He stepped back and raised his hands in the air, quieting the room. “Okay, we still have a meeting to finish, and not a lot of time to do it in.” Everyone returned to their seats.
“Okay, so what have we got?”
Shaw leaned forward and shoved a file folder down the table toward Merle. “Now that the sissy shit is over, here’s what I’ve got.” He turned to the room, making a point of curling his lip slightly as his eyes passed over Aynslee. She met his gaze with equal disdain. “Murder in Queens. Police found her body in a bathtub. No ID yet, but sounds like it might be interesting.”
“Why?”
“My source says there’s no suspect, the crime scene was scrubbed as if by a pro, and get this—”
Despite every effort, Aynslee found herself leaning in with the others after his dramatic pause.
“—they found a photo, sitting on the bathroom counter.”
Shaw sat back and crossed his arms, his eyes making the rounds of the table as if in triumph. Aynslee quickly pushed herself back in her seat so she was out of his line of sight, obscured by the weatherman, Bryan.
She heard Merle grunt and she leaned forward again. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do you know about the photo?”
“Nothing yet, except they went ape-shit over it. I’m still working my sources but—”
There was a knock at the door. Aynslee’s head swiveled with the rest to see who would interrupt a story meeting when almost everyone was crammed into the room. When she saw who it was, she leapt out of her chair and rushed to the door, opening it with a smile.
“Detective Shakespeare! Are you here to see me?”
The large man blushed slightly at her attentions. He reminded her a little of her late father, and after he had saved her life, she had begun to think of him a bit in that way. Father figure?
“Sorry to interrupt, but I need to speak to you, if you have a moment?”
Aynslee didn’t bother to ask. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she tossed over her shoulder as she led Shakespeare to her office. Safely secured behind the four floor-to-ceiling walls she had only recently earned, she sat in a comfortable high-back leather chair behind her desk and motioned for the detective to have a seat.
“How can I help you, Detective?”
Shakespeare looked about, as if to confirm they were alone.
“I guess I should have called—”
“I would have been disappointed if you had.”
He blushed again. How badly have you been hurt that any type of civility embarrasses you?
“Well, ah, thanks. I-I guess I should have called, but I wanted to see how you were doing, and—”
He paused and looked around again.
She leaned forward. “And?”
He lowered his voice. “And I have a favor to ask.”
She smiled. “Anything for you, Detective.” Again a blush. She motioned at the walls. “And don’t worry; no one can hear you through these walls. All the offices are soundproof. After all, we’re reporters, dealing with confidential sources, et cetera, all the time.”
He leaned back and sighed along with the chair he was squeezed in. She made a mental note to get a bigger chair for his next visit.
“I guess I’m being a bit silly, but this could be big, and I can’t risk it getting out.” He leaned in again. “Listen, what I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room, okay?”
If it was anyone else, she would have just nodded with her fingers crossed behind her back, but with him, she nodded. And meant it.
“Have you heard of Richard Tate?”
“Unless you live on the moon, everyone’s heard of him.”
Shakespeare chuckled. “Yeah, stupid question, I guess. But I think you’d be wrong.”
Her eyebrows furled. “Sorry?”
“I heard he bought the moon last month. Another casino.”
She laughed and he joined in, the tension of her earlier meeting broken. “So, what about Richard Tate?”
“We’re working on a homicide, and a photo was found at the crime scene.”
Her reporter antennae shot full-up. “The scrubbed one from yesterday?”
Shakespeare’s head jerked back. “How’d you know about that?”
She raised her hands, palms splayed out and shrugged her shoulders. “Hey, I’m a reporter. It’s my job.”
Shakespeare shook his head. “Somebody’s head’s going to roll.”
“Well, let’s just make sure it’s not yours.”
He huffed. “Mine rolled years ago.” His eyes took on an unfocused, distant look. She wondered if he would ever open up to her about what had happened to him. She decided not to press it. He took a deep breath and continued. “Well, what your sources can’t know, or at least I hope can’t know, is that Richard Tate was in that photo, in bed with another as yet unidentified woman.”
She let out a slow, long breath as she leaned back in her chair, elbows on the arms, her chin resting on steepled fingers. “You don’t think—?” She stopped, not even wanting to say it.
This time Shakespeare shrugged. “I don’t know what to think yet. But here’s the thing. If he’s involved, this is—”
“Huge.”
He nodded. “Huge.”
Her gaze, directed at the ceiling as she contemplated the implications, returned to Shakespeare. “What do you need from me?”
“I need you to tell me if you hear anything on the street, or your beat, or whatever the hell you news guys—sorry gals—people—hell, whatever you call yourselves and it”—she grinned—“about this photo, and who’s in it. We can’t risk this getting out there, but the department leaks like a sieve sometimes.”
Aynslee smiled and nodded. “Don’t worry, Detective, I’ll keep my ears open and if I hear of anyone mentioning Richard Tate in any compromising photo I’ll let you know right away.” This seemed to satisfy him and he rose, extending his hand. She took it as she circled the desk. She pulled herself close to him and gave him a peck on the cheek, letting go of his hand. He patted her arm, his eyes conveying a fatherly concern that made her warm inside, and he stepped toward the door as something dawned on her.
“Hey, I wonder if that’s why he collapsed.”
Shakespeare stopped. “Huh?”
“Richard Tate. If he’s involved in a murder, it might be why he collapsed earlier.”
Shakespeare turned to face her.
“What are you saying?”
Aynslee looked at him, puzzled. “Don’t you know? It’s been all over the news. Richard Tate was taken to the hospital today. Possible heart attack.”
Trace debated what to do. She could yell for help, but the fact she hadn’t heard a damned thing since her captor had laid himself out, she suspected the walls were pretty soundproofed. Break the chair like in the movies? She shoved with her feet and back, trying to crack the chair in two, knowing full well it was a useless venture; the chair was a high-end office chair, not some cheap wooden glue-job from China. Though it probably still is from China. She could wait? Dispatch knew she was here. Eventually someone would come looking. But then he could wake up before then and kill her.
She leaned forward and with all of her strength pulled her arms up at the elbows, trying to tear the tape. Pushing as hard as she could, her hands gripping the ends of the chair arms, her entire being strained as she felt the elbow of her left arm rise slightly. Filled with a rush of expectation, she pushed even harder, but the elbow remained stubbornly still, until she at last gave up, relaxing her taught body, and to her dismay, noticing her left elbow did not lower any further than her right, the perceived gain only in her imagination.
A deep, guttural growl slowly built in her throat, erupting in a roar of frustration as she slammed her head into the high cushioned back of the chair. Her outburst over, she closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. If you’re going to die, you’re going to die.
But none of this made sense.
If the kid was a killer, why wouldn’t
he have just killed her? Hell, he had one body in the tub already, what’s two? And what was that he had found behind the grate? She could have sworn it was a webcam. And if it was, it wasn’t his secret date-rape cam to tape unsuspecting women—he had searched for this thing, had found it.
Or it could have been a show for her.
She thought about that. Was he that good an actor? She shook head and whispered, “No way.” No, this kid wasn’t acting. He found that webcam. And it wasn’t his. And his reaction. He had been so pleased, as if he had just proven he wasn’t crazy, that the camera must be the key.
The key to what?
The key to the murder? No, something more. Pull the kid out from the equation. Okay, dead body in the tub. Webcam hidden in the grill to monitor the apartment. Connected? Obviously. The only way they wouldn’t be was if the owner of the apartment had placed the camera there, and since he didn’t, and she didn’t believe in coincidences, they were clearly connected. She visualized the problem, pictured the body in the tub, the camera broadcasting the apartment. Broadcasting what? To whom? The whom was easy. The killer. That’s the only explanation for the camera. If the body and the camera are linked, then obviously the killer planted the camera. But why? Perhaps to watch the kid’s reaction to the discovery? The investigation. In fact—
A chill ran down her spine as a horrid realization dawned on her.
In fact, the killer could be watching right now.
Or rather, would have been, but since Frank was passed out behind the counter with the camera somewhere on the floor, he would have nothing to see.
And if I was a homicidal maniac, wanting to get my kicks, I might just come back and—
There was a noise at the door.
Her heart leapt as her head spun toward the sound. It wasn’t a key. There was no knock. Nothing indicating a visitor, or someone who was supposed to be there. But there was a noise, a scraping sound, something odd she couldn’t place. Is someone picking the lock? Her heart thudded in her chest as she focused on the door. What would the killer do if he found a cop, tied to a chair?
He’d kill you, obviously.
But maybe not if he thought she was passed out. She closed her eyes and turned her head away from the door, trying to steady her rapid breathing. The sound continued, each little scratch like a roar of thunder echoing between the Manhattan towers. She could hear her pulse drum through her ears, every sound in the apartment, on the street below, and at the door ten feet away, amplified like a speaker cranked to ten.
Then a quick, final scrape, as if something were sliding, then…nothing.
She waited. Could he have opened the door? Could it have been that silent? He would want to sneak in, just in case someone was inside. He would want to open and close the door as gently as possible. She strained to hear. A moment ago everything was so loud. But now she could hear nothing.
She opened her eyes a crack, her head still facing away from the door.
Nothing.
Straining, she held her breath, but all she could hear was her own heart thudding in her chest. No footsteps, no breathing, no nothing. She had to risk it. By now whoever it was would have seen Frank out cold in the kitchen, and she was in plain sight from the door. He would know no one would be in the bathroom other than the victim, and would most likely know Frank lived alone.
She turned her head slightly, pushing her eyeballs in their sockets as far to the right as she could, trying to maximize her peripheral vision.
Nothing.
She turned her head some more, then all at once opened her eyes and spun.
And breathed a sigh of relief.
Tucked in the door of the apartment was a flyer, probably for some pizza joint she could ask Shakespeare for an opinion on. She heard a clicking in the hallway, the distinctive sound of a stairwell door closing.
And an opportunity for help, lost.
The old lady was gone.
Sarah sighed, eyeing the door outlined at the end of her prison, wishing she too could just walk out like her guest had while she slept. But she couldn’t. This was her prison, not theirs. Were they even real? Or merely demons sent to torment her. To remind her of the world she had lost, and the isolation she would now experience. If she was isolated permanently, there was a risk she might forget about companionship over time, and learn to accept her isolation. But if occasionally she were reminded of what she had lost, she may never become accustomed to the loneliness. It was clever. It was cruel.
It was evil.
“I wonder what happened to Frank,” she said aloud.
“He will be joining us soon.”
The voice startled her, deep, rumbling, the entire room vibrating from the deep bass in the voice. She pushed herself further into her corner, burying her head. Face your fear! How can it get any worse? She raised her chin slightly, exposing her mouth.
“Why? Why do you have to punish him too?” Her voice trembled, her heart screamed in her chest as terror gripped her.
“You dare question me?” The room shook as if an earthquake had hit. Sarah’s arms darted out to the two walls and she braced herself.
“I’m sorry,” she whimpered.
“The list of your friend’s sins is long.” There was a pause. “Perhaps you would like to hear them?”
She shook her head. “No, no I wouldn’t.”
The voice chuckled. “Then let us begin.”
Half a dozen commandments were read, but when she heard the last one, she gasped.
“Thou shalt not kill.”
Kill? It made no sense. Frank didn’t even carry a weapon. And besides, she had always been taught that by “kill”, God had meant “murder”. Killing without cause. There was no way Frank could be guilty of breaking that commandment.
“There’s no way Frank is a murderer.”
A soft chuckle echoed off the walls.
“Oh really?”
The chuckle built, becoming deeper, turning into a growl, almost a barking laugh.
“Then why are you here, Sarah?”
Frank moaned. His head throbbed with a splitting headache he couldn’t explain. For a moment panic surged through him at the thought of being drugged again, but when he opened his eyes and found himself staring up at his kitchen ceiling, he remembered what had happened.
The camera!
He bolted up, immediately regretting it, grabbing the island countertop until the room stopped spinning. He opened his eyes again and surveyed the floor. He bent over, slowly, picking up the webcam and transmitter lying on the floor.
“It’s about goddamned time.”
He spun toward the voice and moaned in pain. Trace! He had almost forgotten about her in his excitement and pain. “See this?” He held up the camera triumphantly as he disconnected the transmitter. “This”—he shook the camera—“is the proof that I’m innocent.”
Trace was looking at him, but he couldn’t read her expression. At last she spoke. “Okay, boy wizard, what the hell are you talking about? Explain it to me, pretend I’m dense, I don’t have all the facts. Give them to me!”
He grabbed another chair and pulled it up in front of her, showing her the camera and transmitter. “This”—he held up the camera—“is a web camera. This”—he held up the transmitter—“is a transmitter. It’s been transmitting the signal from this camera, to the Internet.” He leaned back triumphantly.
“So?”
So? How could she not see it? “Don’t you get it? This is the killer’s. He planted this in my apartment so he could watch me.”
“How do I know you didn’t put it there yourself?”
Frank opened his mouth to respond but stopped. She was right. How could he prove it? Then it dawned on him. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cellphone, scrolling to the latest message he had received and showed it to her.
“See? I’ve been getting these all weekend. I’m being set up!” He scrolled through each of them so she could read them.
“Ho
w do I know you didn’t just send those to yourself?”
“But why would I?” Frank was getting frustrated. Why couldn’t she get it? Was she really that stupid?
“So that if you ever got caught, you could claim it was someone else.”
His shoulders slumped. He had to admit she was right. All of it was circumstantial. All of it could be explained away. All of it—
The phone vibrated.
They both jumped. He pressed the button to view the message and smiled, turning the phone to her so she could read the newly arrived message.
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
MY CAMERA MAY HAVE BEEN FOUND
BUT I’LL BE SEEING YOU AROUND
Frank whispered, “Do you believe me now?”
Trace nodded and visibly relaxed, her hands releasing their grip on the chair, her shoulders easing back into the leather. “Yes.”
“Thank God.” His voice cracked and tears rolled down his face as he leaned forward and began to yank at the tape. Relief swept over him as the realization the terror of the past two days was over, and he could finally tell his colleagues, his friends, what had been happening to him, and to find out what, if anything, had happened to Sarah.
“I think you better get a knife.”
He leaned back and looked at her, a little chagrined. “I didn’t know how much to use, so I used it all.”
She chuckled and he grabbed her in a hug, his head over her shoulder, his chest heaving. “Thank you for believing me.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid, but how about we do the hugging after I’m free and clear of this chair?”
He let go and stood up, wiping his eyes, his cheeks flushed with emotion and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, you just have no idea what I’ve been through.” He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife from a butcher’s block and walked back toward her.
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 11