“—the hell did you get me into! The cops were here asking questions about Tuesday night! Were you at St. Luke's? You were supposed to cover for me! What the hell were you doing?” A truck pulled in behind Eldridge, drowning out the conversation. He leaned toward the window. “—when you get this message, you call me right away!” Messina tossed the cell phone and looked out the window, a desperate look on his face. Eldridge jerked his head back and settled in behind the van as the light changed.
As they drove, he watched Messina repeatedly look in his side-view mirror. I’ve been made. He turned at the next intersection, there being no point in following him anymore, and let Messina continue on his way. The gamble of listening in on the conversation had paid off. He now had no doubt he was on the right track, all he needed now was a subpoena for the cell phone records to see who Messina had called, but first, he had to keep a promise he had made earlier.
Messina's heart pounded in his chest, unsure of what he had seen. Was it the detective? Had he overheard the phone call? He replayed what he had said in his head, trying to remember how he said it and if it could incriminate him. My God, what has he got me into? He looked in his side mirrors and searched each car for the detective, soon finding him a couple of cars back. His heart leapt into his throat. What am I going to do? He knew trying to lose him would just make him look guilty. He had to keep his cool. He knew he had done nothing wrong from a legal standpoint, but he couldn’t afford to lose his job either. The cell phone rang on the passenger seat and he jumped, grabbing it, the call display showing it was the son-of-a-bitch that had gotten him into this mess. Hitting the Ignore button, he looked in his mirror again and cursed, punching the steering wheel as he fought to keep himself from breaking down in tears, the desperation of his situation almost proving too much. What did I do to deserve this?
Elise Coverdale approached the door, expecting yet another neighbor, friend, or worse yet, reporter, expressing their condolences or asking questions. Why don't they just leave us alone? She didn't recognize the man through the window, and, after her daughter's murder, had become almost paranoid of strangers, especially strange men. “What do you want?” she called through the closed door.
“Mrs. Coverdale? My name is Detective Eldridge, I'm investigating your daughter's case,” the man called out. She jerked back, grabbing her chest, as she heard something tap the window. It was his badge. “May I come in and ask you a few questions?”
She examined the badge. How can I tell it’s real? She wasn’t sure what to do. But what if he is a cop? She unbolted the door, opened it slowly, and peered out at the man. He presented his badge again so she could see it more clearly.
“I’m with the NYPD, ma’am, Detective Eldridge,” he repeated.
His voice was gentle, almost calming, something she could use more of after the events of the past several days. “I'm sorry about that. I'm finding since my daughter's death I'm a little paranoid.”
The man smiled at her as she opened the door. “No need to apologize ma'am, it's better to be overly cautious than careless.”
His voice remained quiet, respectful, as if he truly understood the pain she was going through. She returned the smile, immediately taking a liking to him. “Can I get you anything, coffee, tea?”
“No, ma'am, I'm fine, thank you. I just have a few questions and then I'll be on my way.”
“Of course.” She directed him to a chair in the living room and sat across from him, folding her hands on her lap as she tried to regain her composure, her heart still racing a bit from the shock of seeing a strange man on her doorstep.
“I understand from your husband that you and your daughter were very close,” he began.
“Oh yes, we’re very close,” she agreed. “We tell—.” She stopped, her voice cracking. “Told each other everything.” She looked at the fireplace mantle, her eyes filled with tears, a picture of her and her daughter at her college graduation flooded her with fond memories, and the realization those precious memories were all that remained. No, no more tears! She bit down on her cheek and blinked the tears away.
“Was there anything unusual happening in your daughter's life, any new friends, any unusual phone calls, anything that might help us?”
Elise shook her head. “No, nothing she told me. The only thing unusual is she was going to testify at the trial of those two cretins who killed that poor girl on the subway last year.”
“Yes, I understand she was on the subway when it happened.”
Elise nodded. “She felt terrible about it, about not doing anything, you know? But she told me she was terrified. Apparently someone had tried to help and one of the men had yelled he would shoot him if he got any closer.”
“So one of them had a gun?”
Elise shrugged her shoulders. “Tammera said she never saw one, but it was enough to make people back off. Are you sure I can't get you anything?”
The detective rose and smiled. “No, ma'am, we're all done here.” Retrieving a card from his pocket, he jotted a number on the back and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else, please call me right away,” he said, and then, lowering his voice, he looked her straight in her eyes and said gently, “And ma'am, if you ever need to talk to someone, I've written the crisis hotline number on the back. There are people who can help you get through this.”
Elise knew what he was talking about. Her suicide attempt had failed, her husband arriving as she poured the pills in her mouth. It had brought her back to reality, and realizing what she was doing, she had spat them out into the sink, but wasn’t able to remove all the evidence before her husband walked in. When he saw what she had tried to do, he at last opened up, and they cried together on the bathroom floor, holding each other for hours. “Don't worry about me, Detective. There will be no more episodes like the other night. We'll get through this on our own, but I thank you.” Elise led him to the door. “Detective, when can I expect my husband home?”
He frowned and spread his hands out in front of him. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but that is out of my control. It depends if Miss Kai presses charges. You have my word he won’t spend a moment longer in jail than he has to.”
Elise nodded, the response more or less what she expected. “Ok, thank you for your honesty, Detective.” Elise locked the door behind him and leaned against it, her shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle her sobs.
Eldridge stood on the porch a moment, his mind racing. If there was a gun, or at least the threat of a gun, it explained why no one had helped. Why this piece of information wasn’t generally known was curious, and perhaps why the DA hadn't pursued charges against the bystanders, despite the intense public pressure; if their lives were threatened as well, there was no requirement on their part to act. His faith in humanity restored, if only slightly, he stepped off the porch. His phone vibrated with a message. He flipped it open and found another photo. Tammera Coverdale. Now with three of four passengers identified dead, he needed to find the other passenger’s identity soon, and place him into protective custody.
Before Trace had a chance to interview the coworkers of her missing persons case, she was called in on something far more interesting. A murder. She surveyed the scene in front of her, the upper-middle income home appeared quite well decorated, though she knew little of these things, knowing only what she liked. And she liked what she saw. Spoiling the near perfect setting, the victim, a woman identified as Abigail Teague, forty years old, recent divorcée. The woman lay on her side, tied to a dining room chair, hands bound together behind the chair-back, feet taped to the ornate legs, a piece of duct tape had at one point covered her mouth but was somehow loosened, either by her, or her assailant. It appeared a single bullet to her forehead had finished her off.
“So what do you think, Detective?”
Trace glanced at Vinny then resumed her survey. “No signs of forced entry, so she either knew her assailant or they had a key. According to the neighbors she's recently divorced, apparently quit
e the bitter one from what they said. She won this house in the settlement.” Trace pursed her lips. “My money's on the ex-husband.”
Vinny nodded thoughtfully. “Could be. But …”
Here it comes! She already knew what Vinny was going to say and was a little disappointed he had picked up on it so quickly. “What?”
“Well, this looks an awful lot like the Cell Phone Killer's M.O.”
“Is that what they're calling him?”
“As of last night's newscast,” confirmed Vinny. “Bound, gagged, single shot to the head. I'm willing to bet that newscaster is getting a video as we speak.”
Trace knew he was right. Dammit! “I'll let Eldridge know.” She walked toward the door then added, “If he sends a video.” She was determined to get a little bit of investigating in on this before handing over her third straight case to Eldridge. She had over ten years logged in the detective squad, Eldridge was definitely her junior, and part of her resented giving up interesting cases to him, but she had to admit the kid had skills. I'll probably be reporting to him someday. Though she called him kid, he was only a few years younger than her. She had started on the force straight out of high school, but she had heard through the grapevine Eldridge hadn't joined until almost twenty-five, after a stint in the army. An image of him popped in her head, standing in front of her in combat boots. And nothing else. She chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Vinny.
“Oh, nothing.”
Jesse and Martha Rochester were hard working parents that had failed. They admitted it to themselves privately, then they had to admit it to the nation publicly, after their son, Logan, had videotaped the murder on the subway. Jesse had kicked Logan out the same day he found out about the video. They had tried their best, but Logan had fallen in with the wrong crowd and was out of control. In a last desperate attempt to save their son they planned on moving from the city, hoping against hope removing him from this destructive environment might turn him around.
Then the subway incident happened. And Jesse had had enough. Martha at first protested but even she came around to supporting his decision after seeing the reaction to their son's heartless act. They had almost separated but eventually pulled through for the sake of their other child, thirteen year old Hope. Hit hard by the scandal as well, she now seemed to be coping. Jesse and Martha both prayed every night Hope wouldn't lose her way like Logan had.
The upcoming trial had brought the events of a year ago back into the forefront, but this time they weren't granting any interviews. As far as they were concerned, this was behind them. But then the news of their son’s murder nearly tore them apart again. Having sworn off watching the news on television, they hadn't seen the murder of their son televised as if it were entertainment, instead, a police officer on their doorstep broke the news. Martha had collapsed in the doorway, screaming, Jesse, who had long ago thought he had buried his feelings for his son, fought hard to keep from breaking down, but it was of no use. He still loved his son, no matter how much he had disappointed him. And now he was dead because he had kicked him out.
But apparently that wasn’t true. If this Detective Eldridge was right, Logan was targeted and there was nothing he could have done to prevent his son's death. It was of little comfort now, his son still gone, but perhaps someday, it may prove more.
“I'm sure your son received many threats after the incident,” Eldridge said. “Did any in particular stick in your mind?”
“There were so many, it was overwhelming,” remembered Martha. “There were phone calls, letters, things left at our doorstep.” She shuddered at the memories. “It was terrifying.”
“And it lasted for months,” continued Jesse.
“Has there been anything recent?”
Jesse nodded and pointed to several file boxes stacked in the hallway. “A few. When you called I brought these up from the basement. They’re all the threats we got. You can take them, we don't want them in the house anymore.”
Eldridge rose and opened the top-most box, revealing letters, printouts of emails and more. He picked up a piece of paper from the top and unfolded it. In large capital letters was typed, “The day of judgment is coming!”
“That pretty much sets the tone,” said Jesse, looking at the paper Eldridge was holding. “Take it and do what you want with it, we just want to be left alone.”
Eldridge closed the box and reached into his pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “I think there's something you need to see.” He handed the paper to Jesse.
“What's this?” Jesse unfolded the page. Martha leaned over to read it with him, her hand immediately darting to her mouth to stifle a cry as they read the beginning of a letter from their son asking to come home.
Eldridge picked up the three boxes and left without saying anything, not wanting to interrupt the couple as they held each other, sobbing. As he loaded the boxes into the trunk of his car, another photo from the lab arrived, showing a woman he didn't recognize. Yet.
Chelsie explored her dungeon systematically, tapping every cinder block, kicking every square inch of the dirt walls, searching for a weakness. So far her efforts had yielded sore knuckles and toes, along with the taste of vomit in her mouth from when she found the scratches in the dirt walls. She turned her attention to the floor to make sure there was nothing she might use embedded in it, when she heard the chain rattle overhead, signaling the lowering of the platform she now stood directly under. She looked up and froze. There’s something written there! It was hard to make out, the writing only slightly darker than the wood it was written on. She stretched as far as her toes would take her, straining her neck to read the words, but the light flickered out, frustrating her attempt. The platform inched lower, shafts of light from above cut through the black ink surrounding her, the bottom of the descending platform, bathed in total darkness, concealed its secret, its rectangular shape like the forbidden page of some great text, forever hidden, silhouetted against the intense light from above.
She returned to her corner and waited for the platform to reach the floor, her customary offering, a bottle of water and sandwich, sat in the center. She removed them from the tray and scurried back, careful to not look up, too terrified of what she might see. The chain rattled and the platform began its slow rise toward the ceiling, soon leaving her once again in her pitch black dungeon. The light remained off for several minutes and she decided to eat, her ravenous hunger demanding attention. The light blazed back on as she chewed the last of her sandwich. She took a swig of her water and returned to look at the platform, still unable to read the faint letters. Staring at it, she tried to take it a letter at a time, sounding it out, when what was written suddenly became terrifyingly clear. Food Drugged! She ran to the hole in the floor and vomited.
The retching in her stomach eventually subsided. She wiped her face and used some of the precious water from her bottle to rinse out her mouth. Collapsing onto her mattress, she curled into a ball, processing this new information. She hadn't been the first person here. How many had been here before? He was drugging her. What was he doing to her while she was drugged? How many times had he drugged her? How long was she out when he drugged her? And most importantly, what had happened to the other person?
She got to her feet and looked at the message again. The writing appeared almost dark brown. She was pretty sure it was written in blood, and if it were, it meant whoever had left the message was most likely dead.
And she was determined to survive.
Aynslee sat on her couch, holding an icepack to the back of her head as she watched a TiVo recording of her earlier debut as a co-anchor. Damn I look good! She had already watched it three times and was preparing to watch it a fourth when she found herself wondering if Hayden had seen it. Why am I so obsessed with this guy? Picking up her phone, she dialed his number at the precinct, having decided earlier to not press charges against Tammera Coverdale's father. Prepared to leave a voice mail, she was shocked when he picked
up the line.
“Detective Eldridge, Homicide.”
She was at a loss for words. You're an anchorwoman now, you don't get tongue-tied! “Oh, hello, Detective, this is Aynslee, Aynslee Kai.”
“Good evening, Miss Kai, how can I help you?” His voice rumbled through the phone, affecting her at the very core of her being. She tingled.
“I just wanted to let you know that I don't plan on pressing charges against Mr. Coverdale,” she said, impressed with how smoothly she was able to get that out.
“I'll have him released immediately then.”
“Good, ah, very good,” said Aynslee. You're losing it! “Umm …”
“Was there anything else, Miss Kai?”
Yes! I think I have a crush on you! “No, nothing else. Oh, there was one thing. Did you happen to see the newscast tonight?” You idiot! Why did you ask him that?
“No, I did not,” he replied. “Was there anything I need to know?”
Yeah, that I'm fifteen again. “No, just, well, it was my first time co-anchoring the show.”
Aynslee waited, the silence becoming awkward.
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 17