Free Ransom Beach (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 2) by Lawrence Kelter Page A

gotten very far. I shrugged and pulled over to the curb. "I thought you were staring at something." I didn't think it was my weapon—how flattering. What is it about men and their attraction to guns? I'm afraid every woman knows the answer to that one.
    "Was it that obvious?" Twain seemed embarrassed.
    I put the unmarked in park and drew the .45 caliber light double action from my shoulder mount. The Para Ordnance automatic was the best firearm I'd ever had—deadly accurate, right out of the box. I ejected the clip and cleared the loaded round from the slide. "Careful," I said as I handed it to him. "Any experience with guns?"
    The LDA was an impressive weapon. Twain's eyes widened with delight as he examined it. "This is quite formidable." He weighed the piece in his hand. "Very substantial." He pointed it at the back window and lined up the sites. "Bloody marvelous. I'd love to fire it." He ran his hand over the barrel. He seemed to be tingling all over.
    This is getting too phallic for me.
    Twain was too preoccupied with the gun to notice how disappointed I was—Stephanie Chalice, woman of the world, object of desire, buzzed on cheap wine, free for the asking—forsaken by a hunk of polished metal. Life sucks. "Have you ever been to a target range?"
    "Me? Never."
    "Would you like to go?"
    "Now?"
    "Why not. It's early."
    "I'd love to." His eyes were the most incredible electric blue. This was really a damn shame.
    "There's a civilian range not far from here. You can shoot your load." Asshole. I could have kicked myself for saying that. Twain was a great friend. I held out my hand. "All right, give it back." Twain did so reluctantly. Now I'm sure he was turned on.
    "You're serious about this?"
    "Yes, Nigel. I'm completely serious." If he wouldn't let me play with his gun, the least I could do was let him play with mine. "It'll cost you, though."
    Twain smiled mischievously. "Name your price." Twain's response sounded unconditional. He was ready to ante up.
    I toyed with the idea of toying with him, bit my lip and got serious. "Information, Nigel. What do you know about Nostradamus?"
    "Nostradamus?" Twain seemed puzzled by the question. "Detective Chalice, what in the Lord's name do you want to know about that old charlatan?"
    "It appears you're an authority."
    "Of sorts—why do you ask?"
    "It has something to do with a case I'm working on."
    I should have made the connection more quickly. Who better to talk to than a paranormal psychiatrist? I had personally sought out Twain on a matter that defied the normal tenants of modern psychological theory. It was Twain that had provided a reasonable explanation to an otherwise implausible question. He had used hallucinogenic drugs to gain profound religious and psychological insights. There was no need to be delicate with a man like Nigel Twain, so I flat out told him. "Have you ever heard of hypergraphia?"
    "Stephanie," he pouted, "you insult me."
    I smirked. "I’ll take that to mean yes. Well, there's an autistic youth that falls into a trance and dashes off quatrains in French, and he's never been taught the language."
    Twain started to giggle uncontrollably.
    "Hey," I protested. "That's rude." Nonetheless, Twain continued to laugh. "I'm sorry, do I sound that stupid?"
    "No," he cackled. "It's not stupid at all."
    "Then what?"
    "I know of the lad."
    Twain was eccentric and brilliant, but the thing that really drove me crazy was his uncanny intuition. So much for Celia Thorne's so called closely guarded secrets. "Oh really? Give me a name."
    "Emanuel Navarre." He was now giddy with himself.
    "How could you?"
    "I belong to a community that takes a keen interest in such curiosities—a boy that allegedly transcribes the quatrains of a sixteenth century prophet? Interesting on many levels, don't you think?"
    "Interesting? Yes. Credible? That's why I'm asking. So what do you think?"
    "I've never met the boy, so it's impossible for me to say one way or another."
    I told Twain about