Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) by Lawrence Kelter Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Kelter
say...you get what you pay for.
Quickly out of the car, we tiptoed through the horsey plop as we raced onto the sidewalk and into the apartment house—we may be stout hearted, but horse shit is horse shit, and I for one wanted no part of it.
The lock on the lobby door was broken, the frame around the door splintered. It had been kicked in, but not recently. The exposed wood at the point of fracture was grime laden and dirty.
Helen's apartment was on the first floor, Apartment #1C, facing the rear. The area was overrun with streetwalkers and crackheads. I wondered if Helen Gillette had ever gotten a good night's sleep. Then again, who were we dealing with here? This, presumably, was a woman who had abducted a harmless teen, a boy incapable of protecting himself or understanding what, in fact, was happening to him. Who cared if she ever got a sound night's sleep—for my money she could be sleep deprived, running on vapor, ready to fall on her face.
Helen had invested in a good lock, but the door itself was flimsy. The mighty Herbert Ambler raised his stubby little leg and kicked the door like a ninja. It splintered—one quick ram of the shoulder and we were in.
Our guns were drawn as we went room to room clearing the apartment. It didn't take very long. The digs were modest—one bedroom, eat-in kitchen, living room, and the ever-necessary bathroom. As anticipated, Helen was long gone.
We rummaged through the place finding little in the way of hard evidence, nothing that connected her to Manny's abduction. Lido phoned CSI. A team was on its way.
Helen had a huge collection of celebrity magazines and scandal sheets: People, Entertainment Weekly, the Enquirer, yada, yada, yada. The woman was obviously starstruck. Lots of party dresses in the closet, lots of shimmer and low cut necklines, cheap pumps on the floor—items acquired for the sole purpose of attracting men. It was like a starter collection for a call girl wannabe.
She had lots of photos around, mostly pictures of herself at ages from infancy on up. Helen Gillette was not exactly what you would call a looker, but I didn't see in those pictures a person that would be involved in a child's abduction. Many of the pictures were old. Helen had a broad smile in these pictures—better times, I assumed. Still and all, it wasn't the kind of face I expected to see. It takes a certain type to run off with someone's kid, especially if you're a woman. The maternal instinct sets in at birth and only intensifies from there.
Ambler's cell phone rang. "Ambler. Yeah, I've got it. Thanks. Send it through." Ambler disconnected.
"News?" I asked.
"Sketch artist just finished up with Davis Mack. The girl's sketch is coming through on my PDA."
Ambler slipped his PDA from his inside jacket pocket and turned it on. He hit a few keys. "Voila," he said, "here's our perp."
I stared at the picture on Ambler's PDA. "This is a neat toy," I said. Lido picked up one of the more recent photos of Helen Gillette and handed it to me. My eyes went back and forth from photo to sketch. "It's not her."
"You're sure?" Ambler asked.
I was half sure before I saw the sketch, but now I was positive. "I'm telling you, it's not her."
Ten— THORNE'S GARDEN
It was past midnight when we arrived at Celia Thorne's penthouse—ten thousand square feet of opulence, sixty stories in the air. Her home was decorated in a Mediterranean theme. To my eye, it was absolutely exquisite. Carl Lapsos, her houseboy, showed us into the garden. I swear to you, it was the first time in my life it killed me not being rich. Massive glass panels framed the rooftop and enclosed us overhead. I was sure that I was walking on artificial turf, but it felt like real grass. And the fragrance, oh my God, the fragrance...hydrangeas, lilacs, and oleander—it was absolutely mesmerizing. I strolled into the middle of what had to be the most extraordinary garden on earth. Space heaters roared—the temperature must have been a
Quickly out of the car, we tiptoed through the horsey plop as we raced onto the sidewalk and into the apartment house—we may be stout hearted, but horse shit is horse shit, and I for one wanted no part of it.
The lock on the lobby door was broken, the frame around the door splintered. It had been kicked in, but not recently. The exposed wood at the point of fracture was grime laden and dirty.
Helen's apartment was on the first floor, Apartment #1C, facing the rear. The area was overrun with streetwalkers and crackheads. I wondered if Helen Gillette had ever gotten a good night's sleep. Then again, who were we dealing with here? This, presumably, was a woman who had abducted a harmless teen, a boy incapable of protecting himself or understanding what, in fact, was happening to him. Who cared if she ever got a sound night's sleep—for my money she could be sleep deprived, running on vapor, ready to fall on her face.
Helen had invested in a good lock, but the door itself was flimsy. The mighty Herbert Ambler raised his stubby little leg and kicked the door like a ninja. It splintered—one quick ram of the shoulder and we were in.
Our guns were drawn as we went room to room clearing the apartment. It didn't take very long. The digs were modest—one bedroom, eat-in kitchen, living room, and the ever-necessary bathroom. As anticipated, Helen was long gone.
We rummaged through the place finding little in the way of hard evidence, nothing that connected her to Manny's abduction. Lido phoned CSI. A team was on its way.
Helen had a huge collection of celebrity magazines and scandal sheets: People, Entertainment Weekly, the Enquirer, yada, yada, yada. The woman was obviously starstruck. Lots of party dresses in the closet, lots of shimmer and low cut necklines, cheap pumps on the floor—items acquired for the sole purpose of attracting men. It was like a starter collection for a call girl wannabe.
She had lots of photos around, mostly pictures of herself at ages from infancy on up. Helen Gillette was not exactly what you would call a looker, but I didn't see in those pictures a person that would be involved in a child's abduction. Many of the pictures were old. Helen had a broad smile in these pictures—better times, I assumed. Still and all, it wasn't the kind of face I expected to see. It takes a certain type to run off with someone's kid, especially if you're a woman. The maternal instinct sets in at birth and only intensifies from there.
Ambler's cell phone rang. "Ambler. Yeah, I've got it. Thanks. Send it through." Ambler disconnected.
"News?" I asked.
"Sketch artist just finished up with Davis Mack. The girl's sketch is coming through on my PDA."
Ambler slipped his PDA from his inside jacket pocket and turned it on. He hit a few keys. "Voila," he said, "here's our perp."
I stared at the picture on Ambler's PDA. "This is a neat toy," I said. Lido picked up one of the more recent photos of Helen Gillette and handed it to me. My eyes went back and forth from photo to sketch. "It's not her."
"You're sure?" Ambler asked.
I was half sure before I saw the sketch, but now I was positive. "I'm telling you, it's not her."
Ten— THORNE'S GARDEN
It was past midnight when we arrived at Celia Thorne's penthouse—ten thousand square feet of opulence, sixty stories in the air. Her home was decorated in a Mediterranean theme. To my eye, it was absolutely exquisite. Carl Lapsos, her houseboy, showed us into the garden. I swear to you, it was the first time in my life it killed me not being rich. Massive glass panels framed the rooftop and enclosed us overhead. I was sure that I was walking on artificial turf, but it felt like real grass. And the fragrance, oh my God, the fragrance...hydrangeas, lilacs, and oleander—it was absolutely mesmerizing. I strolled into the middle of what had to be the most extraordinary garden on earth. Space heaters roared—the temperature must have been a
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