Fiona nodded.
She patted Randy on the back. “Good luck!”
Randy took a seat across from Fiona as Trace headed back into the pit, painfully aware that Tommy’s furtive glances were now split between her and the young twenty-something hottie now in the same room as him.
Youth is wasted on the young.
“So, what’s going on?”
Shakespeare waved her over. “Got a delivery from our killer.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Really? Not another body, I hope?”
Shakespeare grunted a laugh, his stomach bouncing. “Nope, just the gun he stole, a confession letter, and a tape of Carl Gray’s final moments.”
“Not—” She didn’t want to say it, but Shakespeare shook his head.
“No, not that. His confession as told to one Fiona Lipton.”
“Really? That’s kind of convenient.”
“Yup, I already texted the ADA and told her the news. She’s about to have a press conference so now she’ll be able to announce who the real murderer was, and that Wayne Cooper is completely innocent.”
Trace pursed her lips. “Not sure how I feel about that.”
Shakespeare’s head bobbed. “Yeah, I know what you mean, but I think that woman has been abusing that kid sexually since the day he hit puberty.”
Trace had to admit he was probably right. His arrest probably was just a cry for help. He hadn’t done anything, hadn’t touched the girl he apparently propositioned, and hadn’t left the scene. It had to be. A desperate attempt to escape the abuse he had suffered for so many years.
Trace sighed. “Not sure there’s anything we can do about that without a complainant.”
“Yeah. Makes you kind of wish this Redeemer guy set his sights on her.”
“Redeemer?”
“Yeah. Read the letter, it’s a doozy. Nonkoh has it.”
Shakespeare reached down and pulled his flashing phone off his hip. “Excuse me a minute.”
She walked over to Nonkoh as Shakespeare read the message he had received. “I understand you have some required reading material?”
Nonkoh stood up and led her to his desk. “Arrived about an hour and a half ago,” he said, showing her the evidence bags holding the box, the gun and the letter.
She picked up the letter and began to read it as Justin walked by. He leaned over and said something to the boy, then walked briskly out of the office.
I wonder where’s he’s off to in such a hurry?
But her mind was dragged back to the sickening logic of a serial killer, the confession in his mind justifying all his actions. She pointed at one sentence.
“He says six were saved when he was saved.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, all of our husbands died heroes, saving others. Do we have any that saved seven?”
Nonkoh’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God, could it be that simple?”
Trace wasn’t sure ‘simple’ was the right word, not after everything they had gone through, but she cut the kid some slack. Nonkoh was already flipping through the files, then looked up with a smile.
“I think we’ve got him!”
Trace looked at the file.
Janet Dominguez’s husband had died saving seven men in an industrial accident.
“What’s that?”
Cooper looked up at his mother, lowering the thick slice of tender, juicy gooiness from his mouth as she entered from the adjoining room. His stomach, grumbling in anticipation of his favorite guilty pleasure, growled again in protest.
“Pizza.”
He raised the slice to his mouth.
“Where’d you get it?”
He lowered the slice again, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know.” Again he raised it to his mouth, his stomach nearly screaming for satisfaction.
“What do you mean you don’t know? How the hell does a pizza just show up in your room without you knowing?” She stood in front of him now, in all her glory, hands on her hips.
He tried to avoid looking at her, his hunger almost fleeing in fear of the sight before him.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
He looked up at her, tears threatening to burst forth.
“Where did you get the pizza?” She leaned forward with each word.
He looked away, and she reached forward, grabbing him by the chin and twisting his head back toward her.
“Where!” she yelled.
“It was just delivered. I didn’t order it!” he cried as he dropped the slice back into the box. A lone tear spilled out and ran down his cheek to the end of his chin, then dripped onto the now forgotten slice.
“Stop crying! You know I hate it when you cry!” she yelled, grabbing the pizza box from him. She strode to her own room, still yelling. “You don’t deserve pizza. Besides, you’re getting fat, and you know I don’t like fat men!”
She slammed the door and Cooper lay back down on his bed, hugging his pillow, trying to stifle the sobs that heaved from his chest.
I wish I were dead.
“We need those names!”
Nonkoh gave her a look, and Trace knew she had to back off. “Sorry, Harold, I’m just antsy.” And she knew why. She had tried to call Shakespeare half a dozen times, and there was no answer, and no reply to her texts. And with Louise missing, the pit in her stomach told her he was off playing the hero, with no one knowing where he was.
Granite!
She grabbed her phone and dialed Frank.
“Frank, number one priority. I need you to get a list of all the granite companies, countertop, sculpting, anything that might use granite, in and around the city, then cross check that against a list that Nonkoh is going to be sending you any minute”—she dropped her head slightly and gave Nonkoh a look, her target waving her off with a flick of his wrist as he leafed through page after page of the thick file—“and let me know what you find.”
“Every company? That could be hundreds, thousands!”
“It’s the best lead we’ve got. If I’m right, Louise is being held there, and Shakes is doing his white knight thing.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
The phone went dead and Trace stood up as she saw Aynslee Kai walk in with her escort of two uniforms.
“Got it!” yelled Nonkoh.
Trace spun on her heel and jabbed a finger in the air at him. “Send that to Frank right now, then start Googling the names and granite kitchen installers, sculptors, anything!”
He nodded and furiously began typing an email.
“That’s the guy!” exclaimed Fiona as the sketch artist held up the drawing for her to see. Trace looked over and pointed at it.
“That’s your john?”
“Yeah, he said his name was Jeff.”
“That’s Ken Crawford,” said Aynslee, stepping forward.
Trace felt like she was watching a tennis match as her head swung toward the reporter.
“What?”
“That’s Ken Crawford,” repeated Aynslee. “He’s the father of one of the victims, Janet Dominguez. I interviewed him yesterday as part of our coverage of the acquittal.”
Trace grabbed the sketch pad. “You’re telling me that this man”—she jabbed the sketch—“is Ken Crawford, the father of Janet Dominguez.”
Aynslee nodded. “Absolutely, there’s no doubt.”
Trace flashed a smile toward Nonkoh who was already leafing through the file. “Already on it.”
“But—”
She turned back to Aynslee. “But?”
“Well, I received an email from somebody saying that Ken Crawford isn’t Ken Crawford.”
“Huh?”
Aynslee pulled her phone from her purse and hit a few buttons, handing it over to Trace. Trace’s eyebrows shot up as she read the email.
“Urgent re Wayne Cooper Coverage, I watched your interview tonight and I wanted to let you know that the man claiming to be Ken Crawford is NOT Ken Crawford. Ken was one of my best friends, and
we served in Vietnam together. I met his daughter, and even attended her funeral. Ken wasn’t there, because he had died three months before from stomach cancer. I repeat, that man you interviewed is an imposter! Please contact me for proof if you want it.”
Trace looked up, her jaw muscles having failed her.
“Are you kidding me?”
Aynslee shrugged. “I just got it, so haven’t had time to verify the claim, but there’s a photo attached that shows him with a man that definitely isn’t Ken Crawford, and a girl who looks an awful lot like Janet.”
Trace grabbed her chair blindly then dropped in it.
“So this entire time, one of The Seven has been an imposter, and none of us knew it.”
“Shocked me when I read it,” said Aynslee. She pointed to a chair and Trace nodded. Aynslee situated herself then her eyebrows popped. “Did I hear you say something about granite?”
Trace’s heart leapt as the realization another corner piece to the puzzle was about to drop into place.
“Yes,” she said, drawing out the word.
“Well, Ken Crawford owned a custom kitchen center. He said it went out of business because he couldn’t focus on the work. Part of his answer to my question of how the death of his daughter had affected him.”
But Trace wasn’t listening any more. She dialed Frank, who answered on the second ring.
“Forget everything. Search business records for Ken Crawford owning a granite shop, kitchen place, design center, I don’t care. Something that might involve granite.”
“On it.”
She killed the call and dialed Shakespeare. It went straight to voicemail.
Where the hell are you, Shakes?
“Turn on your radio!”
The voice over the speakers in the Suburban cut out with a burst of static as their lookout yelled into the phone. Stephen Russell reached forward and hit the button.
“What station?”
“Any news station.”
Russell made a selection, and what sounded like a press conference came on.
“Turn it up,” said Rebecca Sorenson, leaning forward.
Russell complied, and they all listened in silence.
“—to reiterate, we now have a taped confession, among other evidence, confirming that Sandra Gray was not murdered by Mr. Cooper, but by Carl Gray, Sandra’s husband. This was apparently in retaliation for an affair she was having. Mr. Gray has been found murdered himself this afternoon, we believe by the murderer of the other seven women in this case.
“Let me be clear. Mr. Cooper is no longer a suspect in any crime under investigation by this office. He has my sincere apologies for what has happened to him. Let me also state that he was convicted by a jury of his peers, not due to wrongdoing by this office, but due to evidence planted at the scene to incriminate him, by the late Mr. Gray.
“As of today, the investigation into Mr. Cooper is terminated, and we will be wrapping up the Sandra Gray murder. As to the other murd—”
Russell stabbed the control, turning off the radio.
“He’s innocent!” he gasped.
“Bullshit!” yelled Sorenson. “No fuckin’ way!”
“But you just heard what she said, they have a confession!”
Sorenson sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. Could it be true? Could Wayne Cooper, the vile piece of rancid meat she had focused five years of hate toward, be innocent? She wanted to scream ‘impossible!’, but there it was, on the radio, clear as day.
A lump formed in her throat, and her mouth began to water.
“What have we done?” she whispered.
Russell whipped around from the passenger seat. “We? You did it! You poisoned him!”
“Fuck you!” she yelled. “We all agreed. Besides, you supplied the poison! If anyone accuses me of doing this alone, I’m taking you down with me!”
“You’ll never prove that.”
“Like hell I won’t!”
“Quiet!” roared the voice from the speakers. “We have a decision to make.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” yelled Russell.
“Do we try to save Cooper’s life?”
There was silence.
Sorenson knew it was the right thing to do, but it was probably too late. How long had it been? She glanced at her watch. “It’s been fifteen minutes. Isn’t it too late?”
Russell shook his head. “No, if we get to him within the first thirty to sixty minutes, we can deliver an antidote.”
“And where are we getting that from?”
“I have it with me.”
“You’ve got it?”
Russell nodded. “Yeah, I brought some just in case one of us got accidentally poisoned.”
“We have to go back,” said Kara Long as she pulled a U-turn.
“Wait!” yelled Russell. “We’ll go to jail!”
“So, we’re talking about murder here!”
Sorenson looked out the window. “Murder of a pedophile,” she mumbled.
“What was that?” asked the speaker.
“Murder of a pedophile,” she said louder, turning toward the overhead microphone. “Okay, you hear me? Murder of a pedophile. A murder that right now nobody knows we committed, and nobody will ever know we committed, as long as we all keep our mouths shut, and stick to our story. We were together all night, at your house, and nobody can prove otherwise.”
“That’s true,” said the voice, less than crystal clear. “There’s lights on, cars in the driveway, recorded conversation going. I even had food for six delivered. Our alibi is rock solid.”
“Then we continue as planned,” said Russell. “There’s no way I’m going to jail for murder, or attempted murder. Not of a pedophile. We thought we were killing a murderer. We thought we were delivering justice. It’s not our fault the police got it wrong, is it?”
Long pulled over to the side of the road and turned around. “He’s right. It’s not like we thought we were killing an innocent person here. We all thought he was a murderer!”
Sorenson nodded. “And like Stephen said, he’s a pedophile, so it’s not like he’s an innocent man. You know those pedophiles, they get caught once, but they’ve probably done it dozens of times. For all we know, he could be raping some little girl right now!”
“Is it agreed?” asked Russell.
Sorenson nodded her head, as did Long. “Agreed,” they echoed, as did the rest of the SUV.
She looked at the microphone. “Ken? What do you say?”
There was a pause.
“I say you’ve made the wrong decision, and your souls need redemption.”
Rebecca heard a ripping sound, as if Hell itself were tearing through the fabric of the universe, a claw of evil reaching from the depths and grabbing at their souls, determined to yank them down with it, followed by a flash of heat and flame erupting from the floor, searing her clothes to her skin. She sucked in a breath to scream but her lungs melted from the heat, a blowtorch of divine redemption for what they had done, her final thoughts an echo of what she had just heard the voice of Ken Crawford say.
You’ve made the wrong decision, and your souls need redemption.
Something’s not right.
Shakespeare wasn’t sure what, he just knew something wasn’t right. It was pitch black, and he was floating. A shot of panic fueled adrenaline pumped into his system as the thought of a diabetic coma filled his mind with images of lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines, trapped inside a body that wouldn’t respond.
His heart pumped harder and he felt his chest tighten. I thought you weren’t supposed to know you were in a coma? The rush of blood filled his ears as he screamed. Wake up! He thrashed in his unconscious state, struggled against the forces holding him against his will, this disease that had finally taken him, condemning him to an existence where his mind functioned, but his body didn’t, unaware even of his surroundings, his caregivers unaware that he was still alive inside that shell of a man, that shell
wasting away until finally it passed on to the next life.
A life he desperately wanted to begin now.
Wake up!
He tried to punch something, then realized he couldn’t move his hands. Why can’t I move my hands? But the answer was obvious. You can’t move your physical body, so you can’t move your imaginary body. His chest tightened even more as his heart rate ticked even higher. This can’t be happening!
“Do you know why you are here?”
A voice. Cutting through the roaring in his ears. A doctor? The thought gave him hope. If he could hear somebody, maybe he could wake up. Or maybe you’ll be condemned to hear the cries of your parents, at your bedside for months or years, as you waste away, unable to respond.
He held his breath at a thought.
Louise!
“Do you know why you are here?”
Everything flooded back. Getting in his car. Driving to the address he had been texted. Entering the phone booth as instructed. Waiting for a call. The door to the booth opening. The mist in his face.
Then nothing.
You’re not dead. You’re in the same thing Fiona Lipton described.
His heart began to settle as he realized he wasn’t in a coma, he wasn’t doomed to a lifetime unable to communicate.
But the lifetime he now had left might be short, unless he could figure a way out. He struggled against his bonds, his feet and hands failing to break free despite his best efforts. Now he realized what Carl Gray had gone through. He must have been in here for hours, then the water drained away so he could bargain for his own life with another victim.
And he knew who his partner in this would be.
Louise.
“You are here to restore balance. Your sins are too great to do this on your own. I won’t bother to list them, as you know them, and I won’t bother to list your partner’s, as you know her, and you know her sins. You have a choice. You have one hour of air left, and it is shared between the two of you. There is a button to your right. Press it, and you will have redeemed yourself.
“But be warned, your partner has been given the same instructions, and she too has the option to press her own button. The one who presses the button first, will be redeemed in the eyes of the Lord.”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 23