“Well, you may be working under that assumption, but I can guarantee you that Shakes has got both possibilities running through that mind of his.”
Trace smiled. “Wow, I think that’s the first nice thing I’ve heard you say about him in years.”
Vinny smiled out of half his mouth. “Yeah, well just don’t tell him I said so.”
“Oooh, I don’t know about that. That would be like lying to my partner.”
“Don’t you have some video to review somewhere other than here?”
Trace laughed and left Vinny and his crew to finish their investigation, her mind now contemplating a completely new theory.
Frank and Reggie looked up from the monitors at Shakespeare. Frank shook his head. “I’m not sure, but”—he pointed at one of the monitors—“I’m pretty sure that’s Sarah.”
Shakespeare approached the monitors and leaned in for a closer look. On the screen was an image shot from above, not an overhead shot, but from an angle as if the camera were positioned like the other two they had found in Frank’s building. It showed a long, narrow room, featureless, save a lone, naked woman, huddled in one corner, apparently asleep.
“How can you tell? You can’t see her face.”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t know, I just know.”
Or you just want it to be her. Shakespeare didn’t blame the kid, but the worst thing you could do in this business was jump to conclusions. This could be an entirely different victim for all they knew. If this was a serial killer situation, they quite often went after similar looks, and young and plump was definitely in abundance in this day and age.
“I’m in.”
Shakespeare looked at the station’s resident geek. “In what?”
“The historical archives.”
“You mean what these cameras have been taping is stored there?”
“Yup.” He hit a few keys and pointed at one of the monitors showing an empty room and a time code from Friday night. It ticked by in real time.
“Anyway to speed this up?”
“Yup, but we’re probably looking at two days of footage, and there’s three cameras.”
“Can you edit that down?”
“Are you kidding me?” The geek guffawed painfully. “This is a TV station, of course we can.”
Shakespeare pointed at Frank. “Okay, I want you to go through that footage, and pull together anything of interest. And if you get any hint of a location, or someone else involved that we don’t know of yet, you let me know right away.”
“Where are you going?”
“NYU. Right now everything keeps pointing there.”
“Back it up!” Trace pulled her chair closer to the monitor, her finger poised in the air. “Now stop.” The security tech from the Waldorf stopped spinning the control on his specialized keyboard, and let it play forward. The image clearly showed Richard Tate entering the room, alone, at 5:55pm. The tech spun the control a few times, the time code jumping ahead, showing only a few people in the hallway, but none approaching the door, until 6:13pm when a tall, well-dressed blonde woman, clearly their second victim, entered.
“Okay, that matches up with what we know. Now let’s see who arrives.”
The control spun, and it wasn’t until 6:58pm that anyone else approached the door. “Wait a minute, is that a masseuse?”
The tech nodded. “Looks like it to me.” He pointed at the fold-up table she had. “No logo. She’s not from the hotel, that’s an outside company.”
Trace made note of the time. “Okay, move it forward.” The door opened and the masseuse disappeared. “Someone’s still alive and awake in there!” But who? Could the killer have been hiding in the room? It was a definite possibility. She had seen the room; it was huge, separate bedroom, two bathrooms, large closets with doors, an entrance area, sitting area, living area. It was essentially a large apartment with everything except a kitchen. More than enough places for someone to have hidden. And according to Tate’s statement, he had passed out within minutes of Samantha arriving, and this was almost an hour later.
The tech spun the wheel, sending the footage leaping ahead. An hour later the door to the suite opened again, and out walked the masseuse, table under her arm, heading toward the elevators, apparently completely calm. Trace stared at the screen as the woman disappeared from site. But that makes no sense! “Are these time codes correct?”
“Yup, there’s no way to fake these.”
She racked her brain for all it was worth. Tate arrives. Fifteen minutes later Alders arrives. Forty-five minutes more and a masseuse arrives. An hour later that masseuse leaves, completely calm. That means they were alive and well long after Tate said. But why would Tate lie? Then it occurred to her.
“Do you guys have any problems with prostitution here?”
“Of course not.”
Yeah, right! “I’m not looking to get you guys in trouble, but how unusual is it to have an outside masseuse come in for a little, how shall I put it, rub and tug?”
The man blushed slightly and he lowered his voice. “I see it all the time. Our girls would never do this, so some guests order in, shall we say, questionable girls. There’s no way to tell, and the front desk isn’t going to stop them, because most of them are legitimate. We have no way of knowing.”
Trace waved her hand at him, cutting him off. “Okay, I get it, you guys are completely innocent.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, Tate arrives, his date arrives, they order up a third participant, get their little massage à trois on, then she leaves.” She nodded. “Okay, I can see why he wouldn’t want us to know about that, so he messed with the timeline by omitting his additional guest.”
“Makes sense.”
Trace twirled her fingers in the air. “Okay, let’s roll it forward and see what we’ve got.”
Hours spun by on the clock, and it wasn’t until the next morning, 9:47am, that the door burst open and Tate himself rushed from the room, and toward the elevator. “That’s Tate leaving, that matches up.” Minutes later a bellhop, fully decked out in a Waldorf uniform, a hat perched atop his head, pulled low hiding his face, pushed a luggage cart with a large case down the hallway. He stopped in front of the Tate suite, swept a card through the lock, and opened the door. He backed in, pulling the cart inside. Just like I thought! A few seconds of spinning, and the time code jumped to 11:39am, the door opening again, the bellhop backing out, pulling the cart. As he walked under the camera, he glanced up slightly, in what looked like an attempt to stretch, and she caught a clear look at his face.
Sandy Thorton!
“Do you recognize him?”
The tech shook his head. “No, but we’ve got a huge staff. I can run him through personnel if you want.”
Trace shook her head. “No, I’ve already got that happening with a better photo.”
The tech spun the control forward and several hours later, at 2:23pm, Tate reappeared, entered the suite, and less than ten minutes later reemerged, collapsing on the floor. Minutes later he was surrounded by staff, then paramedics.
“Okay, send me a copy of that footage.” She handed the tech her card. “Also, I need you to see if you can tell where that bellhop came from and went.” She unclipped her cellphone from her hip. “And I’ll need to see if there were any phone calls made from that room. Maybe they hired the masseuse using the room’s phone.”
The tech nodded as Trace called Shakespeare.
“Hey, Shakes, I’ve got some news for you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Tate lied about the timing. I’ve got footage of a masseuse showing up a few minutes after Alders gets there, then leaving an hour later, completely calm.”
“You think she’s the killer?”
Trace thought for a moment. That hadn’t occurred to me. She decided to go with her gut. “No, Tate said he passed out almost right away, and this one was let in. Why would Alders order a masseuse if Tate was passed out cold? And wouldn’t she be wondering why
he was out cold?”
“Good thinking. If Tate’s drugged, we have to assume Alders was too, so who let the masseuse in?”
“Right. Either it was the killer, already hiding in the room, and if so, why would he let a masseuse in, unless she was in on it—”
“Which doesn’t really make sense.”
“—or, more likely, the masseuse was invited to participate in their evening of debauchery—she was an outside masseuse, not hotel—then left, and after that Tate and Alders pass out from something they drank.”
“So Tate lies because he doesn’t want to admit to hiring a prostitute.”
“Right.”
“Makes sense. I’ll go back and question him on that. What else?”
“I have a clear shot of Thorton, dressed as a bellhop, entering the room after Tate leaves the next morning, then leaving about two hours later, pushing a luggage cart with a large case.”
Shakespeare whistled. “Well, that definitely links him to the case.”
“Yup.”
“So, now there’s only one question.”
“What’s that?”
“How did they drug Tate and Alders?”
“Maybe they dosed the liquor ahead of time?”
“Could be. Check the footage and see who went in there before Tate arrived.”
Trace’s heart suddenly shoved against her chest in excitement. “You know, another thing just occurred to me.”
“What’s that?”
“What if we have it all wrong?”
“Come again?”
“Listen, what if everything Tate said is a lie?”
“Go on.”
“Tate says he was drugged, wakes up the next day, flees, comes back, has a panic attack, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what if it played out like this? They have their threesome, masseuse leaves, he and Alders make a night of it, something goes wrong, he kills her, calls somebody he knows, and they send in a cleaner of sorts, he leaves, Sandy the cleaner comes in, scrubs the crime scene, and then Tate returns?”
Shakespeare grunted on the other end of the line. “It’s a possibility, but there’s a few holes.”
Trace felt her chest tighten slightly. “Such as?”
“One, why leave? If he did it, why not call in the cleaner, and help him? Or, call the cleaner, and leave and not come back? Second, who left the note? How would he have known about the Tick Tock messages? Third, how would someone like Tate know a cleaner?”
Trace felt a little crestfallen. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. It was just a thought.”
“And keep them coming. I prefer my partners to not only be able to think outside the box, but to actually do it. Never hold back an idea, you just may hit on something sometime.”
She felt better. Partner? She could live with that.
“Anything else?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, keep me posted, I’m going to have some video sent to your phone. You’re not going to believe the shit we’re looking at.”
“And I’ll send you the clips from here showing the time codes for when you talk to Tate.”
Shakespeare pulled a U-turn and headed for the hospital only three blocks away. He phoned Frank and told him to feed any footage they found to both him and Trace. Minutes later he was parked and in an elevator riding up to Tate’s floor. He looked in Tate’s room but found it empty. He went to the Nurse’s Station and showed his badge. “Any idea where Richard Tate has been moved to?”
The woman looked up from her paperwork and shook her head. “Sorry, dear, I just got on, but I assume he went home after checking himself out.”
“He did what?”
“He’s at home with his own medical staff probably. Can’t blame him. If I had his money, I wouldn’t spend a night here.”
Shakespeare spun on his heel and headed for the elevator. He called dispatch for Tate’s home number, and had them put him through. A man’s voice answered the phone almost immediately.
“Tate residence.”
“This is Detective Shakespeare, Homicide. I need to ask Mr. Tate some additional questions.”
“Ah, Detective Shakespeare. My name is Lawrence Cannon; I’m one of Mr. Tate’s attorneys. I’ve already spoken to your lieutenant about you questioning my client without his lawyer present—”
“To which I’m certain my lieutenant reminded you was completely legal since he was not a suspect.”
“—and he assured me it wouldn’t happen again.”
“Since he is now a suspect...”
There was a pause. Don’t fuck with me, lawyer boy.
“My client was drugged, the tests confirmed that. It appears you are fishing, Detective.”
“I have video evidence that appears to indicate he lied in his statement. I’m willing to come over there right now and clear this up, or we can do this down at the station. Whichever you would prefer.”
“Here would be preferred. But we aren’t at his residence in The Hamptons, we’re in his suite at Tate Tower.” Shakespeare whistled to himself. Fancy.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
He hung up the phone before Cannon could say no, and climbed into his car. His phone vibrated and he checked the attached clips Trace had just sent him, making notes in his pad with who entered and exited the room, and when. He shook his head. This isn’t making any sense.
Why would a man like Tate kill his glorified hooker?
“There’s gaps.”
Frank nodded. “I noticed that. Looks like every twelve hours they shut her camera off for an hour or so.”
Reggie nodded. “I wonder what they’re doing in that hour.”
Frank shuddered to think. Sarah was naked, alone except for two visitors, both of who appeared after the blackouts, one left within minutes somehow, perhaps a door they couldn’t see, the other remained for some time, then the video showed them both falling asleep, and what looked like a nun walking out through some exit directly under the camera.
Reggie looked at Frank, waving at the feed. “If there’s a door, why doesn’t she just walk out?”
Frank frowned. “And what do you think is on the other side of that door?”
Reggie blushed slightly, apparently realizing the idiocy of his question. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. What I don’t get is the nun. What the hell is a nun doing there?”
Frank was stunned at the naiveté of the questions. “Well, I think it’s safe to say it isn’t a real nun.”
Reggie’s head bobbed. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.” He snapped his fingers. “Or, she’s being held in a church, and the nun is trying to help her?”
Frank exploded. “What the hell kind of fucked up church would do something like this to an innocent girl?” He took a deep breath. “Sorry, this is personal for me. She was with me when she was taken, and I just don’t want to see her killed. I’ve seen more dead bodies in the past two days than I care to ever see again.”
Reggie turned back to the screen, sufficiently chastised. “Sorry, just trying to help. My mom keeps telling me to work on that brain-mouth filter.”
Frank’s phone vibrated with an email. He opened it and read the text, then the attachment, and immediately forwarded it to Shakespeare and Trace. Erring on the side of caution, he phoned Shakespeare, just in case he didn’t know how to open an attachment, or missed the call.
“Hello, Detective, it’s Frank.”
“What’ve you got for me?”
“I just sent you an email I got from the camera supplier. He said they were all part of a batch of ten cameras, ordered and shipped directly to the NYU Psych Department.”
“Was there a name?”
“No, sorry, just the department and address.”
“Okay, good work, kid, keep the info coming.”
Frank shoved his phone back on his hip as Reggie nodded at the screen. “Look at this. A new file just appeared.” Reggie clicked on it, launching the video. “What the he
ll is this?”
Frank typed into his phone furiously, recording the text appearing on the video, then bolted from the room.
Shakespeare pulled his car in front of Tate Tower, the latest and apparently flagship property of the Tate Empire, his name emblazoned across the top several stories, as well as at ground level. The man had an ego, there was no doubt about it, but you couldn’t argue with success. And Shakespeare appreciated success through hard work. Success through lying, stealing, getting bailed out—no. Put your nose to the grindstone, work your ass off, solve your own problems, and reap the rewards. Sometimes that reward was a life of luxury like Tate had earned, sometimes it was a happy family living in a humble home, with a job you hated. It was up to the individual to decide what was important to them, then make it happen.
Shakespeare climbed out and flashed his badge to the valet.
“Not a scratch.”
The young man nodded, and gently pulled the car away as Shakespeare entered the opulent lobby, an impeccably dressed doorman holding the door open for him. Shakespeare nodded at the man, noting his neat appearance, his attention to personal grooming, and the pride he appeared to have in his job. This was a perfect example of taking responsibility for your own happiness. Would this man ever be rich? No, most likely not, but he probably went home at the end of the night tired but happy with how he did his job, a little richer with the good tips he earned because of doing that very job well, and hopefully into the arms of a loving wife and child. That was being rich.
That was something Shakespeare wished he had.
He had lost the pride, but he had it back, he was rebuilding his career, his reputation, and had at last found love. Better late than never.
As he entered the lobby, another man approached him. “Detective Shakespeare?”
He nodded.
“Please come with me, Mr. Tate and Mr. Cannon are waiting for you.”
Shakespeare followed him to the elevators, then travelled in silence to the penthouse level, more than one hundred stories in the air. The elevator opened to a private reception area, several numbered doors available. PH1 appeared to be the correct choice, as the man rapped twice on the door. It opened and a suit appeared that had to be a lawyer.
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 18