Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “So a shell.”

  “Most likely.”

  “What address are they registered at?”

  “You’ll love this.” He paused, most likely for effect. “Look to your right.”

  “Huh?”

  Nonkoh laughed. “It’s one door down. They own the warehouse right beside the one you’re in now.”

  “You’re shittin’ me!”

  “Nope. I’m running a trace to see if they own anything else, buildings, businesses, you know, the usual. I’m also trying to find out who the principals are behind the business. Hopefully have more soon.”

  “Okay, thanks for the update. I’m going to check out next door.”

  She jumped from the car, waved at Richards and Scaramell, who were sitting on the hood of their cruiser, sipping from steaming thermoses. “Let’s go!” They capped and tossed their thermoses in their car and trotted over to join her as she strode quickly toward the warehouse less than one hundred yards away. “Just found out that the owners of that warehouse”—she jerked her thumb at the crime scene—“is owned by the same company that owns this next one.”

  They approached the door and drew their weapons. She listened for a moment, then knocked on the door. Nothing. She tried the handle but it was locked. Looking at her watch, she growled. She knew it would take hours to get a warrant, and Frank might not have hours. Time to take a page from the Book of Shakespeare. “Did you hear that?” she asked, cocking an ear and looking at Richards.

  He nodded. “Sounded like someone calling for help.”

  Scaramell leaned in closer and put his ear to the door. “Sounds like people crying and screaming.”

  Richards raised his eyebrows at the rookie. “No need to get that specific. Keep it simple in case you’re questioned.”

  Scaramell shook his head. “No, I’m serious. Listen.”

  Trace and Richards both put their ears against the door. Scaramell was right, she could hear something on the other side. And it didn’t sound good. She stepped away from the door. “Exigent circumstances.”

  Scaramell positioned himself in front of the door, and with a deep breath and a lunge, he kicked at the door near the lock. It groaned, but didn’t break. Scaramell jumped back, shaking his leg. “Fuck me, that hurts!”

  Richards chuckled. “That only works in the movies, rookie. I’ll get the ram for this metal door frame.”

  Trace watched as Scaramell shook off the shock to his joints. “Don’t worry about it, Hollywood makes it look so easy. Christ, they’ve got dainty little actresses tossing two hundred pound men around like they were bags of feathers.”

  Scaramell chuckled. “Yeah, but did I have to learn that lesson in front of my Training Officer?”

  Trace smiled. “We all fuck up in front of our TO. That’s why it’s sometimes fun to be a TO.” She pointed at the door. “Look, hinge side, you’ve got at least two, usually three, and sometimes four hinges, each providing support.” She pointed at the handle side. Only one point of support, maybe two, close together, unless they’ve got top and bottom locks, then you’ll probably need a ram.” She pointed at the plate surrounding the handle. “Kick here, full force, and on most doors you’ll be dealing with like apartment doors, the wood on the other side of the door frame will shatter, since it’s weak from being bored out for the locking mechanism. Usually one good kick will get it open. Use the ram if you need to be sure you get in on the first try, and to get out of the way if tactical or your partner needs to get in right away. If you’re there, off balance and in his way, you lose vital seconds.”

  Scaramell nodded. “Makes sense. And since this has a metal frame, kicking it won’t shatter the wood since there’s no wood.”

  Trace slapped him on the back. “You got it. We need to use blunt, possibly repeated force, to try and bend this damned thing open. We’re just lucky it opens inward. If it opened outward, even if wood, it can be a challenge.”

  Richards returned with the ram. Scaramell grabbed one side, Richards the other, and on a three count, sent the ram sailing into the door. It shuddered, but didn’t open. The next swing showed clear evidence of a gap forming, and on the third swing, it tore open, the ram pulling the officers slightly inside as its momentum continued with the door. They quickly stepped back and tossed the ram behind them and drew their weapons and flashlights. Richards led the way, followed by Trace then Scaramell. Inside it was almost completely dark except for an odd orange glow deeper inside that cast long, faint shadows toward them. The screams and cries they heard earlier echoed through the darkness. Trace immediately went to the right of the door, feeling for the lighting panel, hoping for it to be in the same place as the other warehouse, their designs looking identical. She smiled when she felt the familiar switches, and began flipping them.

  The clunk of industrial lighting echoed through the warehouse, accompanied by flickers as the halogen heated up, throwing a white glow over what was definitely not an empty building like its twin next door. In the center of the large open space stood three shipping containers, lined up side by side. They could only see the backs of the farthest two, but the nearest caused Trace to pause. The container was lined up with its partners, however had what looked like some sort of heating unit above it, attached to what looked like might be a stage lighting kit hanging from the ceiling, speakers, lights and the heating elements all attached. The doors of the container, facing the back of the warehouse, were open, and some sort of long, framed walkway, covered on all sides in black, led to the very back of the warehouse, joined to the wall there.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Richards shrugged his shoulders. “I have no freakin’ clue.”

  Scaramell pointed near the far wall. “Is that a door?”

  The three cautiously approached the far wall where the enclosed structure ended. Trace opened the door, the other two covering her. The light from the warehouse poured inside, confirming a walkway, or hallway, leading from the container to a door to the outside, painted black itself.

  “Look,” said Richards, pointing at the interior side of the door Trace had just opened. “No handle.”

  Trace frowned then pointed at Scaramell. “You stay here and watch our backs.”

  He nodded as Richards took up a position behind Trace. They stepped inside, and Trace opened the other door, revealing the back of the building and a large paved area shared with other warehouses. She tried the handle on the outside. “Locked.”

  “Must need a key to get in,” said Richards.

  “But not to get out.” She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. Look at this place. This has to be some sort of prison. The video footage showed them in long rooms. Those could be these shipping containers.”

  “What video footage?”

  Trace remembered the uniforms weren’t in on the details, and had no time to bring them up to date. “Never mind, no time.” She looked at Scaramell. “Give me your flashlight.”

  He handed it over and she flicked it on, walking deeper into the walkway, Richards several paces behind her. She touched the walls. It felt like stucco. Rough stucco. She shone her light on it, then tapped.

  “Sounds like just straight framing and drywall,” said Richards.

  Trace nodded. “Yeah, and this stucco is so rough, you wouldn’t want to bump into it in the dark, it’s liable to scrape you.”

  The sounds of the people crying and wailing was getting louder. And it was getting hotter. She could see the end of the hall only yards away. The floor ramped up, and the walls opened to attach to the frame of the container, giving it an eerie, unsettling openness that if it weren’t for the flashlights, she might find disconcerting. She could only imagine walking along this corridor, in the pitch black, with the screams and heat, how horrifying that must be.

  Did anybody walk this? What was the purpose?

  They stepped into the back of the container, the walls of it framed and drywalled as well, the rough stucco and black paint continuing. But di
rectly in front of them was a door with a simple, brass knob. Trace reached out to open it, when Richards stopped her. “Better let me. We don’t know what’s on the other side of this.”

  Trace nodded and stepped back, painfully aware she had neglected to put her vest on. Richards grabbed the knob and pulled the door open, his weapon pointing straight ahead. A dim glow greeted them, and Richards stepped inside, followed by Trace.

  A gunshot cut through the screams and Richards dropped. Trace dove to the side and rolled as a second shot rang out. She took aim and fired twice, directly in the chest. The shooter, standing at the far end of the room, collapsed. Trace climbed to her feet and rushed over, kicking the gun away from the body. She spun as she heard footsteps racing toward them. Scaramell burst into the room. Trace pointed at Richards.

  “Check on him and call for a bus!”

  She turned to the body lying in front of her. It was a woman, naked. She rolled the body over to see the face and gasped. Lying in front of her, with two bullet holes to her bare chest, was Jackie St. Jean. She was still alive, her eyes barely able to focus on Trace, but her life was quickly slipping away. She whispered something and Trace leaned in.

  “What did you say?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “About what?”

  “There is no death here. No escape. I will be reborn.”

  Trace had no idea what she was talking about, but knew she only had moments. “Where is Frank Brata?”

  “He’s already here.”

  Trace spun her head in both directions, confirming what she already knew—they were alone.

  “What do you mean? There’s no one else here. Do you mean he’s in another one of the shipping containers?”

  The girl looked confused. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “You’ve been held prisoner. You were kidnapped two years ago and held here.”

  She shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. I died two years ago. This is my punishment.”

  It was Trace’s turn to look confused. “Listen, it’s not too late. You can help save Frank. Just tell me where he is.”

  “He’s already here,” she repeated. “And so are you, you just don’t know it yet.”

  Trace shook her head. “What do you mean?”

  “You crossed the portal.” St. Jean squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry, your new master will explain everything.” She sighed, and her eyes slowly closed, her chest falling one last time.

  Trace turned to check on Richards. “How is he?”

  Richards coughed. “I’ll be fine. She caught me in the vest.”

  Trace looked about. The chamber was long and narrow, just like in the video footage forwarded to her phone. The heat was almost unbearable. A dim, flickering orange glow emanated from around the edges of the ceiling, and the cries they heard outside could be heard inside. She thought about what St. Jean had said when it finally clicked.

  “Holy shit!”

  “What?” asked a still struggling Richards.

  “I know where we are!”

  “Where?”

  “Hell.”

  TWELVE

  Reggie pulled the fourth report off the printer and stapled it together. Grabbing the other three, he rushed to Aynslee’s office, the drumbeat of his heart exciting him with the prospect of pleasing her, of working with her as an equal, instead of a lowly tech fixing her computer, a mere tool for her brilliant mind. Her brilliant, beautiful mind. He sighed and closed his eyes slightly, staring at the ceiling, a dream state taking over.

  He tripped over his shoes.

  The packages of papers flew out of his hands as he reached to break his fall. He hit with a thud but quickly sprang to his feet, looking around to see if anyone had witnessed his embarrassment. He was alone, everyone else either not in yet, or their heads buried behind the dull blue cubicle walls. He picked up the four packages, and continued to Aynslee’s office, remembering to keep his eyes on where he was going, his mother’s voice echoing in his head. Terry, darling, you’ve got brains, but absolutely no coordination. She was right. But what he really needed was to coordinate his way out of the same bedroom he had been in since he was born, and into an apartment of his own. How would he ever hope to get a girl as incredible as Aynslee, if he lived with his parents? A lovely, romantic evening out, she hints at more to come, a quick drive home, and then what? Shhhh, you’ll wake my mom?

  He arrived at her office door and found it slightly ajar. He pushed his head in and found her once again asleep on the couch, the morning rays of the sun shining through the window and landing on her face, her dark brown hair glowing. Her brief blonde experiment he had to admit looked hot, but her natural hair looked beautiful, radiant. He stood there for several minutes, staring at her, at her gorgeous face, hands, feet. At how cute she looked, her hands tucked under her head, her knees curled up into a fetal position, how her chest ebbed and flowed with each breath.

  He stared at her chest.

  Then blushed and turned away. What are you doing? He cleared his throat. “Ummm, Aynslee?”

  She stirred slightly.

  “Aynslee, I have those reports.”

  This time she did wake, her eyes fluttering open like rose petals, her hand rising to shield her eyes from the sunlight. “What was that?”

  “I have the reports. I was able to print them, for the four active files.”

  She swung her silky smooth legs off the couch and tucked her dainty feet into a pair of high heels sitting neatly on the floor, then stood. She took the files from him and sat behind her desk, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She retrieved a mirror from her drawer and checked her hair and makeup. He wanted to tell her out loud, but he stopped. There’s no need to check. You’re beautiful. You’re perfect. You’re everything any man could ever want. He felt almost sick to his stomach, his chest tight, his palms sweating profusely. She was his dream. And he knew that was all she would ever be. A dream. Impossibly out of his league. Impossibly out of reach. I’m such a loser. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly tried to blink them away, turning his head away from her.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Reggie, what’s wrong?”

  It was her, her voice gentle, as if she actually cared. He felt worse.

  “N-nothing, just tired I guess. Thinking of those people on the videos.”

  She squeezed his shoulder gently. It felt electric. It was a feeling he hoped he would never forget. He wanted to reach up and place his hand on hers. His sweaty, sticky hand.

  “I understand. It can be quite upsetting to see others suffer.” She let go of his shoulder, her hand taking a little part of his heart away with it. “Which one is Sarah’s?”

  This caught him off guard. “Huh?”

  “Which one is Sarah’s? There’s no names on these, just notes and the address.”

  He pointed to the top printout. “It’s that one, the first I printed off.” A slight smear of sweat remained when he removed his finger. He resolved to start using his Drysol regularly, it being the only thing that had ever worked to stop the sweating.

  Aynslee nodded and grabbed her jacket and purse. She gave him a pat on the arm and smiled. “Thanks, Reggie, for pulling this for me. I know you didn’t have to.”

  He blushed. “Anything for you, Aynslee.”

  She smiled. “Call Mike and Steve and tell them to meet me at this address,” she said, shaking the file. She strode from the office and he stepped out into the hallway, watching her head for the elevators, the sway of her hips and the billowing of her long hair almost making him forget his task. He returned to the lab, retrieved the address from Sarah’s file, looked up Mike’s number, and phoned him.

  Finished, he leaned back in his chair and relived the few minutes in her office. He could still feel her hand on his shoulder, on his arm. Her voice, caring, soothing. Almost as if he mattered to her. He sat in the chair in the lab, staring at the ceiling and spinning in place, his fingers interlaced across his chest, his eyes half closed and an
ear-to-ear smile stretched across his face. How long he sat there, spinning a fantasy love tale, he didn’t know. His mind replayed their conversation over and over, her tone, her caresses, her question about the file.

  And then it hit him and his foot fell, stopping the spin.

  He had dropped the papers. When he left his office, the file on top was Sarah’s. But when he picked them up, what order were they in?

  And where was she now going?

  Alone.

  Trace sat in the passenger seat of her car, feet on the ground, leaning over with her elbows on her knees, sipping a bottle of water. This was her first shooting, and she didn’t know how she felt. It was a righteous shoot, of that there was no doubt—the suspect had shot one officer and was trying to shoot her. She did the right thing. And she’d do it again. But she was just a kid! She felt a tightness in her chest and tears well up in her eyes. No! This was not your fault! She took a deep, slow breath in through her nose, filling her chest and abdomen with the brisk morning air, then slowly let it out her mouth, her lips pursed, and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand.

  “You okay?”

  She looked at the shoes as they walked up to her then raised her head. “Yeah, LT. Just getting used to the idea.”

  He nodded and squatted in front of her. “I remember my first shoot. Nasty son of a bitch that deserved every one of the four bullets I put in him. But when I saw him just lying there, the adrenaline rush over, I went out to my squad car and balled my eyes out for twenty minutes.”

  Trace smiled through half her mouth, trying to imagine the tough as nails LT blubbering. “Can’t picture it, LT.”

  He chuckled. “Well, let me tell you something I’ve learned over almost thirty years as a cop. Everyone reacts differently to their first shoot. And no one ever feels good about it, whether it’s their first or tenth. You just learn how to deal with it. You learn that it wasn’t your fault, you were doing your job.” He stood up, groaning. “I’m too old for this squatting shit.” She stood up and he put a hand on her shoulder, looking her directly in her eyes. “This was a clean shoot. You’ve got nothing to worry about from IAD.”