He stood up, his hands spread out in apology. “I'm sorry, Miss Kai.” His calm, soothing voice, washed the fear that gripped her away. “I didn't get your message until this morning. What's changed that has you so scared?”
How could I ever have doubted him? She threw her bag behind the door, and sat down at her desk. She brought up the new video and pointed at the frozen image of the latest victim. “I knew him!”
His eyebrows shot up. “You knew him? How?”
“He took the subway with me,” she explained. “I've seen him lots of times.”
“Did you ever speak to him?”
“No, I usually just put my iPod on and tune out, but he's hard to miss with those legs. Could it be a coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said, shaking his head. “But you never spoke to him?”
“No.”
He hit a few keys on his phone then showed her a series of photos. “Have you ever seen any of these people before?” He flipped through, Aynslee shaking her head to each one.
“No, sorry, he’s the only one I recognize.”
“Okay, I want you to stay in your office today. Don't leave the building until you hear from me.”
She felt her chest tighten. “Do you think he'll come after me?”
“No, I know what the connection is between the other victims and I don't see any relation to you.”
“You know the connection! What is it?” she asked, her reporter instincts kicking back in.
“Sorry, Miss Kai, I can't tell you that.”
Worth a try!
His phone rang and he looked at the call display. “It’s my partner, I have to take this. Stay here until you hear from me, okay?”
She nodded as he walked out of her office.
Ian tried to go about his business, but showering with twenty other men made that extremely difficult. He just wanted to survive. Prison was terrifying. And Rikers wasn’t even real prison. He had no idea what he would do when he got to the real thing. Denzel would most likely protect him, until he got himself killed, and then what would he do? Every night he hugged his pillow, crying silently in terror and self pity, until eventually exhaustion would take him. Every waking moment was an exercise in avoidance, of people and situations, but some, like this, were mandatory, and he couldn’t avoid them. He just prayed Denzel wouldn’t start something. Where he avoided eye contact with everyone else, Denzel, showering beside him, defiantly looked about, trying to stare down anyone who would meet his glare.
“What you lookin' at crackah!” he yelled.
Ian looked out of the corner of his eye at the man Denzel had challenged, showering about five feet away. The rather slight, white man met Denzel’s gaze then looked away slowly, apparently unconcerned with Denzel's outburst. It’s the small bitches you need to worry about. Ya never know if they’re gonna try and prove they’re tough. Denzel’s words rang through his head as he thumped his chest and looked about as if he had stared down a silverback gorilla.
The showers cut out and everyone toweled off then dressed. Ian finished buttoning his shirt and began to fold his towel when Denzel elbowed him in the ribs. Ian looked up and saw the man from earlier walking toward them. Denzel stepped forward. Ian noticed the man had his hand in the pocket of his jumper, and reached to warn Denzel. “W-w-wait—”
“What the hell do you want?”
“For you to die,” the man said in a hoarse whisper. It happened so quickly, Ian never had a chance to finish his sentence. The man pulled his hand from his jumper and lunged toward Denzel, plunging a shiv made from a toothbrush into the side of Denzel's neck. Denzel clutched at the wound in shock, the punctured artery rhythmically spurting blood as he fell to the floor.
“No!” yelled Ian, jumping toward the man, grabbing at him. The man sidestepped Ian’s awkward attack and flipped him around, grabbing him in a headlock. Ian saw the free hand reach over his head, the shiv, still dripping in his friend’s blood, held high, plunged down and into his stomach then chest, as his attacker repeatedly pierced his body. He threw Ian to the ground next to his friend along with the shiv, then blended with the crowd of prisoners running away.
Everyone on the boards talked tough, bragged about hacking various company websites, the odd third-world government database, basically, the easy stuff. A few claimed to have hacked the big boys. The Fortune 500’s, first-world government sites, DoD, or the holy grail, M$. Most of it was complete and utter bullshit. When the challenge had been put out there, to hack the police database to get someone out of jail, the usually busy chat room had quickly emptied, leaving him and the challenger, Lonewolf2048. The plan was simple, yet would take skills. Skills he had and was dying to test. Hacking the local stores and restaurants that offended him lacked the challenge he needed, so he had agreed to do his part in the craziest scheme he had ever heard of. The challenger, Lonewolf2048, would get himself arrested, and he, ElfLord666, hacker extraordinaire, would hack the police system and have him released.
He had waited all night for the call, and it never came. His head dropped into his chest for the umpteenth time this morning, when the phone rang at last.
“I'm in as a John Doe at Rikers, admitted at two-forty-five a.m. Let's see if you can do your part.”
“No problem.” His fingers flew over the keyboard as he broke through layer after layer of security. These luddites haven't a clue! Within fifteen minutes he had full access to their system and inserted a record indicating their John Doe should be released immediately, the charges dropped.
“ElfLord rules!” he yelled, raising his hands in the air.
“Winston, what's going on down there?” yelled a shrill voice from upstairs.
“Nothing, mom!” he called, turning back to his computer, erasing all traces of what he had just done. It took a couple of hours, but a message eventually popped on his screen. Lonewolf2048 out of the den. Awesome work! You rule! Winston leaned back, smiled and snagged a handful of Cheezies.
It turned out to be a wine bar Chelsie worked at. Upscale, snooty, all the staff wearing crisp white shirts and black pants or skirts. Trace made a note to not bother coming here, a beer and shooter girl herself, although perhaps getting sloshed in a classy place might be some fun. With the right guy. She found her thoughts drifting to Eldridge and quickly pushed them to the back of her mind. Relationships with fellow officers never worked out. Who said anything about a relationship?
A hostess led her to an office in the back where the owner, Yannick Leroux, was tasting several different wines. Fascinated, she watched as he swirled the glass, held it up and examined it, for what she did not know, then sucked it in, his tongue manipulating the wine as he held his mouth slightly open. The odd display wasn’t what shocked her, it was when he leaned over and spat it out into a nearby bucket. Why the hell’s he wasting good booze?
“How can I help you?” asked Yannick as he stepped around his desk to shake her hand.
She showed him her badge. “Detective Trace. I'm working on a missing persons case, a Chelsie Birmingham, I understand she works for you.”
The man sat on the edge of his desk. “Chelsie's missing? I didn't know. She wasn’t due to work here until tonight so I figured she was just late.” He turned to the door and yelled, “Cynthia!” A moment later an impossibly skinny girl trotted in.
“Yes, Mr. Leroux?”
“When did Chelsie last work, was it Saturday night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was on security that night?”
“Denis was.”
“Get him for me, will you?”
She nodded and disappeared.
“You need security here?”
“Occasionally we have problems, it is a wine bar so a lot of the young, rich snobs like to come here, spend a lot of money and get drunk, then they expect a little something in return for a big tip. Having a guy like this,” Yannick motioned toward a hulking man in the doorway, “cures them of any of those thoughts prett
y quickly.” Just as Cynthia was impossibly tiny, Denis was impossibly large, probably six foot six, he had to be over three hundred pounds of muscle. “Denis, this is a detective, she says Chelsie is missing. Did you walk her to the subway on Saturday?”
Trace watched his reaction to the news closely, the look of surprise and concern on the massive head one of pure innocence.
“Of course, sir, just like I always do.”
“Did you see her get on it?”
“Yes, sir, she was on the phone with her mother, I think, then she got on the subway, I watched until it pulled away.”
“You're sure?”
“Yes, sir, I would never let one of the girls leave here unescorted.”
“Of course you wouldn't.” Yannick waved for Denis to leave, who nodded to Trace then lumbered away. Yannick lowered his voice. “Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but a heart of gold. He treats every one of these girls like they were his sisters. I don't think he'd lie to me.”
“Okay, I'll just need to find out what time she left here and I should be done.”
“No problem, just see Cynthia, she can tell you what time she punched out.”
Trace nodded and stepped into the hall and almost ran into Cynthia who was holding a piece of paper. “I thought you might need this,” she said, her hand shaking as she handed the paper to Trace. “It’s a copy of her timecard.”
Trace took the paper from the terrified girl. “Thanks.”
“Do-do you think we have anything to worry about?” stammered Cynthia. “I mean, whoever took her, could he—?” She stopped, unable to put the words together.
Trace looked at her short, dark hair. “No, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” She looked at the timecard.
Time to look at some surveillance footage.
Eldridge parked in front of the rundown hole that was Jeremiah Lansing's apartment building. As he climbed out of his car, Shakespeare did the same, several cars down, and waved.
“Hiya, kid!”
“Hey, Justin. Any sign of him?”
Shakespeare shook his head as he mounted the front steps, pulling on the railing as he hauled himself up. “Not since I got here.” At the top he stopped and took a deep breath. “I’ve got to get back into shape, this is ridiculous.”
Eldridge didn’t say anything, it being the first time he had ever heard Shakespeare even hint at exercise, he wasn’t sure what to say. They picked their way through the filth littering the lobby and Eldridge headed for the stairs when Shakespeare gripped his arm.
“Whoa, where you goin'?”
“You want to take an elevator in this place?”
“Hey, if God had meant man to take stairs, he wouldn't have let man invent the elevator,” replied Shakespeare as he pressed the button. The doors opened and he climbed on. “You comin'?”
Eldridge chuckled and stepped into the elevator with Shakespeare. “Fine. But if we die, I’m gonna kick your ass.”
Shakespeare let out a bellowing laugh, pressing the button for the third floor. Then gasped. The stench of urine and things far worse consumed the air like a rancid soup. They rode in silence to the third floor, neither wanting to admit they were both holding their breath. At long last they arrived and both burst from the elevator, desperate for air.
Shakespeare looked back at the elevator as the doors closed. “What the fuck was that? I swear I’ve smelt that in the morgue.”
Eldridge exhaled deeply, trying to rid himself of any of the remaining air. “I think you may be right. When we leave we should check the shaft for a body.”
He was only half joking.
“Fuck that, phone in an anonymous tip, just in case you’re right.”
Shakespeare wasn’t joking.
Partially recovered, the air in the hallway only slightly better, they approached apartment 308. Eldridge knocked and listened. Nothing. He knocked again, this time louder. “Police officers, we have a warrant to search the premises!” yelled Eldridge. Still no answer.
“Looks like we go in the old fashioned way,” said Shakespeare, stepping back to take a run at the door.
Eldridge held out his hand. “I'll go find the super.”
Shakespeare frowned. “Sure, take all the fun out of the job.”
Eldridge took the stairs to the first floor and found the door labeled Super. He knocked and waited for a few minutes as sounds of movement and cursing from inside approached. The door flew open and an unkempt man in boxer shorts and a stained wife-beater t-shirt glared at Eldridge.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Detective Eldridge, Homicide.” Eldridge flashed his badge. “I have a warrant to search apartment three-oh-eight.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The man snatched a large ring of keys off the wall and walked out into the hallway toward the elevator.
“Aren't you going to put some pants on?” asked Eldridge in disgust. The man looked at him as if his shoulder had grown a second head, then shuffled onto the elevator.
“You comin'?” Eldridge held his breath and rode to the third floor. Shakespeare did a double-take when he saw the Super exit the elevator, the flap in the front of his boxers failing miserably in hiding the man's shame. He unlocked the door and reached to open it when Eldridge stopped him.
“What’s the layout?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“How many bedrooms?” asked an impatient Shakespeare.
“It’s a bachelor.”
Eldridge waved him back. “Ok, we've got it from here.”
They both drew their weapons and took positions on either side of the door. Eldridge gripped the knob and looked at Shakespeare who held up three fingers and counted down, silently mouthing, “three, two, one,” then pointing at the door.
Eldridge turned the knob and threw open the door, stepping into the apartment. “Police officers executing a search warrant!” he yelled as he steadily, but cautiously, cleared the entrance, with Shakespeare close behind. With only one room, a bathroom and a small kitchenette, they cleared it within seconds.
“Would you look at that!” Shakespeare whistled as he looked at one of the main room walls. Dozens of printouts, photos, handwritten notes and timelines were tacked to it, almost every square inch a testament to one man’s obsession.
“What the hell is that?” asked the Super who had wandered in.
“Get the fu—”
Eldridge cut Shakespeare off. “Please wait outside, sir. This is a crime scene.” He accompanied the man out to the hallway and closed the door. When he returned, Shakespeare was standing near the wall, reading some of the material.
“Know what this reminds me of?”
Eldridge nodded. “Yeah, working a case.”
“Exactly. Look at this.” Shakespeare pointed to the upper left and, moving his finger slowly toward the right, following the chain of documents. “This is his search for his sister. Internet searches, hospital records, birth records, it's all here.”
Eldridge's eye was drawn to a series of photos half way down the wall and pointed. “See this? It looks like he met her.” A series of photos taken of a young blonde man and a blonde woman, maybe ten years older, were neatly pinned in a row. She had her arm around him and the angle suggested the man had held out his arm to take their picture, as they both smiled broadly.
“This doesn't look like a meeting that went bad.”
“No, these are two very happy people.” Eldridge continued looking then stopped. “What the—” He pointed at several clippings of articles about the subway killing. He scanned ahead and found articles about the suspects’ capture followed by a series of eight photos, the first seven he recognized as passengers on the subway, but from their everyday lives, not taken from the video. The eighth was of Aynslee.
“They look like surveillance photos,” said Shakespeare. “This kid’s been planning this a long time.”
Eldridge stared at the photo of Aynslee. Why is her photo here?
Shakespeare reached
out and pulled a photo of Jeremiah and his sister off the wall and held it up to a photo from a newspaper clipping showing the subway victim. “Look at this.”
Eldridge gasped. “Patricia Arnette was Jeremiah Lansing's sister?”
“No wonder this kid's gone off the handle. You're alone, you find out you've got a long lost sister, and she gets killed right in front of you.”
“Look at the date.” Eldridge pointed to the timestamp in the corner showing the happy pair.
“Same day as the attack.”
“They must have been travelling together after this meeting. My God, he's killing everyone that didn't help his sister!”
“And he's going to finish it off with himself, I'm willing to bet.”
Eldridge pointed at Aynslee's photo. “I need to find out why she's on this wall.” He took the photo of Jeremiah and Patricia then headed out the door.
Eldridge rushed into the infirmary at Rikers, having received a call from his LT about an attack on Denzel Todd, who had died immediately, and Ian Temple, who wasn’t expected to last much longer. He knew he might only have minutes to get a deathbed confession from the boy, and of finding out who had attacked him. He had a hard time believing Jeremiah could kill someone from inside Rikers, but he had proven resourceful so far, and was certainly desperate enough to try anything. He looked around for someone who could direct him to Temple’s room, when the doctor on duty approached him.
“You here to see Ian Temple?”
“Yes, is he still alive?”
“Barely. He's conscious, but you haven't got a lot of time.”
“Okay, I'll need you as a witness.” Eldridge entered the room where Ian lay on a bed, hooked to numerous machines, his bandaged stomach and chest showing where the shiv had penetrated. “Mr. Temple, I am Detective Eldridge. Has the doctor informed you of your situation?”
Ian nodded.
“Then you are aware you are dying?”
“Yes,” he said, his voice extremely weak.
“Do you know what a death-bed confession is?”
Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 23