Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  Ransom Beach

  Lawrence Kelter

  Ransom Beach Copyright © 2008 by Lawrence Kelter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  Fourth Edition – November 2012

  For Ken

  "Good is good and bad is bad. But you don't know which one you had."

  —Sheryl Crow

  One—OUT OF THE BAG

  The sky was gray above the rooftop peaks. A construction worker jack-hammered the asphalt as steam billowed from an open manhole cover and ascended through the frigid air.

  Gil Diaz watched attentively from his ground floor apartment window as he sipped rum from his favorite glass, the heavy one, the one with the thick base that filled the expanse of his huge hand. He weighed it in his open palm, admiring its heft. "Take someone's kid? Really, you would do that?"

  "I don't know. I'm just saying. I mean it's an idea. And the money—"

  "That's pretty cold, man—you're not exactly a family man, huh?"

  "Family man? No."

  "I got an eight-year-old niece. I tell you right now, someone mess with my sister's kid, I'll stick my boot right up their ass—know what I mean?" Diaz had lived a cursed life; always in the wrong place at the wrong time—the guy that always took the fall. He was no longer prone to hasty decisions.

  "New York's a tough town—I'm just trying to score a little cash. Shit happens every day, man. I mean what's the big deal?"

  "New York's a tough town, but not as tough as prison—you thought about that? Bad choices, bro—they cost you."

  "Not worried about prison, I—"

  "You nothing, man. You don't know about prison. So you been through juvie, big fucking deal. Juvie ain't prison—it's pussy shit compared to the joint. You don't know what it's like. It'll change you, man. It'll change you for life."

  "You sound like one of those damn born agains...I ain't worried cause I ain't gonna get caught."

  "Na, man, that's fucked up. I mean you know I ain't no Boy Scout but I'm not gonna get messed up with any shit like that. A kid, bro, na, that's a real bad idea." Diaz turned back toward his guest. He glared at him unhappily. "Hey, stop fooling around with that thing."

  "Sorry."

  "Just be careful with it—ain't no toy."

  "Got it."

  Diaz walked back to the kitchen table and added a splash of Captain Morgan to his empty glass. He offered another hit to his guest, but he refused. "Other ways to make a buck, bro... Damn."

  "I'm not good with my hands like you."

  "Check the want ads, man. There's plenty of work if you ain't lazy."

  "Ain't like I'm gonna hurt the kid—it's just about the money."

  "What if something goes wrong? You prepared to deal with that? You want a dead kid on your conscience?"

  "Ain't nothing going wrong; it's all been figured."

  "Oh, so now you're some kind of genius mastermind or something? Come a long way, bro." Diaz chuckled. "Why don't you knock over a convenience store first; work your way up slow-like. How much money you figure on getting anyway?"

  "Lots."

  "What's that mean?"

  "A shit load."

  "A shit load? Okay, so who's kid you thinking about snatching, Bill Gates?"

  "No."

  "No, then who?"

  "You in or out?"

  "I ain't in for nothing. I'm just asking."

  "Don't you worry, they gonna pay plenty for this kid."

  "You think you just gonna waltz in and take some billionaire's freaking kid? They got security, man. They got ex-CIA, Navy SEALS and shit. They'll stick a fucking homer up your ass. You think these are some fools you're playing with?"

  "I told you—all figured out."

  "Man I hope you're right—I think swiping a kid's a federal crime. You know how they treat kidnappers in the Federal penitentiary?" Diaz shook his head woefully. "Now I told you to stop playing with that thing."

  "Sorry."

  "Don't be sorry, man, just put it down."

  "Okay."

  "So I'm asking you, you serious about this?"

  "Dead serious. So you want in or what?"

  Diaz was back at the window. Outside, one of the construction workers blew into his hands for warmth. "Shit, imagine working outside on a day like this—freeze your balls off." Diaz leaned against the radiator and felt the heat permeate his jeans. It wasn't so long ago that he'd be outside working on a brutal winter day just like this one. His apartment wasn't much, but it was warm and he was current on his bills. "No man, count me out."

  "That's a shame, man, I was depending on you."

  The sound of the revolver's hammer snapping into place spun Diaz around. "That's it, bro, give me that, I'm gonna put it away."

  "Just cool out."

  "No, man, you don't listen. Just put it—don't point that at me, asshole. Put it the fuck down."

  Outside, the jarring thunder of the jackhammer obliterated the sound of the discharging .38 and the sound of the heavy glass as it tumbled from Diaz' hand and crashed to the floor.

  Two—DREAM A LITTLE DREAM FOR ME

  The cathedral doors opened. Three hundred heads snapped in my direction like Disney Animatronic robots. Ma's eyes burned into me, imploring me to take the first step. I could feel her urging me—could read the words on her lips. "Do it, Stephanie. For God's sake, just do it!" I could see the wheels turning in her head—she was already changing diapers and knitting booties—God, she can be scary. Here we go: Stephanie Chalice about to walk down the aisle. Can you believe this?

  I scanned the well wishers before me—warm smiles all around. All the women were saying, "She's so beautiful." The men were happy that I was sporting a little cleavage.

  My bridesmaids were dabbing at tears—probably crying about having to shell out five hundred a piece for the dresses they were wearing. I'm not the type to spend other people's money, but what the hell—it was, after all, my wedding, and I wasn't going to have the bridesmaids wearing chiffon muumuus from the Jaclyn Smith Collection at K-Mart.

  The best man leered at the maid of honor. She was looking fine in her Donna Karan strapless. She leered back. Do you believe that little slut? She's engaged to my cousin, Anthony.

  What am I doing here anyway? My betrothed's eyes beamed at me from the wedding altar, sparkling with anticipation. Oh, yeah, now I remember—him. Gus Lido looked amazing in his topcoat and tails. I wondered if anything that spectacular looking could last. The odds were against it—two New York City cops taking their vows at the dawn of the twenty-first century. What were the chances?

  I took that big first step; one year from my first anniversary, two years from maternity clothes, three years from Prozac, four years from my first extramarital affair, and five years from legal separation. Jesus Christ, get me the hell out of here!

  "Stephanie." I heard a voice calling from behind me, a compelling, throaty baritone.

  Batman stepped up alongside me, his cape bristling behind him—I stopped dead in my tracks and took his arm. My mouth dropped. "Caped Crusader, what in the name of all that's holy are you doing here?" His dark eye
s called out to me from behind the mask. I was close enough to notice that the areas around his eyes were blackened. "Say, are you wearing mascara?"

  "Face paint, actually. The stuff football players smear under their eyes to cut down on glare," he replied.

  "Oh, I see. That's ever so much more butch." I'd never been this close to a real, live superhero before. I took the opportunity to give him a thorough once over: the broad shoulders, the flowing cape, the chiseled body armor—wow, nice codpiece.

  "You don't have to go through with this, Stephanie. You've got your whole life in front of you and the Joker's returned to plague Gotham City. I could really use your help."

  I glanced back at Gus. The presence of a brooding superhero didn't seem to affect him one iota. "It'd break Gus' heart."

  "Gus is a big boy, he'll get over it," Batman whispered. "We can fight crime together, just the two of us."

  "Gus means the world to me."

  "Does he have any really cool gadgets? How about a Bat Signal?"

  "No, but...what about the Boy Wonder?"

  Batman shrugged. "He'll deal. He can still live at stately Wayne Manor—not too shabby for a kid whose family traveled with the circus. Are you completely sure you're ready to devote the rest of your life to one man?"

  Admittedly, Batman wasn't half wrong. Gus and I had only been dating six months. True, it had been an incredible six months, but there was definitely an argument to be made for greater familiarity. "When can I see the Bat Cave?"

  He scooped me up in his arms. "How about now?"

  Wow, this is one take-charge guy.

  I felt the warmth of his face next to mine. His incredible strength pervaded my entire body. His Kevlar-covered muscles rippled—at least they appeared to. His dark eyes gleamed. God only knew what this twisted creature had on his mind. Do you think he goes commando under the body armor? Would there be a three-way with him and Robin? "I'm not sure about this, Batman. I'm really in love with Gus."

  Batman pointed to the skylight in the cathedral's ceiling. He had one of those grappling hook gadget thingies in his hand. "You'll have to make up your mind, Stephanie. The Batmobile's parked in a tow-away zone."

  I looked up toward the skylight, my eyes twinkling like an awestruck teenage girl's. "Are we going up there?" Batman nodded. He was so masterful and self-assured. "Promise you'll never ask me to clean Wayne manor. I hate cleaning and the mansion is so damn big."

  "No cleaning," he assured me. "Alfred would never allow it."

  I turned to Gus and closed my eyes. I heard his soft voice calling to me. It started off in the distance and then drew closer.

  "Stephanie. Stephanie." My eyelids felt so heavy. I opened them slowly. Lido was next to me in bed. "You were dreaming again."

  "Oh," I said with a sleepy face and a hint of disappointment, which I hoped he wouldn't pick up on. Lido's gorgeous and I love him deeply, but you have to admit that I was in the middle of one hell of a lusty fantasy. Better he shouldn't suspect, don't you think? Anyway, I pretended to be really groggy. "Let me go back to sleep."

  "You alright?" Lido asked with concern.

  "I'm fine." More than fine actually. I felt warm and tingly all over.

  "You were moaning like a virgin during a Zulu mating ritual."

  Now that made sense. "Oh?" There was no covering up that one. I shrugged and tried to look innocent, but Lido wasn't buying it.

  "What were you dreaming about?" he asked pointedly.

  I sat up. Lido did the same. He was naked from the waist up. The gym was paying off big dividends—his chest and abs were sliced and diced—just the way I like my meals prepared. "Oh, nothing," I said. How do you tell your man that you just pictured him on the wedding altar and fled in the arms of another man? Do you think he'd understand? I mean it was only a dream and it was Batman for Christ's sake.

  "You might want to talk with Dr. Twain if your dreams persist."

  I love Gus. He's so good, so wonderful—so thoroughly naïve. "Ricky's psychiatrist?" I grimaced. "I don't think that'll be necessary." One raucous nightmare does not psychoanalysis make. Ricky's my older brother. The poor thing needs a lot of help—more on that later. And Dr. Twain, he too is the stuff a woman's fantasies are made of—much, much more to come on that one.

  Gus smiled warmly and pressed his forehead against mine. "What in the world goes on in there?" he said, referring to my dreams, intensely vivid dreams he knew I had every night—dreams I was very private about.

  "You know I'm a loon. I'll think about Twain." I always do. I stroked Lido's cheek. He had that three in the morning stubble going—there's nothing quite like it to stoke old Stephanie's fire. "Come here, you." The touch of his lips chased the bat from my belfry. He rolled over on top of me. My hands began to search and explore. Gus did a little probing of his own.

  Gus pushed away unexpectedly.

  "Hey," I protested, "what was that for?"

  "You gonna talk or not?"

  My God, he looked completely serious. I tried pulling him back down, but my leverage was poor. "Come on," I moaned. "You're such a cop—can't you interrogate me later?"

  "How about if I don't give you any?"

  Now that's a twist. I mean I like a man with chutzpah, but there are certain things that are just not done. Personally, I draw the line at withholding sex. "I promise I'll tell you the whole story the minute we're finished." Can you imagine a man saying no, anyway? I mean please.

  "I'm going to hold you to that," Lido said emphatically.

  I grabbed Lido's hand and placed it on my breast. That got a rise out of him, a measurable one. I could see the wall of resistance come tumbling down. He smiled and began kissing my neck. "Oh yeah," I moaned softly. That's it, Bruce—I mean Gus. That's purr-fect. Good, now I had him just where I wanted him. Lido's the Heinz Ketchup of lovers—he's slow good. I'd have plenty of time to make up something to tell him, which shouldn't be hard for someone, to whom fantasies were no stranger.

  I closed my eyes and surrendered to my lover, hoping that Alfred and Dick Grayson were long asleep and that all was quiet in Wayne manor.

  I've learned to adore my dreams. It's like going to the movies every night. I feel sorry for those people who can't remember their nocturnal adventures. For me, it's an endless stream of entertainment. At the same time, however, I knew that there had always been a strong correlation between my dreaming and crime—the more vivid the dreams, the closer I was to another extraordinary case. The last time I had an episode of this magnitude I discovered my deepest, darkest family secret and took on a mass murdering psychopath. Based on the dramatic quality of this evening's adventure, my next case was going to be a doozie.

  Buckle up, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

  Three—TATTOO

  "Wake up, Gus. We've got to get out of here."

  I rubbed Lido's shoulder. He was sound asleep, dead to the world. He had missed the call from the boss, sawing logs while I showered and dressed. He looked like a little boy as he threw back the covers and trudged off to the bathroom scratching his butt. He was a ten-minute man in the morning, the kind that threw his clothes on, dripping wet from the shower and looked amazing.

  "Dry your hair," I insisted. "You'll catch—"

  "A cold? You don't believe that old wives' tale, do you? I'll be warm enough in the car. Where to?"

  "Dry your friggin' hair. It's like twenty degrees this morning."

  Lido toweled off quickly and dragged a comb through his hair. Damn it, but he was handsome—no fuss, no muss, just clean and simple gorgeous. We were out the door in a flash.

  I read the address off my memo pad. Lido pulled from the curb and we were off.

  "Shit it's cold out," he said.

  "I thought you said you'd be warm in the car."

  "Hey come on, can you cut me a break? It's freezing, with the wind chill, it must be—"

  "Please, you know how I hate that wind chill crap. It's some BS the meteorologists came up with to sensationalize the wea
ther broadcast. Ever notice how they tease you at the top of the hour? 'Is a blizzard headed our way? How cold will it get?' Then you wait sixty-minutes to find out that it's going to be fair and mild—I hate that. Thank God for The Weather Channel. All I want to know is if it's going to be hot or cold, wet or dry. I don't need to know about the stupid Doppler. I don't care if the pressure is high or low or if a front is moving in."

  "Okay, okay, screw the wind chill. Thanks for making me dry my hair." Lido winked at me. It took the wind out of my sails. It was such a sexy wink. He patted me on the leg. "Baby, you've got issues."

  He wasn't kidding about the issues. The weather peeve was just the tiniest little tip of the iceberg. "You're welcome." I didn't say another word the rest of the trip. I logged into the police mainframe and pulled the sheet on Gilberto Diaz.

  Diaz had been the superintendent in an eight-story apartment house on the east side—now he was a corpse.

  The building's exterior read 'rent control' all over it: modest, clean, no frills. There weren't many of them left, most knocked down for high dollar co-ops. Manhattan real estate started at a thousand dollars a square foot and skyrocketed from there. Lido still had a place of his own, but bunked in with me most of the time. We weren't sharing the rent, but he kicked in on a variety of expenses. The spare change improved the quality of my life. I had a starter collection of Jimmy Choos and a few pairs of Blahniks. The truth be told, it was Lido that was making it all worthwhile. I'd live in a cold-water hovel if that's what it took to be with him. I do love my shoes, though.

  The crime scene investigator was already on site. He was a regular—a wiry Jamaican named Tully.

  "What've we got, my man?" I said, imitating his Jamaican accent.

  Tully seemed glad to see me. "Chal-lee-see, you caught this case?" That was close to the correct pronunciation of my name. Rolling off Tully's Jamaican tongue made it sound like a Christmas carol. I'm of Italian decent, daughter of Frank Chalice, a former NYPD detective—duty bound and loving it.