Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Shakespeare nodded. “Let’s start at the front windows, work our way back.”

  Trace headed to the front of the restaurant as Shakespeare turned back to his table. “Did either of you see him?” he asked.

  Louise shook her head, as did Aynslee.

  “Sorry, Shakey, I never noticed him.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Okay, you two can go.”

  “I’ll give you a ride home,” said Aynslee.

  “Oh, don’t bother, I’ll just take a cab.”

  “Like hell you will,” said Shakespeare in a harsh whisper. “Go with Aynslee. Call or text me when you get inside.” He turned to Aynslee. “And that goes for you too.”

  “I’m going back to the studio. Late night news broadcast.”

  “I thought you weren’t on tonight,” said Louise.

  “I’m not, but I just want to see what’s going on before I head home.”

  “Okay, you text me when you get to the studio, when you leave, and when you get home.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Shakespeare flushed and Aynslee slid from the booth and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Louise gave him a peck, conscious not to embarrass him too much, then two of the most important ladies in his life left.

  “If I give you a kiss, will you let me go too?”

  The restaurant erupted in nervous laughter, that quickly turned completely unfettered. Shakespeare turned even more red, luckily hidden by the dim lighting. Even he found himself laughing, then drew his hand threw the noise.

  “I won’t arrest you for that one. Please, people, just keep being as patient as you have been. We’ll start getting you out of here as quickly as possible.”

  A few moans and catcalls quickly subsided back into the idle chatter that had been the atmosphere for the past hour. No frivolity, little joy, simply over one hundred guests, now prisoners to their own tables.

  Trace finished with her first table, and the couple stood. The man picked up his cellphone off the table, and slipped it in his pocket. As he did so, a thought flashed through Shakespeare’s mind.

  He stepped over to the couple.

  “Did you happen to take any pictures?”

  The man nodded.

  “Yes, actually it’s our anniversary, so we took a few.”

  “Can I see them?”

  The man nodded and activated his phone. A few swipes and taps, and they were looking at the photos. Shakespeare flipped through each of them, but didn’t see any shots of the table in question.

  “Can you email those to this address?” He handed his card to the man, who quickly complied. “Thanks, you can leave now.”

  Shakespeare turned to the restaurant.

  “Can I have your attention, please?” he called, arms raised. The entire floor once again turned to face him. “Anybody who took pictures here tonight, please raise your hands.”

  Over half the restaurant complied.

  We just might get lucky tonight.

  Aynslee pulled the fob from her purse, pointing at the car. She pressed the button and the car flashed its lights, silently unlocking itself unlike those aftermarket monstrosities that honked the horn. Those should be banned. She had lost count of how many times she had nearly peed her pants when some inconsiderate asshole had walked away from his car then locked it as she passed by, the car horn honking once or twice. What killed her was that this was an option that could easily be disabled. Why did people insist on having this option enabled? Did they think it was a status symbol to have an aftermarket alarm rather than a car good enough to have come with an alarm from the factory? Weren’t flashing lights good enough? The alarms that chirped weren’t as bad, but then again, why do you need an audio cue? You press the button, the lights flash, you know it worked. Get on with your day.

  Which was why she loved her BMW 335i’s alarm. Silent. Just a flashing of the lights. Try to steal it, it made all kinds of noise, but not when you were just going about your everyday business.

  “Sweet ride!” exclaimed Louise.

  “Thanks. Just arrived last week.”

  “What made you decide on a BMW?”

  “Well, I wanted a luxury car, and besides Lincoln, which to me look like something my granddad would drive, and Cadillac, which seems to have positioned itself as the choice of rappers and gangbangers—”

  “Don’t let Shakey hear you say that!”

  Aynslee grinned then continued, “—there’s really no American choices, so I figured European was the way to go. Tried them all, Porsche which just wasn’t practical, Jaguar which actually broke down on my test drive—”

  “It broke down?”

  Aynslee laughed. “Yeah, right out of the lot. And you know what the sales guy said?”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘oh don’t worry, this sometimes happens. That’s why we have roadside coverage second to none.’ Can you believe that? He actually tried to make the car breaking down a sales feature!”

  “Shakey says that’s why only the rich drive Jags. They need their chauffeur to follow them around everywhere in a reliable American car.”

  Aynslee tossed her head back, laughing as she gripped the door handle. When she looked across the roof at Louise again, she stopped. Louise’s jaw had dropped, and her eyes were opened in horror, looking at something behind her. Aynslee began to turn when she was grabbed from behind. She saw an arm reach across the roof, holding a bottle of something. Her attacker squeezed the top of the bottle and a fine mist squirted out and at Louise as she ducked.

  Aynslee started to scream when the bottle was turned toward her and she felt the spray cover her face. She sucked in a breath and immediately the world went dark.

  “Bingo!” yelled Trace.

  All eyes were on her as she held up a cellphone, waving it in the air. Shakespeare rushed over as the next set of couples headed into the back to be interviewed. The restaurant was less than half full now. Vinny had finished processing the table their unsub had sat at. He had dozens of prints from the booth, but “oddly” had none from the area where the man would have touched if he had sat where the waiter had indicated.

  “He’s wiped it clean,” Vinny had said. The busboy had pointed out the couple of dishes he had cleared, and those too were fingerprint free. Even the cutlery, still on the table, was untouched, as if he had brought his own, eliminating the chance of any DNA being found.

  He had meant to be seen.

  And he had known exactly what they would do to try and catch him.

  But he hadn’t anticipated the cameras.

  But why?

  Shakespeare took the phone and looked at the photo. It was of a couple, heads together, smiling, one arm outstretched as the husband took the photo for posterity’s sake. And in the background, there was a clear shot of Louise and himself, Aynslee blocked by the back of the booth, and their unsub, sitting at the next booth, his back against Aynslee’s, eating his supper. The lighting was poor, the picture impossibly tiny, but there he was.

  He turned to Trace. “Take this to Frank immediately. Don’t stop for anything. Call him, wake him, whatever. I want our best on this.”

  “You mean you’re taking my phone?”

  “You’ll get a receipt,” said Trace.

  “Can’t I just email it to you?”

  “No, I can’t risk it being deleted. This could be the key to solving eight murders.”

  The man’s jaw dropped as he looked at his wife.

  “Then you’ll need the password.”

  He jotted it down on the back of Trace’s card as she quickly filled in a receipt.

  “We’ll get it back to you as quickly as we can,” she said as she dropped the phone into a plastic bag and headed for the door. Shakespeare looked at the couple. “You gave your contact info to the detective?”

  They both nodded.

  “Fine, you’re free to go. And thank you for your cooperation.”

  I’ve got you now.

  Frank stroked
Sarah’s hair absentmindedly, her head resting on his bare chest, her leg draped across his waist, both still catching their breaths from what had just happened.

  Some of the best damned sex he had ever had in his life.

  He’d been working so hard the past two days that they’d barely seen each other, and then before that his shoulder was too sore for him to really do anything more than enjoy her efforts, but tonight he had said to hell with the pain, and given it his all.

  Much to the delight of both of them.

  But now he was exhausted, the effort having completely drained him, the past half hour the most physical activity he’d had since being shot.

  “Gawd that was good,” murmured Sarah.

  “Good?”

  She looked up at him with a grin.

  “Great!”

  “I was going more for spectacular.”

  She bit his chest playfully.

  “I guess you’ll have to try harder next time.”

  “I thought I was pretty—”

  He was cut off by his phone ringing on the nightstand.

  “Who could be calling at this hour?” asked Sarah.

  “Has to be work,” replied Frank, leaning over to get the phone. Detective Amber Trace read the call display. “I have to take this.”

  “Do you?”

  “Sorry, babe, we’re working on a huge case right now.”

  Sarah moved aside, propping herself up on a pillow as Frank answered.

  “Brata.”

  “Frank, it’s Trace. Sorry for calling so late. Hope I’m not waking you.”

  “No, no you’re not.”

  “Oh, then I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

  Frank thought of something clever that might be said in a movie, but decided it would be out of character for him to say it.

  “No, what can I do for you, Detective.”

  “I’ve got a phone with a picture of our unsub on it. Shakes wants you personally to look at it.”

  “Now?”

  “If you could.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “Thanks, Frank, you’re the best.”

  He hung up and dropped his chin to his chest as his shoulders sagged.

  Yeah, that’s the damned problem.

  Fiona awoke, gasping for breath, and instead of finding her bed, she felt something strange. She was floating, the sensation of something touching every inch of her naked skin, was confusing at first, then terrifying.

  She was underwater.

  Immediately her arms and legs kicked out, trying to balance herself, and kick to the surface of whatever body of water she was in, but it was useless. Her feet and hands were bound, and she found herself turning over, with something tugging on her face.

  Panic filled her mind as she realized what it was, as she realized her lifeline, her source of oxygen, was slowly being ripped from her mouth. She clamped down hard with her teeth, even employing her lips to hold on as she slowly rolled to her left. She pulled her feet toward her center, spreading her knees out as wide as she could, her body contorting itself into more of a yoga position than a swimming position.

  And she began to level out.

  As her body slowly tilted back to the right, her heart settled, the slamming in her chest subsiding to a mere drumming. She closed her eyes, taking several deep breaths through the tube, then with her panic attack gone, reopened her eyes to assess the situation.

  But she saw nothing.

  It was pitch black. She could see nothing, hear nothing.

  What happened?

  Her mind was foggy, as if coming out of a drug induced sleep. She had been at the hotel. The police arrived. She left. She got in a taxi.

  No!

  She got in a car. She got in Jeff’s car.

  Then what?

  He sprayed her in the face with something.

  Then she woke up here, in this watery prison.

  But why?

  This is why you never trust a john.

  She should never have got in his car. She knew that now. But at the time, she had been so rattled about what had just happened at the hotel, and wasn’t expecting him there, that she had gone against a better judgment that hadn’t yet returned that morning.

  Was it this morning?

  She wondered how long she had been out.

  The cop!

  She was supposed to meet her. If she didn’t show up, what would they think? Would they put out a warrant for her arrest? Would they even bother looking for her? They probably wouldn’t think she was actually missing, just assume she was trying to avoid the police.

  Which means no one is looking for you.

  She felt her chest tighten again with the realization she was alone, no one knew where she was, and she was probably now being treated as a criminal, rather than a witness, and would only be looked for if they thought she was important enough to bother finding.

  “Are you ready to begin?”

  She yelped in her mouthpiece, the voice, cold, mechanical almost, roared through her ears, and it took her a moment to realize she had ear buds on.

  “I asked you a question. Are you ready to begin?”

  Begin what?

  She knew what answer she wanted to give. No! She had been kidnapped, most likely by some crazed killer, and everything that begins has an end. And with a murderer, there was only one way for things to end—badly.

  But her fear of dying sooner if she didn’t reply with the answer she assumed he expected overcame her.

  “Yes!” she yelled through the tube, it sounding more like the wailing of a low note from a trombone, but it was apparently understood.

  “Very well. These are the rules.”

  As she listened, she began to realize she had made a mistake.

  Shakespeare’s pants hit the floor with a thud, his wallet and keys still inside the pockets. He was exhausted. By the time he had left the restaurant he could barely think straight. After hours of interviews, they had found only the one photo, and a vague description of the suspect. White and male. That’s about all anyone could agree on. He had brown hair, black hair, or gray hair. He was slim to pudgy. He was thirty to sixty. It was ridiculous.

  It was frustrating.

  But the photo, the lone photo they had found, might break everything wide open. But Frank hadn’t reached the lab by the time the restaurant was wrapped up, and with how tired Shakespeare felt, he knew he’d be useless. He needed a few hours sleep before he’d be functional again.

  He stripped his clothes off, took a quick shower, then dropped in the bed. He felt his mind begin to drift, then something started to nag at him. There was something he was forgetting. But what was it?

  His eyes shot open.

  Louise!

  He grabbed his phone and checked the messages. There were none. From Louise or Aynslee.

  Maybe they forgot? God knows I’ve forgotten enough in the past.

  He glanced at the time.

  Way too late to call.

  He sent Louise a text.

  Hi babe, did you get home ok?

  He lay back in bed, the phone in his hand, and he found himself drifting again. The phone vibrated in his hand.

  Yes, see you soon.

  He smiled and drifted off, thinking he should send Aynslee a text as well, but his conscious mind lost the battle to the forces of sleep.

  It had been hours since Carl Gray had felt the muffled vibrations of a voice, more than heard them. He hadn’t made out a single word, and soon began to wonder if the voice was even directed at him. But if it wasn’t, then who? Was there someone else there, besides himself and his kidnapper? The idea at once excited and terrified him. If there were more than one, perhaps they could work together to escape. But if there were more than one, all kept as he was, there was no way this was going to end well for him.

  You’re going to die.

  That could be the only explanation. Why would he go to all this trouble to kidnap him,
and others, if the ultimate plan wasn’t to kill them? He was going to die. But why? Why did this monster he thought he knew choose him of all people? What could this trusted soul possibly know about him that would make them think he was worthy of such torture?

  “Are you ready to begin?”

  The voice shocked him, only now realizing he had headphones on. He wanted to say ‘no’, knowing that whatever was about to begin would be some form of torture far worse than what he had already experienced. But he knew there was only one answer he could give, one answer that would be acceptable to his keeper.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. These are the rules.”

  Rules?

  If there were rules, then there was hope. Perhaps there was a chance to escape, to survive. But what could he possibly do from here?

  “The rules are simple. This is a test. The reward is redemption. A chance to redeem your soul and gain entry into Heaven. It is a chance for you to cleanse yourself of your past sins, and prove your worthiness to God Almighty, so when you stand before Saint Peter, and need to atone for the life you have led, you will be able to point to this one moment in time, this one selfless act, and say to him, ‘this, this is why I deserve entry, this is why I deserve to sit beside God Almighty, as a worthy soul’.

  “But, as I said, this is a test. And tests are not easy. But this one can be, for a man who has goodness in his heart. What you will need to ask yourself, is ‘Am I good? Deep down inside, am I a good person? Am I truly worthy of spending eternity in Heaven? Knowing what I have done, am I worthy of sitting at God’s side?’”

  And Carl Gray began to weep.

  Because he knew he was not worthy. He was not worthy of entering Heaven. Not worthy of sitting by God’s side.

  Deep down inside, he knew he was not a good person.

  EIGHT

  “Christ these guys start early.”

  Walker looked at his partner, sleep still in his eyes.

  “Yeah, but they finish early too.”

  Both took a moment to watch the organized chaos that was the postal sorting station. Carl Gray had been a postman before the murder of his wife. And now that he was on the radar as a possible suspect, they had to dig into his background, a background that was five years cold. So cold, he didn’t even work here anymore, his wife having a seven figure life insurance policy.