to be on a train in less than an hour. My gut says we stick to the ransom plan and keep the townhouse and Carl under surveillance until we figure things out a little better. Let's stay focused on recovering the boy. That's our first priority."

"Agreed."

"Unfortunately, you'll be in the dark, Stephanie," Ambler said. "We'll call you if we discover something dire of course, but I'm not going to risk blowing your cover by calling your cell over and over. We won't be able to see you after you get off the train and won't know whether you'll be in a position to talk or not. If you feel you need to hear from us, just say 'update.' I'll assume that means you need info and can accept a call. You with me so far?"

"Rock solid."

"We'll be listening in at all times," Lido added, "but don't hesitate to call us in if things go bad. Remember, we can't see what you see."

"Got it. Let's make sure I'm transmitting." Ambler nodded and waved over his technician.

I had precious little to say. In my mind I had begun projecting the sequence of events that lay ahead: the train ride and whatever came next. What would I find when I got off the train at Syosset? A note, a ringing telephone? I wanted to skip hours ahead, to have Manny home, safe and sound. I'd worry about his kidnappers afterward. I wanted them badly, especially the girl, the one that had murdered Helen Gillette in the most heinous of manners. Alas, I knew the odds were poor. I hadn't been kidding
Celia
Thorne when I told her that Manny had become the golden goose for these criminals, that they would ransom him over and over again until they ran out of marks to pay for him.

So what kind of setup was I walking into? It was time to put all speculation and apprehension behind me. It was, as they say, show time.

Carl stared out the window of the van as it made its way over the 59
^th
Street Bridge into Queens.

The two men in the van with him had not given their names. One sat behind the wheel. There was another in the back sitting on the floor up against the side wall. These were large men, dark, hulking men, massive across the chest and shoulders. Coarse black hair covered their heads, faces, and necks. Their eyebrows ran together—gorillas.

He'd told them everything he had overheard at Thorne's apartment—the details of the ransom demand: five million dollars...take the Long Island Railroad to Syosset. Carl's job was simple...he was to identify anyone of importance: Manny, Thorne, members of the police, and if possible, the woman he knew only as Black.

He had gone into elaborate detail for the two men, providing a chronicle of his relationship with the woman, how she had contacted him, her elaborate scheme, and the details of the betrayal.

He wondered how he'd be able to identify her, having never actually met her, but those were the orders he had been given. His only contact with her had been over the phone. The money that The Faith had fronted had been delivered by Federal Express despite all the objections. All Carl had to go on was her voice, and the composite he had imagined of her in his mind. He knew that the chances of her appearing as he imagined her to look were poor at best. Maybe the voice, he thought. If only he could get close enough to hear her speak. There was something distinctive in the way she sounded, as if she were trying to mask the fact that she was foreign. She had slipped in their last conversation, losing her temper, allowing the flash of an Irish brogue to rise to the surface. Yes, he thought, he'd know her if he heard her. Her voice had been committed to memory. Her excuses were continually replaying in his head, over and over again, driving him slowly mad. He had prayed for the opportunity to confront her, but would the opportunity ever arrive?

He'd never been to Syosset and knew only that it was somewhere on Long Island. His instructions were to be alert, to advise the two men if he noticed anything of importance. He was not to get involved beyond this. They had told him that his survival depended upon their ability to find the boy. He had no faith in their promises. The High Coptic had refused to see him. Likewise, the clerics were absent when he had been accompanied from the sanctuary. He had been abandoned for compromising The Faith and The Faith did not practice forgiveness.

He had not been bound. He sat freely in the passenger seat, quietly contemplating his chances for escape. The two men paid him little attention. Was he wrong about their intentions? Would he be free to go after the boy was recovered, or was it that they felt he lacked the guts to attempt an escape? Or did they think him so inept, that an escape attempt was not taken seriously? He was sure they were carrying guns. These were not religious men. They were thugs, the kind of animals he had seen portrayed in the movies. He was there to be their dog, to sniff and to point and perhaps, if he did a good job, be thrown a bone. He doubted it. There had been others who had disappeared from the sanctuary, here one day and gone the next. Their absence was not discussed. Carl always wondered about what had become of these men.

He was very close to finding out.

It was an off hour at Penn Station, too early for the afternoon rush hour. There was little traffic in the station as I walked the short distance from the NYPD office to the track. I tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, carrying a Louis Vuitton duffle stuffed with hundred dollar bills. I tried not to show that I was hanging onto the handle like grim death. Could you just see some five and dime hustler trying the old bump and run on an elderly woman and walking off with a cool five mil? Couldn't let that happen, now could we?

I hit the track at its easternmost point, found the third car, and stepped aboard. The train was surprisingly full. There were lots of guys in overalls and jeans, the kind of guys that worked with their hands. I'd hoped to find a free two-seater, a place where I could sit with the money safely tucked in between me and the window, but that possibility disappeared when a robust balding man cut in front of me and took the last one. He had a tuna sandwich in one hand and an iPod in the other. I could hear and smell him as he squeezed by. Now the question was, was he just a slob or was he one of them? Was he watching me? He certainly wasn't watching his diet—God knows that two-seater really came in handy.

So I took the aisle seat of a three-seater. There was one guy already asleep against the window. The middle was free and then of course, there was me, Stephanie Chalice, middle-aged woman impersonator, cop, and all around good gal, holding onto a bag of money as I sat down. I looped my arm through the handle, placed the bag on the seat next to me, and prayed that no one asked for the seat. The sleeping guy was kind of youngish and cute, younger than me, but not too young for me if you know what I mean. He looked like he had been out all night, half in the bag, like a good time had had him instead of the other way around. Sleeping beauty cracked his peepers for a split second and then, noting that I was not conquest worthy, went back to sleep. I almost giggled—if only this guy had the slightest clue about the opportunity he was passing by, an expensive bag stuffed with dough and an old bag that was anything but. It made for a quick fantasy—empty the bag, rip off the makeup, and let's have a party. Five mil and a sexy cop for the taking...and this guy was sleeping through the whole thing. If I were a bad girl—skip it. I'd already gotten my butt in a sling over my last fantasy. Not going there again. What is it they say, let sleeping studs lie?