Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3)

by Kennedy, J. Robert

  Dropping dead at the DA’s office is all I need.

  The elevator chimed and he climbed aboard, somebody already pressing the button. The doors began to close when he heard Turnbull’s voice yell, “Hold the elevator!”

  He reached forward and hit the button to open the doors, and she darted in, smiling at him.

  “Thanks!”

  “No problem.”

  The doors closed and she turned to him.

  “Quite the day, huh?”

  He nodded.

  “Quite the few days.”

  “Where are you off to now?”

  “I need to grab a quick bite, then catch up with Trace to see what she found at the rental car.”

  “And you have no leads on who our John Doe is?”

  “Just the photo.”

  “Photo?”

  The doors opened and two people joined them, talking loudly about whether or not Jim in Accounting was an absolute idiot, or just a moron. Their volume dominated the elevator, and Shakespeare was forced to wait, quietly fuming over the ignorance of some people.

  Why can’t people talk at a low volume in an elevator? Just because you think you’re funny, or your topic is fascinating, doesn’t mean everyone else does.

  “Well, I think he’s a moron,” concluded the one nearest Shakespeare.

  The elevator chimed and the man began to step off when Shakespeare held out an arm, blocking him.

  “Ladies first,” he said, allowing Turnbull to pass with a smile. The man stood gaping after she passed, so Shakespeare took the opportunity to exit and join Turnbull. “Speaking of morons,” he said, a little louder than necessary, “I find most don’t have any manners.”

  Turnbull chuckled as Shakespeare held the outer door open for her.

  “Want to join me for a hotdog?” she asked.

  Shakespeare’s right eyebrow climbed half an inch.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Hey, I was wrong, you were right. Let me buy you a late”—she looked at her watch—“very late lunch.”

  He chuckled.

  “Counselor, that’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  “Call me Sue, Detective. We’re not on duty, we’re on break.”

  He nodded.

  “Justin.”

  His phone vibrated and he grabbed it off his hip.

  Trace, Amber.

  “Excuse me a moment.”

  “Shakespeare.”

  “Shakes, it’s me, Trace. Listen, something’s come up you need to know about.”

  Her voice sent off warning bells.

  He stopped, Turnbull noticing a few steps later.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “We found the car, and—” There was a pause, then a burst of air. “Shit, Shakes, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll come out with it.” Shakespeare could feel his chest begin to tighten. Somebody’s dead. And it couldn’t be Lipton, because Trace wouldn’t dance around it so much.

  Then the world stopped. He felt himself looking at the steps he stood on, Turnbull looking at him, a curious expression on her face, the hot dog vendor dressing his latest creation with sauerkraut, a cabby pulling an illegal U-turn, a world going about its business.

  A business he knew someone else was no longer following.

  “We found Aynslee Kai in the trunk.”

  “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  “No! No! She’s okay, boss, she’s fine. But—”

  Louise!

  “What about Louise?”

  His voice was still a whisper.

  “We don’t know. All we know is they were both attacked at the same time. Something was sprayed in Miss Kai’s face that knocked her out. And there was a note.”

  “What did it say?”

  He heard the snap of paper being waved open.

  “It says, ‘Her sins do not warrant the redemption I mete.’ What do you think that means?”

  Shakespeare didn’t reply for a moment. His mind was racing. Her sins do not warrant the redemption I mete. It was obvious what it meant. It meant Aynslee wasn’t a bad enough person to deserve death. This had to be their murderer. This had to be the bastard from the restaurant.

  And the thought terrified him.

  And confused him.

  “I’ve been receiving text messages from Louise all day.”

  “What?”

  He had apparently murmured it.

  “I said, I’ve been getting text messages from her.”

  “Oh, then maybe he didn’t take her.”

  “But you said Aynslee was attacked while with Louise.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why wouldn’t Louise have reported the attack?” A pain shot through his chest and he dropped onto the steps, his phone clattering on the concrete. He felt himself begin to pass out but his mind screamed, ‘No!’

  He sucked in a deep breath as he realized he wasn’t having a heart attack, the pain not severe enough.

  I’m having a damned panic attack!

  “Are you okay?” asked Turnbull, leaning over and putting a hand on his shoulder.

  He nodded as he steadied himself, then leaned over and picked up his phone.

  “You still there?” he asked.

  “Yeah, what happened?”

  “I just dropped the phone, sorry.” He took another steadying breath.

  “You realize, boss, that if Louise was abducted, then you’ve probably been getting text messages from our unsub.”

  She was right. And he knew it. It explained why neither of them had contacted him after they left last night like they were supposed to. It explained why she hadn’t returned any of his calls today. It explained why none of the text messages had any of her nicknames for him that she usually used.

  Not one message had called him ‘Shakey’.

  “But if Miss Kai’s sins weren’t bad enough, what sins could Louise possibly have that are so bad?”

  Shakespeare grabbed his forehead as he hung his head between his knees.

  “She’s the one who survived,” he whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  Shakespeare fought to maintain control of his voice.

  “Her husband died at the World Trade Center. He was a firefighter.”

  “You mean—”

  Shakespeare could barely bring himself to say it.

  “She’s the widow of a dead hero.”

  He couldn’t stifle the cry that escaped him as he pictured the previous victims.

  ELEVEN

  Fiona held the kitchen knife over her head, ready to stab anyone or anything she might find. She yanked open the closet and plunged the knife into the mess of jackets and outerwear, her arm repeatedly flailing, cries turning into rapid screams with each thrust as they came quicker and quicker, her hand not yet acknowledging what her mind already knew.

  No one was in the closet.

  Finally calming down, slightly, she stopped stabbing her fall jackets and stepped back. A light switch beckoned and she jumped for it, pressing it, the satisfying click followed by a flood of light in the tiny entrance. Suddenly she sprinted into her living area, rounding the entire apartment, turning on every light, the radio, the television, the stereo, finally ending in her bathroom, her frenzy ended finally by a closed shower curtain.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, slamming like a double-bass drum, her pulse roaring through her ears. Almost on autopilot she reached forward with her left hand, her right hand raised high, the knife in a death grip that whitened her knuckles. She grabbed hold of the curtain, then with a deep breath, she yanked it aside.

  And screamed.

  “Shakes, are you okay?”

  Trace felt the tightness in her chest; empathy for what her partner was going through causing her eyes to tear, the anguished cry she had heard heartbreaking.

  What would I do if I heard something like this had happened to Mark?

  Strangely she didn’t feel she’d have the same reaction.

&
nbsp; And that wasn’t good.

  Maybe you’re not ready for marriage.

  If she couldn’t imagine herself feeling the same as Shakespeare apparently felt right now, she shouldn’t be with Mark. It had been a year and yet she still wasn’t close enough to imagine herself feeling the pain that Shakespeare felt.

  That’s not right.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Still nothing, but her mind kept racing at the revelation. Was it just the sex? It couldn’t be. There had to be more there than that. She knew he loved her, there was no doubt about it. He said it all the time.

  But had she?

  She couldn’t remember. I must have said it. But as she thought about it harder, she realized she probably hadn’t. Sure there were lots of me too’s and I know’s, but never an I love you too. Did she love him? She missed him when he wasn’t there, but only for a few days, then she enjoyed having her space back. Was this the curse of a long distance, infrequent relationship? The ability to communicate when it was convenient for you, the ability to ignore a message or phone call with impunity because you would rather watch television? And then when you felt horny enough, you’d hop in your car for a booty call?

  That wasn’t a relationship.

  What Shakes and Louise had was a relationship. Maybe you just need more time? But they would never get more time together. It was stupid. He was in the Army and could be sent anywhere in the world at any time, and would never be stationed in New York City. And she had no interest in giving up her job, her career. She had worked too hard too long to get to where she was, and she wasn’t about to give that up to be a cop in some small town attached to a military base.

  She pressed the phone tight to her ear, but could only hear the roar of white noise, plus the occasional snippet of conversation, a syllable here or there.

  At least there are no sounds of panic.

  With Shakespeare, she worried that this kind of news could trigger a heart attack. She knew diabetes lead to heart disease. Her own mother had had an attack a couple of years ago. She had been shocked. Women don’t have heart attacks! When she Googled it in her panic, she realized how wrong she was.

  Her mind drifted back to Mark. She should end it when he got back. It wasn’t fair to him. It hadn’t really occurred to her that she would have to move since it had never really crossed her mind that this was anything more than a fling. A wonderful, exciting fling, but a fling nonetheless.

  Or maybe he’ll leave the military and come here?

  She brightened at that idea. She wouldn’t have to give up her career and he could start a new one here, perhaps join the force. She’d have to float the idea, but not until he came back from his tour. The last thing she wanted was him worried and distracted while in harm’s way.

  There was a scraping sound then a cacophony of noise.

  “You still there?”

  She sighed in relief.

  “Yes, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just—” He paused.

  The pain the poor guy must be going through.

  “Okay, I have to go pick up Tommy. I’ll meet you back at the precinct.”

  “Fine, I’ll finish up here and see you in a few. And Shakes”—she paused a moment, searching for the right words—“we’ll find her. She’ll be okay.”

  A heavy sigh, replaced with a burst of static, replied.

  “I’ll see you in the pit. Call the others.”

  The call ended and she was about to put her phone back in its holder when it vibrated. She looked at the call display and her eyebrows raced up her forehead.

  Lipton, Fiona.

  Louise gasped, the sensation of drowning unmistakable. Instinctively she tried to push up, through the water, forcing her head to the surface of wherever she was, the question of how she got there not yet crossing her mind. She felt the water flow over her skin, then her head hit something.

  Hard.

  She tried to reach up to touch her head, but she couldn’t—something was holding her arm in place. She tried the other and she realized they were fastened together, behind her back.

  Her heart slammed into her chest as the memories flooded back. The restaurant, leaving with Aynslee, getting in the car—

  We didn’t get in the car!

  The man, walking up behind Aynslee, his expressionless face more menacing than any Halloween mask could hope to achieve, his hand extended, holding something. Her terrified warning trapped in her throat as Aynslee was grabbed and something sprayed at her.

  She remembered ducking, then turning to run, but he was too quick. He had rounded the front of the car before she had a chance to make it five feet. Her arm still ached from where he had grabbed her, yanking her toward him. The last thing she remembered was staring into his cold, dark eyes, then the mist that clouded, and ended, her vision.

  Her lungs burned and her heart pounded in her ears as she realized she was holding her breath. She pushed for the surface again, dropping her hips and thrusting her shoulders back, and again hit her head. It was then she noticed the contraption in her mouth, and realized what it must be.

  She exhaled a burst of stale air, then sucked in a lungful of what she prayed wouldn’t be water, and was rewarded with the sweet taste of fresh air. She gasped several more breaths in and out, her pounding heart slowly settling as the panic of drowning began to subside.

  But where am I?

  She looked around but could see nothing. It was completely black. She could feel the bindings biting into her wrists, and quickly determined her ankles were also bound.

  Shakey, help me!

  Her chest tightened as a wave of self-pity washed over her.

  Why me? What did I do to deserve this?

  And it hit her, something in her own self-absorbed fear she had forgotten completely about.

  Aynslee!

  Her thoughts turned to the poor, young girl, who had been through so much lately. Three times in as many months, abducted and nearly killed. It had to be too much for any one person to handle.

  She’s strong. Stronger than you.

  Again her chest tightened and she began to sob, her chest heaving, the sound mere grunts echoing through a hollow tube.

  “Let me tell you why you’re here.”

  It was a whisper, breathy, with almost no throat to it. And it was loud and clear, in her ears, not muffled by the water.

  How is that possible?

  Then she felt it. A slight pinching in each ear.

  Headphones!

  “You are special. Different from the others.”

  It was a man’s voice, but the way he spoke, this whisper, was as a lover would whisper in their partner’s ear. There was no anger, no malice, simple words, as if he meant no harm.

  Then why the hell am I here?

  “There had been six. There were always supposed to be seven, but that was stolen from me by a man whose soul has since been redeemed. It took a long time for this rogue act to be seen for what it was, a blasphemous attempt at revenge, rather than the sanctified cleansing I perform. Five long years before I could start again, and two nights ago, I completed the cleansing of seven souls so they may be reunited with their loved ones, and balance restored.

  “But you are special. Your loved one was lost so long ago, you have moved on, and found a new love. But you carry on this relationship in sin, with a sinful partner, while selfishly ignoring the needs of your son, born in holy matrimony, in deference to your own carnal pleasures. You have sinned, Louise Carmichael, and today you will be either cleansed, and reunited with your loved one, or not, condemned to eternity in the fires of Hell.

  “But the choice will be yours, but not yours alone. You will be judged against another, and whoever proves more worthy in the eyes of the Lord, shall be redeemed. Rejoice, Louise Carmichael, for the Lord loves you, and he has given you a second chance. Rejoice, Louise Carmichael, for today is your day of redemption.”

  Shakey!

  Fiona huddled in the corner of h
er room where she could see out into the living area. Every light blazed, every device that could spewed a mix of sounds, drowning out any horrors that may lurk in hiding places she had yet to think of.

  But she could still hear the phone ringing in her ear.

  “Trace.” There was a pause. “Fiona, is that you?”

  Fiona sucked in a deep breath for a moment of self-control.

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “M-my apartment.”

  “Are you safe?”

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m n-not sure. But he was here. Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Is he gone?”

  “Yes. I-I think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, I mean, yes.” She stopped, then screamed, “Get me the fuck out of here!”

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can, but I’m going to send a unit over right away.”

  Fiona gasped a cry into her hand then bit her finger, the pain distracting her from the panic that threatened to consume her. She heard the detective yelling orders to someone, then the sound of a man’s voice on a radio.

  “Someone will be there in a few minutes. Don’t let them in, they’ll just stay by the door. They’ll knock to let you know they’re there, but they won’t ask to come in, understood?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Don’t open the door for anyone but me, understood?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.”

  “Wait! I have a message for you.”

  There was a pause.

  “From who?”

  Fiona stopped. That’s a good question.

  “I knew him as Jeff. He’s the one who kidnapped me.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “He said to tell you to look in the van.”

  “What?”

  Fiona shrugged. “That’s it. He said to look in the van. Do you know what he means?”

  “Yeah, I think I do.” The response was slow, as if the detective was unsure. “Okay, you sit tight, I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Wait!” yelped Fiona as she realized she had forgotten the most important thing.