Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  “Who stole the gun?” asked Cahill.

  “We believe the real killer. We have footage, taken by him, at the Gray murder scene. We believe he heard of the murder, heard he was being blamed for it, so came out of curiosity. He saw me leave with the murder weapon, so took the opportunity to follow me, then stole the gun from my car when I stopped to get something to eat.”

  “Why the hell did you stop with such a key piece of evidence?” asked Cahill, almost as if he were interrogating Shakespeare as a hostile witness on the stand. “If you had gone directly to your lab as you were supposed to, we would have known all along the murders weren’t linked.”

  “Because I’m a diabetic, and I could feel that my blood sugar was getting dangerously low. I stopped to get a bite to eat to stave off a diabetic coma.”

  Shakespeare exchanged a quick glance with Turnbull who had successfully hid the shock at finally learning the truth from the others in the room, but not him. Her features were almost sympathetic.

  And his statement had shut down Cahill’s cross-examination.

  And he felt good. Really good. The truth was out there. At least partially.

  “So now we are focusing on finding the murderer of the original six women, plus the latest victim, and putting together a case on Carl Gray for murdering his wife. All I have are a few questions for you, Mr. Cooper, and then you’re free to go”—he looked at Turnbull who nodded—“about your business.”

  “Fine.”

  “Where were you two nights ago. We know you left the hotel.”

  Cooper sighed.

  “I got a phone call telling me to meet the guy who was paying for the room.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “South side of Columbus Circle.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “He never showed. He had said to wait for him, he might be late, so I did. I waited almost two damned hours, then went and had a few beers then went back to my room.”

  “And you never heard from him again?”

  “No.”

  Shakespeare turned to Cahill.

  “How did you know to do the switch at the hotel?”

  “I received a phone call the day before. Pretty much everyone knew what was going to happen once the press somehow got a hold of our findings”—Shakespeare cocked an eyebrow pointing out the gall of that statement, which Cahill acknowledged with a slight smile—“so once the court date was announced, it was public knowledge when he’d be released. I received a call offering the room for a week, I talked to my client who agreed, and a package arrived by courier the next morning with the room key and a note indicating that all expenses would be covered and that a decoy would be waiting in the room. We did the switch, and the rest is history.”

  “Do you still have the note?”

  Cahill nodded and opened his briefcase. He handed over a FedEx envelope in a plastic bag, along with a computer printed note.

  “I always play it safe,” explained Cahill.

  Shakespeare took the envelope and placed it on the corner of Turnbull’s desk, turning to Cooper.

  “Did you ever meet Roger Nickel before?”

  “Who’s that?” asked Cooper.

  “The man you exchanged places with, the man who was housesitting for you.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Never seen him before that afternoon.”

  “And since?”

  Another head shake.

  Shakespeare raised his hands slightly, palms upward.

  “That’s all I have for now. If I have any more questions, may I contact you directly?”

  Cahill leaned forward, interrupting Shakespeare’s line of sight with Cooper.

  “Until there’s a public statement from this office clearing my client, let’s keep this formal, shall we?”

  Turnbull stood up.

  “I’ll hold a press conference later this afternoon indicating that we no longer believe Mr. Cooper is involved, that we will not be appealing the court’s decision at this time, and that we thank him for his cooperation.”

  “And an apology?”

  “Don’t push it, counselor.”

  Cahill smiled.

  “All in good time, I guess.”

  “Are you going back to the hotel?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Damned skippy. I haven’t lived so good in my entire life.”

  “Even though it’s probably paid for by a murderer.”

  Cooper shrugged.

  “Until five minutes ago, I was a murderer. Maybe he’s being falsely accused, just like I was.”

  Shakespeare shook his head.

  “Mr. Cooper. I believe you could be in danger.”

  “I’ll keep my door locked.” Cooper’s attitude was flippant again, the false bravado shining through.

  “As did the other seven victims.”

  Cooper paused, then continued toward the door, his mother pulling him by the arm.

  “Be careful, Mr. Cooper. A lot of people know where you are, and don’t yet know you’re innocent. And more importantly, the murderer knows where you are, and doesn’t care that you’re innocent.”

  Cooper looked at Shakespeare, a flash in his eyes that Shakespeare recognized as the cracking of the façade.

  “Be careful.”

  Cooper nodded then was hauled out the door by his mother.

  Why do I feel like I’m never going to see him again?

  Detective Trace pulled her weapon as she stepped out of her Mustang. A patrol car was already at the scene, lights flashing. She nodded to the two officers standing at either end of the rental car believed to have taken Fiona Lipton.

  “Richards, Scaramell, how’s it goin’?”

  Richards nodded. “Can’t complain.” He motioned at Trace’s weapon. “Expecting problems?”

  “We’re dealing with someone who killed at least seven people, so yeah.”

  Scaramell yanked his weapon a little quicker and clumsier than an old western would have permitted. Richards, with years more experience, drew his weapon and turned away from the car, scanning the surrounding streets. Trace, weapon held slightly in front of her, pointing at the sidewalk, surveyed their surroundings, checking the windows of parked cars and buildings, alleyways and entrances, pedestrians and workers.

  Nothing looked out of the ordinary.

  Except for the man in a suit, sprinting toward their position. She raised her weapon, pointing directly at his chest.

  “Stop, police!”

  He threw his hands up and skidded to a halt a mere ten feet from Trace. Richards and Scaramell quickly rushed past her, weapons drawn, and with Richards covering, Scaramell did a quick pat down.

  “I’m sorry, I’m from the rental company. I was told to wait and give you the spare key when you arrived,” said the man, now trembling.

  Trace lowered her weapon, as did the officers, and she beamed a smile at him, hoping it would prevent his bladder from emptying. “Great, you must be Tony.”

  He nodded.

  She walked up to him and holstered her weapon. Motioning with her head, Richards and Scaramell fell back, taking up their previous covering positions on either end of the car.

  “Can I get those keys?”

  His head bobbed, a rapid jitter of nerves. He held out his hand and she took the key and fob.

  “Thanks.” She motioned to her car. “Why don’t you wait behind my car.”

  He scurried behind the bumper and ducked.

  She smiled to herself.

  What? Does he think there’s a bomb?

  Then she frowned and paused.

  Maybe we should get the bomb squad.

  She shook her head.

  Now you’re being paranoid too.

  She stepped back a few paces and held up the fob.

  “You guys might want to take some cover, just in case.”

  Scaramell’s eyes shot open wide, and he stepped quickly toward her then behind his cruiser. Richards chuckled and stepped back, taking partial cove
r behind a minivan parked in front of the rental.

  Here goes nothing.

  She pressed the button, eyes squeezed half shut.

  And the car chirped, flashing its lights.

  And nothing exploded.

  She let out a silent sigh, and Scaramell and Richards emerged from their hiding places. She pressed the button to unlock the trunk, then approached the car. Peering inside the windows, she found nothing beyond the rental agreement sitting on the passenger seat. Walking toward the back of the car, she pulled open the trunk lid and gasped.

  Fiona stretched, cat like, shoving one leg out as far as it would go, while reaching up, over her head, with the opposing arm. She moaned in ecstasy at the feeling and smiled.

  Then she bolted upright, the satin sheet covering her sliding down her naked chest. She instinctively covered herself as her mind processed where she was.

  I’m home!

  She looked around. There was nothing out of the ordinary. It was as if she had come home and had a nap. Nothing more.

  Was it a dream?

  She shook her head and immediately regretted it, the pounding worse than any hangover she could have imagined. At the foot of her bed, on the settee, her clothes were piled neatly, something she never did.

  It must have been real.

  Something sat atop the pile. She crawled to the end of the bed and found a piece of paper, neatly folded, on top of her mini skirt. Reaching forward, she took the paper and slowly unfolded it. She saw the first words and her heart slammed into her chest as she dropped the page. Her eyes burned and her chest tightened in fear as she pushed herself back down the bed and away from what was written, slamming into the headboard as she grabbed for her pillow and hugged it to her naked chest. She buried her head into the soft down and shook, as the memories flooded back, and the reality of the situation sank in.

  She was alive.

  But he was dead.

  What was his name?

  “Carl.”

  Her own voice startled her. It was hoarse, and she now realized how dry her mouth and throat were. His wife was dead, and he had sacrificed himself to save a stranger.

  He was a murderer.

  She shivered at the thought, of how close he had actually been to her.

  How did I get home?

  She looked again under the covers to confirm what she already knew.

  She was completely naked.

  Her clothes were in a neat bundle as she had already discovered. But how did she get home? What had happened after he pressed the button? She closed her eyes and tried to take herself back. He had said his final words, then turned his head and pressed the button with his nose or forehead, his hands still bound behind his back like hers. But what had happened?

  Everything went black!

  She remembered a hissing sound, then nothing. Gassed? She nodded. Just like in the car.

  The car!

  Suddenly she remembered the detective she was supposed to meet. She leapt forward and grabbed her purse which sat next to her clothes, soon finding the card. She fished her cellphone from the purse, and was about to dial when she eyed the piece of paper she had dropped.

  You have to read it.

  She put the cellphone down and picked up the paper. Shuffling back to the head of her bed, she unfolded it and read the neatly typed words.

  Carl Gray died for his sins, sacrificing himself to save not only you, but his soul. Your sins are trivial in comparison, his sacrifice confirming my own suspicions he had murdered his own wife. In the end he did the right thing, and now you have a second chance at life. He has been redeemed in the eyes of Our Lord, and now it is your turn to redeem yourself.

  Use this second chance wisely, Fiona Lipton, for I, and the Lord, shall be watching.

  “I will be watching.”

  Fiona screamed as her head spun toward the now opening closet door. Her john, a man she had known for almost a year, the man who had hired her to sleep with a killer, and the man who had abducted her, stood not five feet away, staring at her, eyes narrowed, his expression stern.

  He held a finger to his lips and she bit her pillow, trying to silence her cries.

  “Tell the detective to check the van.”

  And with that he left her bedroom, and she heard the door open.

  “Redeem yourself, Fiona Lipton, and you will never see me again. Don’t, and I shall do it for you.”

  The front door clicked shut, but Fiona couldn’t hear it over her own sobs and pounding heart.

  Redeem yourself, Fiona Lipton.

  She swore to do just that.

  Aynslee squeezed her eyes shut. She had heard the sound of the car’s doors unlocking, then the click as the trunk unlocked, a sliver of light outlining the lid as it opened slightly. She wanted to scream, but she had to keep her wits about her.

  Which meant opening her eyes.

  Slowly, reluctantly, she reopened them, staring at the first light she had seen since waking less than an hour ago; how much less, she had no idea. The only thing she did know was she was in a car trunk, the sounds of the car parking having woken her. Her head remained groggy, a headache that would take down a biker pounded in her skull, and her mouth was dry.

  She thought back on what had happened. They had left the restaurant, were about to get in her car, then nothing. Wait! There was something. Louise’s expression. Terror!

  She shivered.

  Louise! What happened to her?

  Her heart slammed against her chest and she felt bile form in her mouth as she thought about Justin’s girlfriend. Oh please let her be okay! She remembered waking up once, maybe twice, she couldn’t be sure, and seeing something held in front of her face.

  A spray bottle!

  Each time it would spray her, she would pass out almost immediately.

  And she had no idea who her attacker was, the one glimpse she did get during the initial attack so quick, she couldn’t picture him.

  But she knew it was a ‘him’, and she knew she had seen him before.

  But where?

  The trunk lid flew open and she was suddenly blinded by the light flooding in.

  “Miss Kai, is that you?”

  Aynslee’s heart leapt as she immediately recognized the voice. Tears filled her eyes in relief, blinding her further, but she didn’t care.

  It’s over!

  “Yes!” she cried, but tape over her mouth turned it into muffled nonsense.

  “Give me a hand here!” she heard Detective Trace call, and within moments she felt hands on her, then tugging as her bindings were cut. As her eyes regained focus, she saw two police officers, one of whom she recognized from somewhere, and behind them, Justin’s partner supervising their efforts.

  She was lifted from the trunk by the officer she recognized, then her feet were carefully lowered to the ground. She stood for a moment, supported by both officers as she slowly regained the use of her legs.

  “What time is it?” she asked, her words almost slurred, her head still groggy.

  “Almost three in the afternoon,” replied Trace with a quick glance at her watch.

  “I’ve been in there for almost”—she paused as her drugged brain worked at crunching the numbers—“fifteen hours! No wonder I’m so stiff.”

  “What happened?”

  Aynslee shook her head then immediately regretted it. She took a slow, deep breath, then nodded at her support team who gingerly let go of her arms. She tested her legs and nodded.

  “I’m okay, thanks.” She looked at the one who seemed familiar. “Have we met before?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Officer Richards. I helped bring in some of the equipment to your office a while back.”

  Suddenly Aynslee remembered and smiled, snapping her fingers.

  “Brent!”

  He beamed a smile that made him almost look like a school boy.

  “Why, yes, ma’am, I’m surprised you remember.”

  She smiled, knowing she had just made his day. She d
idn’t dwell on it, but she knew men were attracted to her, and in her business, she needed every fan she could get.

  And not only was this cop now a fan, he had bragging rights back in the locker room.

  “Oh I remember, and don’t call me ma’am. It makes me sound like someone’s grandmother.” She shook both their hands, thanking them for their help.

  “So what happened?”

  She turned to Trace. “I’m not sure. Louise and I left the restaurant, and when we were about to get in the car, we were attacked.”

  “Attacked? By who?”

  “I don’t know. Some man. Louise saw him first. He came from behind me. He sprayed something in my face. That’s all I remember.”

  “Would you recognize him?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I’m sure I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I can’t picture him. I just know that I know him, that’s all.”

  “And Louise?”

  “You mean you don’t have her?”

  Trace shook her head.

  “No, we never knew either of you were missing until now.”

  Aynslee gasped.

  “Oh my God. We have to tell Justin!”

  Trace nodded and reached for her phone.

  “Detective, look at this.”

  They both turned to see Richards looking in the trunk.

  “What is it?” asked Trace, stepping forward.

  “Looks like some kind of note.”

  Trace leaned over then fumbled blindly in her purse for a moment as she tried to read the note, finally retrieving a single latex glove. She snapped it on then reached forward, retrieving the paper. Aynslee peered over her shoulder and shivered.

  Her sins do not warrant the redemption I mete.

  Shakespeare eyed the door for the stairwell then thought better of it.