This is a dead end.
Trace took a handful of photos with her phone, just in case someone might return to retrieve something, then left, deciding her time might be better spent interviewing people at the bar where Chelsie worked.
For the first time in years Shakespeare felt alive. Coming to Rikers was a crazy idea, especially with what he planned on doing. Hell, it was illegal, but he didn't care. He knew if he was caught he'd just be asked to resign; the department wouldn't want the scandal. But if he succeeded, he might bust open this case for the kid. He had no interest in furthering his own career. He didn't even care what the others thought of him. He just cared what he thought of himself. And right now, he was feeling pretty damned good as he entered the receiving area. Adjusting his large white Boss Hogg Stetson, he approached the front desk. “Howdy, I'm Justin Shapiro and I'm here to meet with my clients, Denzel Todd and Ian Temple.” Shakespeare handed over fake ID matching the bogus name he had just given to the desk officer, relishing the guard’s stunned expression as he took in the ridiculous spectacle in front of him. He had always found the more ridiculous the disguise, the more willing people were to believe it. And this was one of his favorite recurring characters to play.
“So those two bastards got another lawyer?”
“Hey, I won't have you talking about those two fine gentlemen like that!” said Shakespeare, enjoying the bombastic performance, a fake southern accent, curled mustache, bad hairpiece and loud white suit completing the disguise. “They're innocent until proven guilty.”
“Whatever,” said the disinterested Corrections Officer as he wrote down “Shapiro's” information in the visitors log. He called for the two prisoners to be brought to an interview room then pointed toward the waiting area. “Wait there until you're called.”
Shakespeare didn't have long to wait. A CO led him into a small, depressing room, the drab, grey paint on the walls tired and chipped, the concrete scraped and pitted from decades of impacts with various items, most likely including the body parts of lawyers and convicts. A metal table, bolted to the floor, occupied the center of the room, four metal chairs, two of which were also bolted down, the other two, meant for the visitors, bore the scars of having been thrown around at one time or another, most likely contributing their fair share of the damage to their surroundings. The florescent lighting hummed overhead, augmented only slightly by the natural light coming in from a small window near the ceiling, too small to fit even the tiniest of adults, making the rusted bars crisscrossing it redundant. In the two bolted chairs sat his “clients”, their feet and hands shackled together, the chains cuffed to a bolt in the floor.
“Thank you, Officer, I'd like to speak to my clients in private, if you don't mind,” said Shakespeare, smiling as he held out his arm, ushering the guard toward the door. The guard nodded and closed the door, leaving Shakespeare alone with two of the most reviled young men in New York.
Shakespeare turned and faced the two prisoners, a broad smile stretched across his face. They’re only boys!
“Who the fuck are you?” asked one.
Shakespeare sat down in the chair opposite them. “You must be Denzel,” he said as he opened a brief case and pulled out two files. “Denzel Todd, twenty-two years old, mother died a crack whore, never knew who your daddy was. Says here you've been in and out of jail more times than you can count.”
“Fuck you!” yelled Denzel, yanking at the chains.
“And you are Ian Temple,” he said, turning to the other boy. “Nineteen years old, dad died in Iraq, mom is a legal secretary at a good firm.” He leaned toward Ian. “What are you doing hanging around with a lowlife like this?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward Denzel. Ian lowered his eyes and looked at the floor.
“Hey, fuck you, man! Who the fuck are you anyway?” Denzel struggled against his chains, yanking at them with all his might, the rattling attracting the attention of the CO outside who knocked on the door and looked through the small Plexiglas window.
Shakespeare waved him off. “I'm your new lawyer, Justin Shapiro,” replied Shakespeare, returning his attention to the boys. “I'm here to see if I can get you gentlemen off.”
Denzel tossed his head back and laughed, no longer struggling with his chains. “Yeah, like that's gonna happen. What you been snortin' anyway? Got any left?” he asked, laughing and elbowing his partner, clearly impressed with what he perceived to be a clever sense of humor.
Shakespeare smiled and pulled another file from the brief case. “Well, I have some good news for you that might change your thinking on this.” Shakespeare took four pictures from the file and spread them face down in front of him. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Whoever you hired has managed to eliminate four witnesses already.”
Ian and Denzel looked at each other then back at Shakespeare. “What do you mean, eliminated?” asked Denzel.
Shakespeare flipped each picture over, revealing the faces of Tammera, Logan and Aaron, along with what remained of Ibrahim, to Denzel and Ian. “What do you think I mean?” asked Shakespeare, pretending to be exasperated. “Eliminated! Kaput, pushing up daisies, knockin' at the Pearly Gates, having dinner with Tupac, dead! What the hell else could I mean?”
Ian looked shocked. “Y-you mean f-four more p-people are dead?” he asked with a pronounced stutter, a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.
“Y-yes, I-I d-do,” mocked Shakespeare.
“Hey, lay off him asshole or I'll mess you up!”
Shakespeare leaned back. So, Denzel is Ian's protector. “Okay, Denzel, you're in charge,” said Shakespeare, playing to the boy's ego. “Your man has managed to eliminate four of the witnesses against you. There's still some more but he's got some time.”
“W-we d-didn't hire any b-body,” stammered Ian.
“Hey, of course you didn't.” Shakespeare opened his hands in a dismissive manner and raised his shoulders. “Someone just happens to be out there helping you out. You never asked him to, he just volunteered.”
“Well, so what if someone is helpin' us out, that's a good thing, right?” Denzel didn't sound certain.
“Oh yeah, it's a great thing!” said Shakespeare with an exaggerated grin. “But here's the problem,” he said, again lowering his voice and leaning toward them. “A new, very credible witness has come forward. I need to get their name to your guy so he can take care of them.”
Denzel shook his head. “That's not possible, we can't get in touch with him.”
“Sure you can. Listen, this is one hell of a witness. Friend of the DA. The jury’s gonna buy his story, hook, line and sinker. There's nothing I can do to stop this guy from burying you. The only way is if he can't make it to the stand.” Shakespeare gathered the pictures and placed them back in his briefcase. “Listen, I'll give you the name, you call your guy and give it to him, and everything is good, okay?”
“We can’t get in touch with him,” repeated a sullen Denzel.
“Fine.” Shakespeare stood and headed toward the door. “It’s your funeral.”
“Wait!”
Shakespeare turned around to see Denzel looking at the floor. “What?”
“We didn't hire no hit man,” mumbled Denzel.
“What was that?” Shakespeare rounded the table and leaned forward on his fists, cocking his ear in a larger-than-life manner. “I didn't hear you.”
“I said, we didn't hire no hit man!” said Denzel, this time with a hint of desperation in his voice.
“What? Naaaw, I don't believe that for a second!” said Shakespeare, shaking his head as he sat back down. “You're telling me that you two had nothing to do with eliminating those witnesses?”
Denzel lowered his head and looked at the floor. “No.”
“You're serious? Listen, now's not the time to grow a conscience. If we get rid of this one witness, you guys could end up walking.”
Denzel raised his head and looked Shakespeare in the eyes. “If we had a guy on the outside, don't you think we'd
give him to you?” yelled Denzel in frustration. “But we don't, there's nobody, nothing! Just a bunch of useless legal aide lawyers and that's it! We got nobody helpin' us 'cept you!”
Shakespeare stood and headed to the door. “And you don't even have me, ya pieces of shit.” He rapped on the door and it opened. He walked out, leaving his two “clients” in confused silence. When he got into his car he called Eldridge's phone and was sent directly to voicemail. “Hey, kid, it's me. No way these two guys have anything to do with your murders.” He snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat. His stomach rumbled. Well, that deserves a snack! He put the car in gear and headed across the Francis Buono Bridge toward his favorite hotdog stand in Queens, ripping off his wig and fake mustache. He eyed the white suit. Maybe I should change first?
“What's got you so happy?”
Frank grinned at Eldridge as he entered the lab. “Watch this!” He hit a button on his keyboard and the subway beating video flashed on the plasma display, replaying the horror of that day. Eldridge opened his mouth to say something but Frank raised his index finger. “Wait!” said Frank, turning it into a two syllable word as he bent his finger and jabbed at the screen. The video paused on an image of Ibrahim Jamar sitting in his seat and sat frozen for almost a minute before continuing, the only difference between the original and the one found on the DVD player left at the hospital.
“Yeah, so it pauses on our victim. I already knew that.”
“Yeah, but did you notice anything?”
“What?”
Frank backed up the video to where the image of Ibrahim had frozen and pressed pause. “Now do you notice anything?”
Eldridge raised his hands in exasperation. “What, what am I supposed to be noticing?”
“Do you recognize who that is?”
“Of course I do, it's Ibrahim Jamar, our cab driver who was abducted, shot and blown up!”
“Exactly.” Frank had a satisfied look on his face. Eldridge stared at him. “Man, you cops aren't too bright are you?”
Eldridge recognized the Leo Getz reference for what it was, surprised someone as young as Frank knew Lethal Weapon. Then it hit him. His mouth opened and his eyebrows shot up, resulting in a look of relief from Frank.
“Got it? This image has been cleaned up! Whoever is doing this has access to the same technology I'm using here to clean up our video,” gushed Frank. “This guy is good!”
Suddenly NerdTech didn't seem like such a stretch. “What kind of horsepower would he need?”
“I'm using some incredibly powerful multi-core processors here, very expensive stuff. There's no way some NerdTech employee owns this stuff.”
“But he could have access to this kind of hardware? As part of his job, maybe?”
“Perhaps. But even so, the routines take a long time to run and I'd be surprised if anyone would leave hardware this powerful unattended for long enough.”
“So then how's he doing it?”
“Well, there's nothing to say you can't do this at home, it would just take a really long time.”
“How long?”
“Well, it could take weeks per image. If he's done this for everybody on the train, hell, it could have taken him months, maybe even longer!”
Eldridge nodded. “So, he's been working on this since the beginning.”
“Holy shit, Detective,” exclaimed Frank. “Do you realize how much work that is? He'd have to be obsessed to do something like this!”
Eldridge headed toward the door. “He's killed four of them already. I'd say that counts as obsessed.”
Chelsie woke to find herself lying on something comfortable. Incredibly comfortable. She hadn’t experienced anything so soft in days. She rolled onto her back, enjoying the sensation as she stretched her arms above her head and reached out with her legs, extending them as far as she could, working out the kinks. She opened her eyes and snapped them shut again, a bright light, the brightest she had seen in days, nearly blinding her. She opened her eyes a sliver, trying to adjust. The soft bed she lay in and the bright light caused her heart to pound in excitement. Was I rescued? It took a minute, but with each passing second her surroundings came into focus and her elation turned to despair, the dirt and concrete walls she had only touched until now, finally revealed by a light dangling from the ceiling, her soft, comfortable bed, nothing more than a thin mattress tossed on the floor of her prison. She lay her head down and closed her eyes, shutting out the horror surrounding her as her body heaved with sobs, a wave of self-pity taking over.
What did I do to deserve this?
She thought of her mom and dad, what they must be going through, what she would give to have her overprotective mother there with her right now, holding her, telling her it was going to be alright, to have her father there to protect her from her captor. This isn’t fair! She hugged her knees to her chest, and tried to steady her crying. She pictured her parents. She could imagine her father’s soothing voice. Stay strong.
She gasped, inhaling deeply, and held it for a moment, as if the air were steel, fortifying her against the horrors outside the fragile shell of her body. She slowly exhaled, letting the air audibly escape past her pursed lips.
I will, Daddy.
Eldridge exited the courthouse’s underground parking, the warrant for the NerdTech employee files issued earlier that morning, sat on the passenger seat beside him. He steered his car toward the NerdTech offices, determined now more than ever he was on the right track. With both a NerdTech uniform and van seen in the vicinity, someone with advanced computer knowledge uploading videos on hijacked wireless networks, and extremely advanced photographic analysis software utilized to identify the victims, everything pointed to someone at NerdTech. The familiar feeling that came over him when he was about to break a case wide open, filled him with a natural high he would never get enough of. This was the turning point, he could feel it in his gut, and his gut was rarely wrong. This was why he became a cop, the excitement of knowing you were about to put a criminal in jail, especially a murderer, was something no drug could recreate. His spine tingled, anticipating the rush of seeing his suspect looking back at him from an employee file.
He also couldn’t wait to shove the warrant in Gupta's smug face.
The traffic moved slower than usual, even for this time of morning. Creeping along for almost half an hour, the constant honking of horns slowly killing his joy, he finally came upon the cause of the chaos, a broken-down Jaguar in the middle of an intersection, hood up, its owner standing by the open driver’s side door, the entire dash flashing with warning lights, as he screamed at the dealer on his cell phone about his six-figure lemon. Eldridge shook his head. Everybody knows you don’t buy Jags to actually get anywhere. As he cleared the intersection, traffic finally returned to a normal pace and he soon arrived at NerdTech.
Gupta wasn’t pleased to see him, the plastic smile failing to hide the knowledge he was about to taste his own shoes. He extended his hand regardless, and Eldridge, having planned ahead, passed him the warrant, struggling to keep his delight from being too obvious. “I need all of your personnel records for anyone who may have access to one of your vehicles.”
Gupta read the warrant carefully, as if looking for some reason to not comply, then turned to the receptionist. “Get somebody from Legal in my office, ASAP.” She nodded and turned to her computer to look up the extension. Gupta pointed to the couches. “You’ll have to wait until our lawyers look at this.”
Eldridge walked past Gupta and headed toward his office. Gupta, startled, ran after him, opening his mouth to protest. Eldridge cut him off. “Your lawyer can review it at his leisure. That warrant gives me immediate access, and you will provide me with the information detailed in that court order now, or I will have all of your computers seized and our techs will search for the information themselves. It should take a few weeks since they are very busy. Your choice.” Arriving at the office, Eldridge held his arm out and beckoned Gupta in. �
�After you.”
A subdued Gupta shuffled past him and sat behind his desk. “Do you want me to filter them somehow?”
“White males for now, we don't know anything else beyond that.”
Gupta nodded and hit a few keys. The printer beside his desk powered up and began spitting out employee records.
Eldridge eyed the rapidly growing stack of paper. “How many does that leave?”
“One-hundred-forty-two.”
“You're kidding me!”
“No, Detective.” Gupta smiled, apparently garnering some satisfaction at the work ahead of Eldridge. “You are fortunate that you were able to specify a white male. Otherwise you would be looking at over three hundred.”
Eldridge's earlier optimism waned as he leafed through the thick set of papers Gupta handed him, each with a photo and contact details for all NerdTech’s white male employees. Determined not to give Gupta the satisfaction of knowing how discouraged he was, he shoved the stack of papers under his arm and dropped his card on Gupta’s desk. “E-mail me that as well for our techs in case we want to cross reference it with anything.”
Gupta nodded. “Of course, Detective.”
Eldridge headed to his car with 142 sheets of paper under his arm, and his hopes of a turning point being reached, dashed. As he trotted across the street, a nearby Starbucks beckoned, his need for a pick-me-up greater than his need to return to the station. Sinking into a ridiculously comfortable chair, he sipped his Venti coffee with no sugar, no cream, no foam, no cinnamon and definitely no vanilla or caramel. Just black, the way it was meant to be! He flipped through the records, hoping to narrow down the list of possibilities. He knew some were not the man he had seen in the hospital simply by looking at them. Some too fat, others too old. When he finished, he had the list whittled down to a little under one hundred names. Some progress.
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 15