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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  She took a deep, slow breath, the cold steel of the weapon pressed against her temple a constant reminder of her situation. But it was a situation she was back to, the roar in her ears gone, her eyes now fully open.

  And a smile of relief spreading across her face as she saw Shakespeare standing in front of her, gun in one hand, pointed directly at the woman who had taken her captive, and a cellphone in the other. She flinched as the woman beside her spoke.

  “Turn off the phone.”

  Shakespeare pressed a button and put the phone in his pocket, placing his now freed hand on his gun.

  “Drop your weapon, Samantha, and we can all walk out of here alive.”

  “Alive?” She laughed. “None of us are alive. You crossed through the portal, old man, you’re as dead as I am, as dead as she is.”

  The woman lowered the weapon and Aynslee breathed a sigh of relief just as she was shoved into a corner. She fell unceremoniously to the ground, and saw a flash of concern from Shakespeare. She made eye contact and nodded she was fine. She returned her attention to the woman Shakespeare had called Samantha.

  “Listen, you’re confused. You’re not dead. You’re as alive as I am right now.”

  Samantha shook her head. “No, I died three years ago.” She flicked her gun at the walls around them. “Don’t you know where you are? Don’t you know why you’re here?”

  Shakespeare stared at the woman, confused. “What do you mean, you died three years ago?”

  “Are you deaf and dumb? I’m dead. I was killed three years ago in a car accident. For my sins, I’m being punished for eternity. This was my own personal hell for almost two years until my master sent me on a mission.”

  “A mission?”

  “To deliver the soul of Richard Tate by fulfilling all his sinful desires.”

  She’s clearly whack. Aynslee slowly straightened herself into a seated position with the corner at her back, facing the woman. If things were to go wrong, she might have time to tackle her before she could get a shot off at her. As if Shakespeare could read her mind, he took a step to his left, Samantha turning slightly to follow him, exposing more of her back to Aynslee.

  A shot rang out and Samantha screamed, then dropped to the ground, blood rushing from a hole in her chest. Shakespeare spun around, the shot having come from behind him, only to find the door he had come through closing. He ran for the door, but it was closed tight before he could reach it, and much to Aynslee’s horror, there was no handle. He pushed on the door, then slammed it with his shoulder to no avail, the framing solid.

  Aynslee stood up and rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders, relief sweeping over her. But not tears. Not this time. They weren’t out of this yet, and she didn’t want him having to worry about her.

  Samantha gasped, then laughed. Aynslee spun toward the noise, slowly backing away. “She’s alive!”

  Shakespeare hurried over and kicked the gun that lay beside her toward Aynslee. She stooped over to pick it up.

  “Do you know how to use that?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “Point and shoot?”

  “That’s what I thought. Just leave it where it is. Backup should be here any minute, and the last thing I need is you shooting them, or worse, them shooting you.” He glanced at the sealed doorway. “In fact, come over here with me.”

  Aynslee hesitated. I’ve already watched one person die in the past two weeks, and that was enough. Shakespeare seemed to read her mind and his tone softened. “On second thought, just sit in the corner here and watch the door. Tell me if you see it opening.”

  She nodded, grateful for the reprieve. Sitting down, she glued her eyes to the door, but quickly found them wandering to Shakespeare and Samantha, as he turned her over so he could see her face. She gasped in pain and Aynslee’s hand flew to her mouth as she saw the amount of blood that had pooled under her captor.

  “Where is Frank?”

  “You’ve accomplished nothing,” the woman whispered.

  Aynslee slid closer.

  “You’re dying, do the right thing. Tell me where Frank and Sarah are.’

  Samantha managed a weak laugh ending in a cough, blood trickling from her mouth. “I’m already dead. And so are you.”

  “How are we dead? Is this container booby-trapped?” Both Aynslee and Shakespeare looked about.

  “You crossed the portal. Only the master lets someone cross the portal.”

  “Who’s the master?”

  “You will hear from him soon when he lists your sins, and why you have been condemned to this place.”

  “A warehouse?” Shakespeare gripped the woman’s hand. “Listen to me, you’re not dead. You’ve been held captive in this warehouse for three years. I’m a cop, she’s”—he jerked his head toward Aynslee—“a reporter. We are alive and well and living in New York City. And so have you been. We’ve had officers at your apartment.”

  The woman coughed again and blood sprayed across her chin and blouse. “You are so naïve.” She reached up and gripped Shakespeare’s arm. “Obey the master. If you do, this is your torture for eternity. Disobey, and you will be torn, limb from limb, for eternity.” Her arm dropped and her eyes closed. “Obey the master,” she whispered before her entire body relaxed and her breathing stopped.

  Shakespeare stood and pulled out his phone and held it to his ear.

  “Did you get all that?”

  MJ nodded to no one. “Yes, I got it. Started taping as soon as I heard it going down.” He paused. “Is she dead?”

  “Yes, but she seemed to think she was already dead.”

  “Strange. Some sort of brainwashing, I guess. I wonder who ‘the master’ is.”

  “No idea, but she seemed terrified of him, and at the same time, almost adoring. Some sort of Stockholm Syndrome thing, maybe.”

  MJ leaned back in his chair. “I’m sorry you had to shoot her.”

  “What? I didn’t shoot her!”

  MJ leaned forward in his chair, his elbows hitting the desk hard. “What? Then who did?”

  “No idea. Someone came through the door and shot her. My back was to them so I never saw them. Aynslee, did you see them?”

  He heard a faint, “No.”

  “Aynslee’s there? The reporter?”

  “Yeah, she was being held by Alders. Speaking of, who was our second vic?”

  “She showed up in IAFIS as Hillary Banks. Has a few convictions for prostitution, mostly rub and tug stuff with massage parlors.”

  “So that explains it!”

  “Explains what?”

  “The footage at the hotel. We saw Tate, then Alders, then the masseuse go in. Then we saw the masseuse leave, then Tate leave. Alders never left, so we assumed she was the body transported by Sandy.”

  “But it was actually the masseuse, and not Alders who was dead.”

  “Right, so she must have killed the masseuse, set up the scene, slaps a fake tattoo on the back of the girl’s neck, put on the masseuse’s clothes, then left. Tate wakes up, thinks it’s Alders, rushes out, Sandy cleans up the scene and plants the body to torment Frank some more, and Tate comes back, not knowing what the hell is going on.”

  “So Tate was telling the truth, he’s not involved. He was framed just like Frank!”

  “Looks that way. Now we need to find out where the hell Frank is. And where the hell my backup is.”

  “Frank’s missing? Shakes, you really need to tell me what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bring you up to date later. Wait, I think I hear something. I’ll call you back.”

  MJ heard the line go dead. Frank is missing? He knew something was going on he wasn’t being told about, but this was getting ridiculous. With Frank missing, that meant two of their own.

  And by the sounds of it, they had no clue where either of them were.

  Trace whipped around the corner, the squad car driven by Richards now in front, she having waved them ahead earlier so lights and sirens would be lea
ding the way. It had only been five minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. There had been no word from dispatch that any backup had arrived yet, and Shakespeare was alone, with shots fired on the scene. She hit her brakes then accelerated through another turn, taking it a little wide and finding herself racing almost headlong into a large SUV. She jerked the wheel to the right, regaining her lane as the SUV swerved to avoid her. She looked in her rear view mirror to make sure they were okay and gasped.

  A black Escalade!

  She didn’t believe in coincidences. A black Escalade, at this time of the morning, leaving the scene they were approaching? She honked on her horn and flashed her lights at Richards, then stuck her arm out the window, swirling it in the air, indicating they should turn around, then pointed at the Escalade fading in the distance. The patrol car decelerated rapidly, then pulled a U-turn, her message received. She gave them the thumbs up as she blew by them. She continued toward Shakespeare’s backup call, blasting past what looked like a news van, and fishtailing around the final turn. Two other units down the road screeched to a halt in front of a warehouse, their occupants jumping out, guns drawn, as she raced up, squealing to a halt mere feet from the gaping delivery doors that stood open to the world.

  She jumped out, holding up her badge. “Detective Trace, Homicide. That’s my partner in there so don’t shoot first and ask questions later.” She grabbed her backup weapon from the trunk, then led the way into the warehouse, motioning for them to spread out to either side. They pressed deeper into the massive shell, its only contents apparently another Escalade sitting empty, facing the middle door, and three shipping containers, set up almost identically to the warehouse she had just left. She found her mind wandering to the other Escalade. Maybe it was just a coincidence?

  She motioned for the officers to her left to check the two farthest containers, then proceeded toward the long, framed structure leading from the back of the nearest container, to the far wall. The door leading into it was ajar, as was the door inside leading to the rear of the building. She poked her head into the structure, her gun leading, and found it empty, the black, rough walls highlighted by the sunlight pouring in the open door, raising her eyebrows as she recognized what the paint job and plaster work were trying to accomplish. Coal. She pointed at one of the officers then at the door to the outside, and he nodded, taking up a covering position, protecting their rear just in case someone decided to return. Trace and the other officer raced forward, deeper into the structure, and finally to the door leading into the container.

  She gripped the door handle then thought better of it. She took up a position on one side, and waved the officer to the other side. She knocked on the door. “Shakes, you in there?”

  There was a muffled, “Yes!” The voice was unmistakable and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Is it okay to open the door?”

  “Yes, go ahead, we’re okay in here.”

  She gripped the handle and pulled the door open, then poked her head around the side. A woman was down and most likely dead judging by the pool of blood. That woman reporter was sitting near the corner, looking pretty damned worn out, and Shakespeare stood facing the door, gun in one hand, cellphone in the other, and dripping in sweat.

  She smiled and stepped inside. “Holy shit is it ever hot in here.”

  Shakespeare holstered his weapon and wiped his forehead. “You’ve got a gift for stating the obvious.” He pointed at the body. “Meet Samantha Alders.” Trace’s eyebrows shot up and Shakespeare nodded. “Yeah, I had a similar reaction when I walked in here and found her with a gun pointed to our friend’s head. Alders killed the masseuse, then walked out of the room wearing her outfit.”

  “So she’s the killer?”

  “One of them, at least. She and Sandy must have kidnapped Frank and Sarah, planted Angela Henwood’s body in the apartment, killed the masseuse and set up Tate. Something strange is going on though. She kept referring to ‘the master’. I think there’s someone orchestrating this whole damned thing.”

  “’The master’? That’s the same thing St. Jean said.”

  “Probably whoever shot Alders.”

  Trace stopped. “You mean you didn’t?”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “No, somebody shot her through the open door behind me, then closed the door before I could get to it. I didn’t see them, and neither did Aynslee.”

  Trace walked over to Aynslee and knelt down in front of her. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “Just tired of being the story, rather than covering it.”

  Trace chuckled and stuck out her hand as she rose. Aynslee took it and Trace pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get out of this heat and do all the formal stuff outside.”

  Shakespeare strode toward the door and pointed to the uniform standing there. “You take control of the scene. CSU should be here soon, and if you don’t want your chestnuts roasting, you might want to set the entry point at the far end.” The officer chuckled and hauled out his pad, rapidly writing down what he saw, and who was there. Shakespeare showed him his badge so he could write down the number, then headed for the cool air pouring in from outside with Aynslee and Trace in tow.

  “Did you see that?”

  “I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think Aynslee would hand us our balls if we didn’t follow them.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” Mike fired up the van and hit the gas, turning the lumbering beast toward the black SUV and the cop car now in pursuit. He caught a glimpse of them as they both turned the corner several blocks down. As he rapidly closed the distance, Steve grabbed the camera and began rolling. Mike turned the corner, and slammed the brakes on as he nearly rammed the back of the SUV, the cop car having overtaken it and blocked its path. The SUV backed up straight at them, and Mike pressed the brake into the floor, yelling, “Hang on!” as the SUV hit the front of the van, rocking them hard.

  Mike gasped as the airbags deployed, shoving him into the back of his seat and momentarily depriving him of oxygen as the bag pressed into his face. The airbag rapidly deflated and he heard Steve cursing, then the passenger side door opening. He reached for his door and found the handle. Pulling it, the door opened, and he tried to get out, but found the seatbelt pinning him to the seat. He reached down and popped it, then climbed out to the sound of the SUV crashing into the passenger side of the police car, the officer still trapped inside. The driver had jumped out and was running around the rear of his car, gun drawn, pointing at the tinted driver side window.

  “Turn off the vehicle or I will shoot!”

  The backup lights for the SUV came on and the vehicle started back toward their van. Mike jumped out of the way, looking for Steve. As he hit the ground, the SUV crashed into the van, shoving it back several feet. Mike caught a glimpse of Steve’s legs on the other side of the van, some distance away, apparently safe.

  The first officer shot at the driver side tires, quickly deflating them, as the officer still trapped in the car emptied his weapon into the engine. The first officer then placed a shot in the top left of the driver side window, shattering it. Inside the driver covered his head, then slowly raised his hands.

  “Turn off the engine!” ordered the cop. The man reached forward and pressed a button, the powerful engine cutting off. “Now slowly open the door and come out with your hands up.”

  The door opened, and the man stepped out as the trapped officer rushed over to join his partner. He grabbed the driver and threw him to the ground. Within moments he was handcuffed and searched, then hauled to his feet just as Steve came around with the camera focused on the driver’s cut covered face. Despite the blood there was no hiding who this man was. It was a face Mike would recognize anywhere.

  Richard Tate.

  Aynslee looked through the two way mirror at Richard Tate. He had minor cuts all over his face that paramedics had tended to, and now sat with what was surely one of many lawyers u
nder his employ. Shakespeare, Trace and a man she only knew as Vinny stood in the room with her, staring in silence. Her phone vibrated with a call from the station. She answered it. “Aynslee Kai.”

  “Aynslee, you’ve gotta see this!”

  “What is it, Reggie?”

  “There’s live footage streaming to the server, you’ve gotta see this!”

  She placed the phone on her shoulder and turned to Shakespeare. “Reggie says there’s live footage streaming onto the server.”

  Shakespeare turned to Vinny who was already dialing his phone. “Bryan, check the server, apparently there’s some live footage streaming.” He hit the button to put it on speaker so the entire room could hear.”

  “Just a second.” They could hear some keystrokes, then a gasp. “Holy shit, you’re not gonna believe this.”

  “Can you send us the feed here?”

  “Sure, go to your display in the pit, I’ll send it straight there.”

  Trace grabbed the handle and almost ripped the door off as she rushed out, Vinny and Shakespeare following her, Aynslee bringing up the rear. She raised the phone back to her ear. “Thanks, Reggie, we’re about to see the footage now.” She hung up and followed the other three into what looked like the office area where most of the detectives had their desks. To one side there were white boards, timelines outlining various cases in progress, and several large flat screens. The one in the middle suddenly flickered and a display of the same chamber she had been in, or one strikingly similar, flashed on the screen. As if one, the room gasped. On the display was a naked girl, huddled in the far corner, and a fully clothed man stood, facing her, his back to the camera.

  “That’s Sarah Paxman!” exclaimed one of the female detectives.

  The man on the screen looked over his shoulder and directly at the camera. “That’s Brata!”

  Shakespeare, Vinny and Trace stood silently watching as more of the squad gathered around the screen. “What’s she got behind her back?” asked one, pointing. Aynslee leaned in but couldn’t see anything, however the girl definitely had one hand behind her back, the other trying to cover her breasts.