“England.”
“Ahh, that explains the accent.” She pointed at the screen, resuming their work, then added, “and don’t lose the accent. Just don’t go calling women in their late twenties ‘mum’ or ‘ma’am’. I’d suggest ‘miss’.”
“Okay, miss.”
The screen raced forward as they watched Fiona Lipton exit the elevator in the lobby, strut through the main doors and down the steps to a waiting cab, the camera angles expertly manipulated by young Graham Allman-Talbot, who like the dear he appeared to be, hadn’t even cracked a smile at her ‘late twenties’ statement.
“Wait, what just happened?”
Talbot backed it up. “Looks like she was about to get in the cab, then changed her mind.”
They watched her cross the street, the top half of her body disappearing from view. She climbed into a black four door that promptly pulled away.
“Do you have a camera angle that shows the street?”
He shook his head. “No, mum—miss. We monitor the property only. But, Central Park West is one way. He would have had to come through Columbus Circle. There’s traffic cameras there. Perhaps you can spot him arriving?”
She nodded. It was a long shot, especially with just the bottom half of a car to work with. “Can you give me a copy of that footage showing the car? Perhaps our techs can identify the make and model.” She pulled a card out of her purse, handing it to him. “Just email it to my phone.”
Talbot nodded, and with a few taps of the keyboard, moments later her phone beeped with a message. She pulled up the video to confirm it was what she wanted.
“Thanks,” she said. “Next thing, we need to look at footage of the seventh floor, rooms seven-oh-eight and seven-ten. I need to see if our suspect left his room at all through the night.”
Talbot hit a few keys, and within moments they were looking at an angle showing the corridor she had been in earlier that day. The view flew by as Talbot spun the control.”
“There!” he said, lifting his finger, then spinning back slowly.
“That’s him all right.” She noted the time. 10:17 p.m. “Let’s see if he leaves the hotel.”
The hall view, then the elevator, then the lobby left no doubt. He had left. But unfortunately, no cab was taken to trace. He simply walked out of view.
“Let’s go back to the room, 10:17 p.m., and see what else happens.”
Talbot flipped the view, backing up the time index, then began spinning forward again. Nothing until 2:42 a.m. when Cooper returned. Plenty of time to get over to Constance Reilly’s residence, commit the murder, and come back. Trace smiled. We’ve got you now, asshole.
“Let’s backtrack his movements, see if we can catch him coming in.” Within moments they were watching him walk up the steps from the street, stroll through the lobby and exit on his floor, entering his room.
“Now let’s check the rest of the night.” The view spun forward, and nothing else happened until the camera showed her and Shakespeare arriving a couple of hours ago. “Okay, get me a copy of the footage showing him leaving, then returning, and I’ll hopefully have everything I need.”
Talbot nodded. “It’ll take a few minutes.”
“That’s fine. Just send it to my phone.” She strode from the room, forwarding the Fiona Lipton footage to Frank.
Now let’s see if the wunderkind can figure this one out.
Carl Gray woke, his body jerking to and fro as he tried to prevent himself from falling. Then he remembered where he was, and his pulse raced as he wept. His chest heaved, his stomach muscles contracting repeatedly as sob after stifled sob burst forth, the sound it produced a dull drone, almost as if breathlessly blowing into one of those long plastic horns from when he was a child.
The thought brought him comfort.
Slightly.
Get a grip!
He knew he had to keep his wits about him, but it was so difficult. The lack of sensation was beginning to drive him nuts. He could feel almost nothing except if he happened to bump a part of his body against the walls of his prison, but attempting to do so, to achieve some small sensation of normality, risked tipping him upside down and ripping his breathing apparatus free.
His world had become one of little sensation. Almost no touch. No smell whatsoever. No taste except the raw plastic and rubber that he no longer really noticed. There was nothing to hear beyond his own breathing. Nothing to see except the complete and utter black that surrounded him. He couldn’t even see the tip of his own nose.
A dull thud.
It sent ripples of sensations through his body.
What was it?
It excited and terrified him at the same time. It felt as if something had hit the prison he was in. Something solid. Something big.
Another thud then the vibrations tingled through his body.
Should he call for help?
How?
He yelled as best he could through the tube, not sure if any of the sound was escaping. If it were, it had had no effect. He stopped, gasping for breath, realizing the effort was futile.
But what had caused the sounds?
His thoughts were shoved aside as he heard a whirring sound to his left. It got louder, closer, as if only inches from his ear. The pitch rose dramatically, almost painfully, as whatever it was seemed to make contact with the surface of his prison.
His heart leapt.
It’s a drill!
He could hear it now. The distinct whine, the sound of the bit tearing into his prison.
They’re trying to rescue me!
The pitch changed again as he heard the drill come within inches of his head, then pull out with a whine, then silence as it was turned off. He listened for the water to rush out, but it didn’t. It made no sense, unless it had been drilled from the top. He examined the top as best he could, assuming his eyes would now be extremely sensitive to even a hint of light.
But he saw nothing. No light. No hole.
He tilted his head slightly to the left, where he had heard the drill. He felt himself start to tip and he immediately straightened his head out, jutting his chin toward the top of his chamber. Chamber! And that’s what it was. He realized it now. It was a sensory deprivation chamber of some type. But from his limited knowledge, he knew, or at least he thought he knew, they were only used for about an hour at a time.
How long had he been in here?
That was another sense he had lost. The sense of time. And it was maddening. As he thought more and more on it, he could feel his chest tighten, his heart slam against his ribcage, his breathing becoming more and more rapid. He felt himself begin to blackout.
Then he stopped. He held his breath for a few moments, then began to reintroduce structure.
The powers of two. Two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four, one-hundred-twenty-eight, two-hundred-fifty-six.
He felt his heart start to calm down. He let out a slow, steady breath, then took in a more rapid one, his lungs almost empty, but again slowly exhaled.
Five-hundred-twelve, one thousand-twenty-four, two-thousand-forty-eight.
He smiled. He had a method now.
But how long would it last? He figured he might have been in here for hours, perhaps half a day—he had some bladder pressure, and no urge to have a bowel movement.
Ugh. What do I do then?
His record had been eleven days on a Boy Scout trip when he was a kid. He doubted he could repeat that now. He just thanked God he hadn’t gone out for Mexican last night, instead meeting with The Seven after Cooper’s release.
His mind suddenly leapt to who had done this.
It didn’t make any sense. Why would they be involved? Were they working with Cooper? Was Cooper targeting The Seven?
He kicked out in frustration. He had to warn them. He had to escape this prison. He had to save his friends, his new family.
The sound of the drill vibrated through the chamber again, this time it sounded more distant, as if near his
feet. The thought that someone was only inches away frustrated him, especially knowing who that someone was.
I have to get out of here and warn them!
“How are you feeling?”
Roger Nickel looked up from the table he had been resting his head on and eyed Shakespeare.
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t, but my shoes do.”
The man eyed him, the confusion clear.
He has no memory of last night.
“Who are you?”
“Detective Shakespeare, Homicide.”
“Oh, yeah, that sounds familiar.” He grabbed his head, squeezing his temples. “Oh God, I feel awful. Do you have an Aspirin or something?”
“Nope.”
Shakespeare sat across from him.
“So, feel like talking now?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve done nothing wrong, so sure.”
“Why were you at the Cooper residence last night?”
“I was asked to housesit.”
“Why?”
“That’s what I asked. It’s not like they’ve got any pets, and there’s nothin’ really worth stealin’ there. Christ, a thief might feel sorry for them and leave ’em something.”
He chuckled then seemed to immediately regret it.
“Who asked you?”
“I don’t know, some guy. Just a voice on the line.”
“You were hired by phone?”
“Yeah. He said show up at three o’clock, key’d be under the mat, and there’d be money on the counter along with a room key for the Trump International. I was to go to the room, wait and change places with some guy and go back to the house. I could eat and drink anything I wanted. Only rules were don’t leave until I received another call from him, and don’t be seen by anybody, especially reporters.”
“So you don’t know Wayne Cooper or his mother Eileen?”
“Nope.”
“How’d the man on the phone get your number?”
“Probably my Craigslist ad.”
“And just what services were you offering?”
“Housesitting, dog walking, lawn mowing. Anything. Odd jobs.”
Shakespeare shook his head in wonder. Do people actually hire complete strangers for housesitting?
“Do you make a good living doing this sort of work?”
The man shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, I guess.”
“You live with your folks?”
He nodded.
Not that good a living.
“So you were called. When?”
“Yesterday.” He paused. “What day is it?”
“Friday.”
“Wednesday, then.”
“Do you have the number?”
He shrugged again. “Might be on my call display, but I think it was a blocked number.”
“Around what time did the call come in?”
“’Bout six, six-thirty I think. We had just finished dinner.”
Shakespeare jotted down the date and time of the call. He’d pass it on to see if the incoming call could be traced, but he already knew it would be a dead-end. Anybody planning something this big would use a throwaway.
Nickel grabbed his stomach again.
“Look man, are we almost done? I think I’m gonna hurl again.”
“Yeah, you’re free to go. If you hear from this guy again, you give me a call.” Shakespeare pushed his card across the table then stood up heading out the door. He turned to the officer standing watch outside. “He’s free to go.”
The officer nodded, and stepped into the room as Shakespeare headed to his desk.
“Hey, Detective.”
Shakespeare looked over his shoulder to see Harold Nonkoh rushing up to him. It seemed pretty clear by the smile on his wide-eyed face he had found something.
“What is it?” asked Shakespeare as he continued to the pit, where he had asked those not offsite to gather.
“I found her!”
“The real”—air quotes—“Mrs. Gray?”
Nonkoh’s head gave a single, hard bob.
“Great, save it for the group.” They both stepped into the pit. The monitor showed Vinny, MJ and Frank, all back at the lab. Trace walked in just as Shakespeare perched on a desk. Walker, Curtis, Kowalski and Jenner were all there, and so was the LT, which wasn’t that unusual, not on a high profile case like this.
“Okay, we’ve got some info that needs to be shared,” said Shakespeare. “First, Roger Nickel, who was the drunk at Cooper’s place, claims he was hired over the phone to housesit. Doesn’t know the Coopers from a hole in the wall. Kowalski, see if you can run down an incoming phone call to Nickel’s place, around six, six-thirty, two days ago.”
Kowalski flicked his notepad. “Will do, Shakes.”
“Before I get to the big stuff, Nonkoh, you said you found who we think was the intended victim?”
Nonkoh nodded, taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, as if about to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. “It took some doing, but I found her through DMV records. She apparently moved out of state. California. I spoke to her a few minutes ago, confirmed her identity, and”—he drew the word out, making sure he had everyone’s attention—“she confirmed that her husband is alive and well and was sitting right beside her!”
“What?” Shakespeare jaw dropped. “What are you saying?”
Nonkoh was grinning ear to ear. “Carl Gray, married to Sheila Gray, of Queens Boulevard, is alive and well and living in California. And had been for six months before the Sandra Gray murder took place.”
The room was silent for several moments, finally broken by Shakespeare.
“Did you ask her about Cooper?”
Nonkoh nodded. “I did, and she can’t think of any connection she might have to him. I got a list of her extracurricular activities, clubs, jobs, you know, the usual history, just in case.”
Shakespeare’s head didn’t stop shaking back and forth. It was incredible. The one outlier kept moving further and further afield. It didn’t make any sense.
“So we’re saying it was a fake obit.” It was Walker who finally broke the renewed silence.
“It would appear so. I called the Times and they were able to look it up for me. It was paid in cash, at their offices, by the brother-in-law apparently. Other than that, that’s all they could give me.”
Shakespeare closed his eyes for several moments. If the obit was fake, then that meant Cooper was trying to link the Gray murders to the widow murders.
The Gray murder was definitely an outlier. Either because there was a connection with Cooper and he wanted Sandra Gray dead for some reason, or… He frowned. Or Cooper wasn’t the killer, and this was a copycat? That made no sense. This was the one case they had DNA and the gun. There was no doubt Cooper was the killer.
Shakespeare opened his eyes and gave Nonkoh a thumbs up.
“Excellent work. Now, to add to the confusion, what I’m about to tell you blows much of what we’ve been doing to this point out of the water.” The room almost went silent, just the hum of artificial lighting and air conditioning disturbed the silence. A lone phone started to ring, unanswered, as most of the squad, even those not on the case, were waiting to hear what Shakespeare had to say.
Trace broke the silence. “Come on, Shakes, you’re killing us!”
“Wayne Cooper almost definitely did not kill our latest victim.”
There were a few gasps from the room, including one from Trace. He looked at her, jaw dropped, and nodded.
“Here’s the skinny. You all know about the memory card found stuck in the bullet wound of our latest victim.” Heads nod. “Well, Frank was able to pull a video off of that.” He looked at the screen. “Frank, can you show us that movie.”
“Sure thing, Detective.”
His face disappeared from view, then the entire screen went black for a moment before the video played. “What we’re looking at is a video recorded on the day after the Sandra Gray murder, f
ive years ago. That’s my car he’s following. I stop to get a bite to eat, he continues on and parks. Now we see him walk right into me—”
“You don’t look too good, Shakes, were you sick?” It was Walker.
“Yes,” was all he was willing to reveal. Now wasn’t the time to let everyone know what had been ailing him all these years. It would just interfere with the case. “This is where he lifted my car keys.”
“Shit, you must have been really out of it to not feel that,” commented Kowalski.
“I was.” He pointed at the screen. “Now, here he opens the trunk, takes the weapon—”
“Wait, I thought you left it on the passenger seat?” Walker’s tone belied his shock.
“That’s the conclusion most of you jumped to, yes.”
Awkward eyes suddenly broke contact with Shakespeare as everyone tried to find somewhere to look other than him. Most settled on the video.
“Then he opens the door, unlocks everything, puts the windows down, then leaves the keys in the ignition. He leaves with the gun, here I am in the diner, then he welcomes me back to the game.”
“So how’d he know he’d be able to steal the gun?” asked Nonkoh.
Shakespeare jabbed a finger at him. “Excellent question from the rookie detective.” He waved his finger at the rest of them. “Why didn’t you guys think to ask that?” he jibed with a smirk.
“I was getting’ to it,” mumbled Walker. Curtis punched him in the shoulder.
“And the answer?” asked Shakespeare.
“Crime of opportunity?” offered Curtis.
“Ass kisser,” muttered Walker, returning the punch.
“That’s my guess as well,” said Shakespeare. “I think we’re looking at the real serial killer here, for the first six murders, and the eighth.”
“What?”
This time it was the LT’s turn.
“What do you mean the first six?”
“I mean just that. Vinny found some granite dust at the new scene, and it matched dust that was found in my car five years ago.”
“But not found at any other crime scene,” said the LT.
“Correct.”
Lieutenant Phillips nodded. “Okay, so clearly the stealing of the gun, and the latest murder are connected, regardless of the dust, since we have the memory card with the video. But why do you say only the first six murders?”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 10