Trace nodded.
“Do you really think they’ll ever talk to you?”
Shakespeare shrugged. “They might not, that’s their prerogative. Personally, I don’t think many of them have much to offer. But if we could find something, some little thing that might link the cases, and could return that bit of hope to them, they just might change their tune.”
“Do you really think we’ll find anything new, after all these years?”
“We have to, otherwise this guy goes free.”
And I’ll never forgive myself.
“Where the hell’s he going?” asked Officer Brent Richards, a fifteen year veteran of the force, and Training Officer for the ‘rook’ in the passenger seat.
Officer Steve Scaramell leaned forward to see the limousine pull into a hotel entrance. “I thought he was staying at his mom’s place?”
A dozen press trucks pulled up around the hotel, their reporters rushing the steps of the Trump International Hotel and Tower as their suspect rushed inside, his head covered by a jacket, accompanied by his lawyer.
“Should we get in there for some crowd control?” asked Scaramell as he watched the doormen try to keep the press from entering the hotel.
“No, we’ve got our assignment. Nobody’s getting hurt, so let the hotel deal with it.”
One of the doormen finally locked down all but one of the doors and moments later another unit pulled up and the two officers took over, pushing the reporters back.
“Should we go inside, see what he’s doing?”
Richards shook his head. “No, if he’s coming back out, we’ll follow him. If he’s staying there, then we know where he is. If he’s sneaking out another entrance, we’ve got no way of catching him if we’re on foot. So let’s just wait—” He stopped. “Wait a minute, something’s happening.”
The reporters rushed the doors again as the only unlocked one opened. Cooper, still under the jacket, was hustled through the door by his lawyer and into the limousine again. As soon as the door closed, the limo pulled away in a hurry, sending several of the reporters scrambling to keep their legs intact.
“See, no worries,” said Richards as he put it in gear, pulling in behind the limo, several cars back. They drove in silence for several minutes, then Richards noticed something in his rearview mirror—a car being driven erratically, switching lanes back and forth, accelerating at every opportunity; if Richards didn’t know better, he’d say they had a tail.
“We’ve got company.”
Scaramell looked in his side view mirror. “Where?”
“Two back, our lane, dark sedan.”
Scaramell leaned forward. “Got it.”
“Can you get the plates?”
“I’ll try.” He pulled out his notepad and pen and jotted down a digit. Richards watched the car switch lanes again, and Scaramell wrote two more down. The limo ahead turned and Richards turned with it, Scaramell’s view temporarily lost. He stretched his neck, reviewing what he had written down so far.
“He’s back.”
Scaramell leaned forward again and smiled.
“He’s definitely not hiding.” He wrote down the rest of the plate number, the car only thirty feet behind them with no other cars in the way.
“Run the plate, see what you come up with,” said Richards.
Scaramell spun the computer toward him, hit a few keys, then entered the license plate number. A few moments later the information from the DMV popped up on the screen.
“Well?”
Scaramell frowned. “The car belongs to Sam Bishop—”
“Isn’t he the brother of one of the vics?” interrupted Richards.
Scaramell nodded, spinning the display toward Richards.
“It appears so.”
Richards glanced at the display, and the now familiar face of the very public Bishop.
What the hell are you thinking?
“He’s staying at his mother’s house, exactly as we expected.”
Carl Gray looked at Sam Bishop, then at Ken Crawford, father of Janet Dominguez, the sixth victim, then about the basement of his small home. Two couches, three chairs, filled with the members of The Seven, formed a semi-circle. A large plasma screen occupied the open wall, displaying a DVD with images of their loved ones, a constant reminder as to why they were here. This was their sanctuary, from the troubles outside, from the injustices of the world. Here they were safe. Here they were family.
A photo of his wife appeared on the screen, and just as quickly, disappeared, replaced with one of Ken Crawford’s daughter. But it was enough to cleave him hollow. He looked away, but the image was there. His wife. His beloved. Never to be held again, kissed again. The pain he felt was as raw today as it was the day of her death. He sometimes wondered if the others felt the pain he did. None of them were husbands. None of them had experienced the intimacy with their loved one that a husband and wife experience.
None of them could know how he felt.
None.
“That’s no surprise,” said Allan Fisk, the brother-in-law of Jessica Fisk, the second victim. “Everything we know about him is that he’s a mama’s boy who rarely left home.”
“I noticed a cop car following him then park on his street.”
“Well, if you noticed them, then Cooper certainly did,” said Rebecca Sorenson, sister of Maggie Campbell, the third victim. “These cops are so incompetent, it’s stunning.”
Gray nodded. “I don’t think we can rely on them for justice.”
Allan Fisk coughed in his coffee cup. “You don’t think we can rely on them? I think we can be certain we can’t rely on them. Especially that quack Shakespeare.”
Gray frowned. “You’re right, of course, Allan, slip of the tongue, I assure you.” He leaned forward. “Since we know for sure we can’t rely on the police, what do we do?”
“Justice must be done,” said Crawford.
“Agreed,” said Fisk.
Kara Long leaned forward. “Biblical justice,” said the daughter of the fifth victim, Theresa Long.
“He should have to suffer like my sister did,” said Sam Bishop, twin brother of Pam Brown, the fourth victim.
“Enough with the euphemisms,” said Stephen Russell. “My sister Clair was brutally raped and murdered, just like the rest of your loved ones. But she was first. She was the first in the ground, the first to die. And I want to be the one to do it. I want to be the one who kills him, because”—he paused, looking about the room from face to face—“because that is what we are talking about. He—must—die! We are talking about killing a man. Are we agreed on that?”
Everyone’s head bobbed.
“Good,” said Russell. “Then we need a plan on how to do it.”
“Agreed,” said Gray. “But I disagree that you should do it alone. I think it’s essential we all participate.”
“You all realize what you’re saying,” said Kara Long. “If we do this, we are murderers. Just like him.”
“Not like him!” yelled Bishop. He raised a hand, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. But I refuse to be compared to that animal. We are delivering justice. What he did cannot be compared to that.”
“Will God see it differently?” asked Long, pulling at her long black hair.
“I don’t give a shit about God,” replied Bishop. “If there is a God, why did he let a murderer like this walk the planet, then escape justice?”
“God always has a plan,” replied Long.
“And maybe we’re part of that plan,” offered Sam Bishop. “Either way, I don’t care. I want him dead. I’ll pull the trigger myself if need be.”
“Good,” said Crawford. “Then we’re all agreed. Wayne Cooper must die.”
“Did you hear that?”
Constance hit the mute button on her remote control, silencing the home movie she was watching, the last memories she had of her husband, a husband she had buried just last week after he had been hit by a garbage truck in what the police had descr
ibed as a freak accident.
She shuddered at the memory, then realized she had asked her question to a ghost.
There it was again. A rattling noise, from the front entrance. Her heart pounded in her chest. I wish Jack were here. Tears filled her eyes as she realized she’d be alone for the rest of her life. She’d never love again. Not the way she loved Jack. She rubbed her belly, the small bump barely noticeable to anyone but her closest friends. But in a few more months, there’d be no hiding the fact that she would be giving birth to a fatherless child.
Again the noise, this time louder.
She jumped up and grabbed the phone, dialing 9-1-1 but not hitting Send. Armed with her phone and the remote control forgotten in the other hand, she approached the hallway at a tip-toe, trying not to make any noise, lest she give away the fact someone was home.
But they would have heard the television.
She rounded the corner and her eyes focused on the doorknob. The twisting doorknob. Something pushed through the doorframe and she gasped.
“Jack, I think someone’s at the door. Can you check?” she called out in the calmest voice she could muster.
All activity at the front door stopped.
Had she scared them away?
She stepped forward, to look through the window, when there was a tremendous bang and the front door burst open. A man rushed in, slamming the door shut behind him with one fluid motion, not losing any time as he closed the distance between the two of them. In her panic, her thumb spasmed and she hit the Send button on her phone, then had the presence of mind to throw the remote control at the man. It bounced off of him, the mute button pressed as he stepped on it, I’ve Had the Time of my Life blared from the living room as the last home video her husband had made played, showing their last vacation.
She turned to run away, but it was too late. A gloved hand grabbed her face, covering her mouth from the front. She screamed against it, but it was muffled to the point she knew no one would hear it.
The gun pressed against her temple brought silence.
He bent over and picked up the remote control as he pushed her with the gun into the living room. “Heartbreaking,” he said through the ski mask he wore. “Heartbreaking that one should be alone so young.” He grabbed the phone from her hand, placed it to his ear, then hung up.
Her heart sank.
“Wh-what are you going to do to me?”
He smiled through the ski mask, revealing a set of remarkably white teeth. But the smile wasn’t sincere, it was more villainous, more of a sneer, more for himself than her.
“Where do you think your husband is now?”
She looked at him from the corner of her eye as he pushed her against the back of the couch. “He-he’s at a friend’s playing poker. He’ll be back any minute now.”
The man laughed, tossing his head back, the gun momentarily leaving the side of her head. For a split second her instinct was to run.
The gun pressed a little harder this time.
“Nice try, my dear, but you and I both know your husband is dead.”
Her eyes burned as he pushed her head toward the television, the happy couple’s last vacation memories displayed.
“How do you know that?”
He pushed her over the edge of the couch, the gun mercifully no longer against her head. She couldn’t see what he was doing, but a reflection on the television screen made her think the gun may have been tucked into his belt.
“It doesn’t matter.”
He pushed his groin into her backside. She could feel his erection, and she knew what was about to begin. Just try to survive. Keep your wits about you, look for an opportunity to escape, but just survive!
He ground his hips into her and moaned, dropping down on top of her, his mouth in her ear. His whisper was hoarse, damp. “I’ll ask you again, where do you think your husband is now?”
Her stomach was in knots, her eyes pouring tears she didn’t want him to see. “I-I don’t understand.”
He reached around and cupped her breasts, kneading them like an inexperienced teenaged boy might.
“Don’t you believe in God?”
Oh God! Why are you letting this happen to me?
“Yes.”
He reached under her sweater, discovering she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Oooh, dirty girl I see.”
He wrenched her nipple and she yelped in pain.
“If you believe in God, then why don’t you know where your husband is now? Are you not sure if he led a good enough life to get into Heaven?”
She wasn’t sure what to think. But if this creature believed in God, perhaps there was hope, perhaps she could appeal to his better side and survive.
“He’s in Heaven.”
He suddenly let go of her breasts and stood up. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do, so she stayed still.
He yanked her gym pants down to her ankles, then her panties, and she knew what was coming. His crotch pressed against her again, and she heard a belt-buckle open.
“Are you sure he’s in Heaven?” he whispered.
“Yes. Yes I’m sure.” She gasped as she felt him undo his pants, the sound of the zipper causing her heart to slam against her chest. “Please, don’t do this,” she begged.
He shoved against her momentarily, then stepped back. She heard his pants hit the floor, and the sound of him shuffling to step out of them.
“And if you were to die tonight, in a car accident for example, would you go to Heaven?”
She suddenly found herself reevaluating her life, then stopped. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
He pressed against her again, but this time it was bare skin on skin. She felt his erection slide along her smooth backside. Oh God, help me! He leaned over and grabbed her by the hair, jerking her up.
“Are you sure? Are you sure you’ve led a good enough life to get into Heaven?” He turned her hair in his hand, tightening the grip. “Are you sure?” he asked, his whisper barely audible.
“N-no!” she finally cried. And she wasn’t sure. She had led a good life, but who was she to know what it took to get into Heaven. If you took the bible literally, she was a sinner, probably every day in some fashion. She didn’t go to church, she didn’t pray. She wasn’t a bad person, she didn’t do really bad things, she just lived a twenty-first century lifestyle. A lifestyle many thought fraught with sin.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, the delight obvious in his voice. He let go of her hair and she felt his hands run down her back then one hand left and she felt him position himself.
She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself for the pain and humiliation about to come.
Just survive!
He pushed inside and she screamed.
Leaning forward, he moved her hair aside, flicking his tongue over her earlobe. “I’m going to cause you so much pain, that you’ll be begging me to kill you. And when I do, you’ll have suffered so much that you’ll have been redeemed for all your sins, and be worthy of joining your husband in Heaven.”
He tore into her again, and she felt herself begin to shut down.
Just survive.
TWO
Detective John “Johnny” Walker pulled in behind the cruiser parked at the end of the block housing the Cooper residence. He and his long-time partner, Terry Curtis, both exited the unmarked car and walked up to the rear of the cruiser. The driver leaned out his window.
“Join the party, Detectives.”
Walker and Curtis opened the rear doors and climbed in, closing the doors behind them quietly.
“Are you Richards?” Walker asked the driver.
“Yup. Brent.” He stuck his hand back and shook Walker’s hand then Curtis’. “Are you Walker?” he asked.
Walker nodded. “This is Curtis.”
“This is Scaramell,” said Richards, jerking a thumb at the passenger seat.
“Gentlemen,” said Scaramell, nodding.
“Sta
tus?” asked Walker.
“We followed him from the court. They made a brief stop at the Trump International, came back out a few minutes later, then straight here.”
“Since then?”
“Other than a pizza being delivered, nada. The press have pretty much surrounded the place, so he’s not going anywhere without someone knowing.”
Walker looked down the street at the frenzy of reporters, their lights blaring, highlighting the house.
“I’d hate to live on this street,” muttered Scaramell.
“You and me both, kid,” said Curtis. “But this’ll die down after a few days.”
Walker’s phone vibrated on his hip and he fished it from the clip.
“Walker.”
“Where are you?”
It was Shakespeare.
“At Cooper’s residence, just about to take over from the uniforms.”
“Is he there?”
“Apparently. They saw him go in, and he’s got at least a dozen press cameras trained on the home.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, no, I didn’t see it for myself, but I think we can take their word for it that he went inside.” He gave Scaramell a wink at his concerned expression. Suddenly Walker felt a tightness in his chest. “Why, what’s wrong?”
He heard Shakespeare sigh.
“There’s been another murder.”
Shakespeare nodded to the officer keeping the scene log, showing him his badge so he could record his shield number. He stepped inside the sealed scene, his partner, Detective Amber Trace, close on his heels. As soon as he had received word of the killing, he had ordered no one enter until he arrived. He didn’t want to risk contaminating the scene. He didn’t want to risk anything. This was going to be by the book, with no chance of anything being questioned. No legal trickery. No defense lawyers getting evidence tossed. Everything would be double and triple checked.
By the book.
He looked at the booties he had on then back at Trace and Vinny. Vinny had insisted on booties, caps, gloves and face masks. He was as determined as Shakespeare to not have anyone contaminate the scene.
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 3