Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1)

Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #1) Page 7

by J. Robert Kennedy

Eldridge sat at his desk, reading the files on Logan Rochester and Aaron Davidson. It was early morning, his favorite time to work in the squad room. With much of the night shift still out on calls and the day shift not yet in, it was mostly quiet, allowing him to get some actual work done. He preferred being out in the field, chasing down leads, putting the murderers in jail, but unfortunately a big chunk of police work was mundane, involving paper and computers, and requiring a desk. Apparently with an uncomfortable chair. He eyed the orthopedic, donut stained chair across from him, his partner having put in for one with a doctor’s note claiming sciatica. How the hell can you be on duty with sciatica? He squirmed in his wooden chair, the resulting creak loud enough to reach back in time to the Barney Miller set it was probably featured on.

  Comfort proving futile, he leaned forward and pulled up the video the two boys had made. The attack was brutal, young Patricia Arnette not standing a chance. The fact almost a dozen able-bodied onlookers watched while it happened was sickening. The attack had lasted for several minutes, two and a half of those caught on Logan Rochester's camera phone. And when the final deathblow was delivered, his laughter and that of his friend capped off a true low point in human indifference. Thirty-two year old Patricia was dead. Her parents without their daughter, her brothers without their sister, her husband without a wife and most tragic, her thirteen month old baby without a mother.

  The crime’s most horrid aspect though wasn’t the beating itself, nor was it the fact the onlookers had just watched and let her be murdered. It was the aftermath. Within hours Logan and Aaron had uploaded the video, with a commentary added that would go down in the history of depravity, describing in detail how excited they had felt to see someone murdered in front of their eyes and laughing at the sound the poor girl's head had made when the skull was crushed under the boot of one of her assailants. By that evening over seventy five thousand downloads had occurred. The next day it had made the local morning news and the national evening news, resulting in tens of millions of downloads over the coming weeks.

  But it didn't stop there, the sad state of today's society further brought to the forefront by people creating spoofs of the video. People recorded their own intros, outros and soundtracks. They set it to music and laugh tracks, these deplorable clips downloaded millions more times. The lone good to come out of the publicity was the prompt capture of the two killers now awaiting trial at Rikers Island. The family of Patricia had pressed the District Attorney to identify the passengers on the train and charge them, but he refused, saying a jury would never convict, considering they would have most likely stood by themselves.

  Society was scared.

  Or did they just not care?

  Well, somebody cares. Somebody cares enough to kill those who let Patricia be killed.

  Eldridge closed his laptop and headed to the stairwell, the sound of Patricia’s skull cracking playing over and over in his mind, like a skipping record. With each step he took, the crack got louder in his mind, the snap of his shoes on the tile echoing through the stairwell, the laughter, the screams, the inaction overwhelming him. He stopped. What was it about this case that was affecting him so much? Was it that he might do the same? What would he do if he thought justice wasn’t being served? Would he take it into his own hands like someone else obviously had? The opening of a door on the landing below ended his thoughts and he continued his descent. It didn’t matter what he might do, he knew what he had to do. Murder was illegal. And he was a cop.

  End of discussion.

  “How's that hospital surveillance video coming?”

  Frank Brata, one of NYPD’s young but brilliant techs, looked up from his workstation and smiled when he saw who it was. “Good morning, Detective Eldridge!” Eldridge was one of Frank’s favorites to deal with. He didn’t understand computers very well, but he was younger than most others he dealt with on a regular basis, and at least he felt he could relate to him at some level. Not that they’d be hanging out, zooming chicks any time soon. Okay, maybe he’s a little bit older than me. He pointed at one of his machines in the corner. “It'll take some time. I'm using some software developed for NASA to piece the common pixels from multiple frames together—”

  Eldridge raised his hand to stop him. “Sorry, Frank, I don't speak geek. When will it be done?”

  Frank laughed. Coming from Eldridge, he wasn’t offended for some reason. “It'll have to go overnight, and there's no guarantee it'll come up with anything recognizable.”

  “Okay then, while you're waiting for your computer to do its magic, I've got something else I need you to do for me.”

  “Sure, what is it?” Hopefully something cool!

  “Remember that subway video from last year where the girl was beaten to death?”

  Frank nodded, the images from that video fresh in his mind. “Shit, how could anyone forget that? It was on pretty much every news cast and talk show for a month!”

  “Do you know if we have the original video of that?”

  “Yup, actually have the cell phone it was recorded on.”

  “Excellent. I want blowups of every person's face that was on that subway that got caught on tape.”

  “Way ahead of you, Detective.” He hit a few keys and an image of William “Lance” Hanson, shielding his face, appeared. “The DA has me working on that already what with the case coming up and everything. I've got a bunch running through the software now, they should all be done over the next few days. This is the first one that’s finished.”

  “Okay, send that to me and then the rest as you pull them, I'll have my cell with me.”

  “Where else would it be?” Frank spun back in his chair and began attacking his keyboard as Eldridge left the lab. He sent the image to Eldridge’s phone then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, a daydream of him and Eldridge in a gun fight morphed into him being Eldridge. Frank sighed. Maybe then I could get a date. He fired up World of Warcraft, then thought better of it.

  Eldridge found the same familiar chaos in the hospital reception area, as if the explosion the night before had never taken place, the final body count of six, including Ibrahim Jamar, already a thing of the past. Arriving on the fifth floor, he was pleased to see the previous night’s vigil had cleared out, a good indicator Foster was no longer in danger. He asked the duty-nurse in ICU to page the doctor then took a seat, leafing through an impossibly old Reader’s Digest. After a few minutes the surgeon from the night before arrived, looking exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes adding ten years to his face. Eldridge rose from his chair and approached him.

  “Hi, Doc, how's he doing?”

  The surgeon looked at him blankly for a moment before remembering who he was. “Officer Foster? Quite well.” He yawned. “I’m sorry, Detective, I caught your friend’s case at the end of my shift, didn’t want to leave until I was sure he was going to be okay.”

  “And, is he?”

  The surgeon nodded. “We'll need to keep him here for a few more days and he'll have months of rehab, but he should make a full recovery. He's very lucky.”

  Eldridge smiled. “That's great to hear. Can I speak to him?”

  “Just for a few minutes and only if he's awake,” he cautioned, stifling another yawn. “He needs his rest. And so do I.” He pointed down the hall. “Room Five-Forty-Two. Now I’m going to go catch some shut-eye.” He shuffled toward a different hallway as Eldridge chuckled.

  “Thanks again, Doc.” He found Foster’s room and, looking in, saw he wasn’t alone, a small Asian woman held his hand, a concerned look on her face. Foster, almost as white as the bandages wrapped around most of his upper torso, was hooked to several machines tracking his vitals, as well as an IV drip. He took a sip from a plastic cup the woman held to his mouth. Eldridge glanced at her left hand and noticed an engagement ring. Fiancée? Then what was that business with the nurse?

  Foster’s eyes opened slightly wider when he saw Eldridge at the door. “Detective, come in.” The voice
was weak, but Eldridge detected a hint of its former strength, the slight curl to the sides of his lips suggesting a sense of excitement at his arrival.

  “Good morning, Foster.” Eldridge smiled and entered the room, nodding to the young woman. “I just wanted to see how you were, and if you're feeling up to it, ask you a few questions.”

  His fiancée stood and faced Eldridge, creating a barrier between herself and her husband-to-be. “Can't this wait until he's stronger?” she asked, her thick accent not diminishing the determination in her voice.

  Wouldn’t want to get in a fight with her. “I’ll be brief, ma’am,” reassured Eldridge. “I promise.” He put on his best smile in an attempt to disarm her. It didn’t work.

  Foster patted her hand. “It's okay, Mahal, it's all part of the job.” She frowned but sat back down, holding his hand even tighter than before. “Forgive my fiancée, Detective. She’s just concerned, that’s all.”

  “Of course.” Eldridge extended his hand to her. “I’m Hayden Eldridge, ma’am. I wish we had met under better circumstances.”

  She eyed his hand for a moment then shook it. “Esperanza.”

  Eldridge approached the bed so Foster wouldn’t have to raise his voice. “Tell me what happened.”

  Foster took a deep breath. “Well, I was in the hallway, watching the door like you told me to when I heard a shot from inside the room where the witness was.” He paused for a moment, his breathing labored.

  “Take your time,” said Eldridge, realizing the kid hadn’t had a chance to tell his side yet and as any good cop with important information to share, wanted to get it into the right hands as quickly as possible.

  Foster nodded then continued, this time slightly more relaxed. “Well, almost immediately there were two more shots so I drew my weapon, entered the room and tried to identify the shooter. I heard another two shots that sounded like they were coming from above. I saw a ceiling tile move so I fired two shots into the ceiling ducts and I think I heard a ricochet just before the explosion. I grabbed Mrs. Jamar and her daughter, got them out of there, and that's when I noticed I’d been hit.”

  Eldridge nodded, noticing Foster appeared to be a couple of shades paler than when he walked into the room. Better wrap this up quick. “Did you see anyone suspicious in the hallway before?”

  “No, not that I recall.”

  “Someone was seen leaving the service closet down the hall after the explosion. Did you see him?”

  Foster thought for a moment. “No, certainly not after the explosion, I was pretty out of it once I realized I had a hunk of piping in my back.” His fiancée winced and squeezed his hand.

  Eldridge chuckled. “Well, Foster, you did a hell of a job last night. I spoke with Mrs. Jamar and she wanted me to personally thank you for saving her life and that of her daughter.”

  Foster smiled, modesty injecting a hint of red into his ghostly pale cheeks. “Nothing doing. If you see her, tell her I'm glad the two of them are okay and I'm sorry about her husband.” Foster gasped and turned pale.

  Eldridge stepped forward. “Are you okay? You want me to get the doctor?”

  Foster grimaced and shook his head. “No, it's fine,” he said, sounding much weaker than a moment ago. “I get these spasms of pain, it'll go away.”

  “He must rest now,” said his fiancée, her tone leaving no debate the interview was over. Eldridge thanked them both and left Foster to the ministrations of his partner.

  Aynslee lay on the couch of her small, Lower East Side apartment, sporting sweatpants and a Lululemon tee, happy she didn't have to impress anybody for the rest of the night. She stared at an episode of 24 she recorded on her TiVo the night before, but her mind wasn’t on the show. Instead, it jumped all over the place, inevitably returning to the same thing that had consumed her for days. Hayden Eldridge! She found herself daydreaming about him at work, in the shower, in bed and at this very moment, on the couch while watching TV. It's nothing more than a schoolgirl crush! But what was wrong with that? She hadn't been “with” anyone in over a year and hadn't seriously dated anyone in over three years. She was chronically single. Her career came first, often at the expense of her love life. She had a slew of first dates, very few second dates, and almost no third dates. Her BlackBerry ran her life.

  And the problem was her BlackBerry. As she thought about it she realized once the station had issued these to everybody, she was beholden to it. It accompanied her everywhere, a constant companion, truer than any dog could hope to be. It sat on the counter in the bathroom when she showered, it sat on her nightstand when she slept. If it went off, she would wake and answer it or read whatever message had come in. If she tried to turn it off she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She could hardly go to a movie anymore. By the time the movie was over she would be racing from the theatre to check her messages. Once she had forgotten it at her apartment and hadn't noticed until she arrived at work. She lasted thirty minutes before she had to return home to get it.

  It was crack.

  She couldn’t live without the damned thing. Looking at it, she growled in frustration. Her thumb hovered over the red power button. Do it! She did. Holding in the button, the screen flashed and the phone turned off. A sense of satisfaction filled her. She was in control, not the almighty BlackBerry. She threw it on the carpet and turned her attention back to Kiefer, her eyelids heavy. As she drifted off, Kiefer turned into Hayden, leaving a smile on her face as sleep took over. As she dreamt of Hayden saving her from a marauding terrorist, her BlackBerry kept vibrating, threatening to give away their position. As the terrorists closed positioning on them, the BlackBerry rang and she woke with a start. Looking down at the floor she saw it was still off. It's no use! She reached down and turned it back on. A few seconds later it vibrated, telling her a message had arrived. She opened it and saw the attachment.

  Not again!

  As Eldridge returned to the precinct his phone buzzed in his pocket with a message from Frank at the lab. The hat has a NerdTech logo on it. See attached. Stopped at a light, he opened the attachment and the enhanced photo clearly showed a stylized NerdTech logo, its annoying, grinning face unmistakable, everybody in the city probably seeing it at least once. And he knew exactly where he had seen it last. That guy was at reception when I first got there! Eldridge closed his eyes, trying to picture the man’s face. A horn honked at him from behind and he opened his eyes to see the light green. He waved at the driver who flipped him the bird. White, maybe five-eight. He slammed his fist into the steering wheel as he realized he had also come face-to-face with the man in the stairwell during the evacuation. He pulled a U-turn, eliciting several horn blasts and unflattering hand gestures, and headed back to the hospital. Weaving through traffic, he phoned Prentice who immediately answered. “I need you to check your footage for a NerdTech vehicle leaving your parking lots shortly after the suspect leaves the building. I'll be there in a few minutes.”

  Prentice’s “10-4” rumbled through the phone. Eldridge tossed the phone on the passenger seat and fought his way to the hospital he had only just left. Arriving more than a few minutes later, he bypassed the reception area chaos and headed directly to the security booth. Prentice greeted him and pointed toward a monitor. “Nothing yet,” he said. “We're looking at the footage of the parking garage exit.” They both leaned in, Prentice resting a massive hand splayed on the desk, the knuckles white with the strain of supporting his huge frame, as they watched vehicle after vehicle exit, none of which appeared to be a NerdTech vehicle. “Maybe he was driving his own private vehicle?”

  “Perhaps, but a major part of these guys' branding is their bright green vans with the geek on top. There's a good chance though that this guy has nothing to do with NerdTech and was just using the ball cap as a disguise.”

  Prentice straightened up from the desk he had been leaning on and crossed his arms. “That's most likely it,” he said, his tone indicating any more time spent on this issue would be a waste.


  Eldridge wasn’t sure. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what he had seen that night, and was almost positive the guy had a denim shirt with the NerdTech logo sewn on the pocket. “Wait, what's that?” Eldridge pointed to the screen.

  “What?”

  “Back it up slowly.” Prentice leaned in again and paused the image, backing it up frame-by-frame. “There, pause it.” Eldridge pointed at the bottom of the image. The roof of a vehicle filled the bottom of the screen, most of it out of the camera's view, but the smiling geek's profile was unmistakable. “NerdTech.”

  Prentice smiled. “Got him now.”

  Eldridge marveled at how quickly Prentice changed his view, but wasn’t as quick to proclaim victory.

  At least we have a lead that might actually lead somewhere.

  “And when was the last time you heard from her?”

  Trace sat at a dining room table, across from a very worried set of parents who had reported their daughter, Chelsie Birmingham, missing after waiting the requisite forty-eight hours. The initial investigation by uniformed officers had turned up nothing and had been bumped up to the detectives. She normally worked homicides or attempted homicides, but volunteered to take this case, what with every case she had been assigned this week having been handed over to Eldridge, and the detective squad already swamped. More often than not these turned out to be parental spats with the children, but she didn't think so in this case, since the daughter no longer lived with the parents, Shane and Melanie.

  Chelsie’s mother blew her chapped nose into yet another tissue, and looked at Trace, her red, swollen eyes betraying the hell she had been through the past several days. “Saturday evening on her way to the subway, just after her shift ended. She calls me every night, usually when she gets home but she said that she was feeling tired and was going to go straight to bed.”

  So far the mother had answered most of the questions. Trace turned her attention to Shane Birmingham. Though he didn’t have the obvious signs of grief so clearly displayed on his wife’s face, his vacant expression revealed a man who expected the worst, but was trying desperately to keep his fears from his wife. “Perhaps she was just making an excuse? Perhaps she was going to meet up with someone and she didn't want you to know?”

  Shane shook his head. “No, I doubt it. She was very focused on her schoolwork. She was taking classes whenever she could, working toward becoming a nurse.”

  “And the address you gave me earlier, how long has she lived there?”

  “About six months, she wanted some independence and we encouraged it. We were helping her with the rent, but we understood that for her to truly make a go of it on her own she needed her space.” Shane's voice cracked as he spoke, finally letting go, days of emotions he had kept suppressed for his wife’s sake, breaking through. “We should never have let her go,” he sobbed. His wife burst into tears again, her head collapsing into her hands on the table as her husband leaned on her shoulder from behind, crying with her.

  “It's a little premature to assume anything has happened,” Trace said, trying to reassure the distraught parents. “The bar she was working at, how long had she been there?”

  Shane lifted his head and took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. “About three months I think, she wanted to help pay the rent herself, said she felt obligated.”

  Trace nodded and stood, deciding there was nothing left to learn here, and that they had been through enough. “I'll look into this and keep you up to date with anything I find. In the meantime, try calling her friends, family, anyone you can think of. It could turn out to be something completely innocent, like a vacation she forgot to tell you about, road trip to Atlantic City with some friends. Any number of things.” She left the Birmingham residence knowing full well they weren't convinced.

  Aynslee sat in the back of a cab heading to her office, already on the phone with her producer, giving him the heads-up on the new video. “It's huge! Remember the explosion at the hospital the other night? Well, it was him!” She listened to her producer who at the moment sounded even more excited than her, then hung up the phone, looking impatiently at her new Boucheron watch, a gift to herself when she got her bonus yesterday.

  I'm glad we have an agreement.

  Eldridge's voice filled her head like a telltale heart. It had been driving her mad since the video arrived. Fine! She scrolled through her contact list, found the entry she had made for him earlier and called, relieved to get his voice mail. Her focus wavered as she listened to his voice, lost in a daydream about what she might say if they were dating. Hi, hon, how are you? The beep yanked her back to the real world. “Oh, ah, hi, this is Aynslee. How are you?” She cringed. “Sorry, Aynslee Kai, I, ah, just wanted to let you know that I got another video, sooo, if you want to come see me, see it I mean, then please feel free to come down to the station. Any time. I'll be there waiting for you. Well, not for you, but I'll be there. Or you can call me at home if you want. Well, I'm sure you'll get this before that. Can't wait to see you, bye!” She hung up. Did I just say “Can't wait to see you”? She smacked her forehead and let out a groan. You might as well have said, “Hi, this is Aynslee and I just find you dreamy! If you asked me to the dance I'd say yes!” She laughed out loud.

  “You okay, miss?”

  She looked at the cabby and nodded, stifling another laugh.

  Eldridge’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket as he merged into traffic, forcing him to let the call go to voice mail. It vibrated again a minute later indicating a message. Safely in the flow, he dialed into his voice mail and listened to Aynslee Kai's awkward message. That woman is in waaay over her head. He had been battling traffic for almost thirty minutes trying to reach the NerdTech offices in Manhattan, and was almost there. She’ll have to wait. En route, the second photo from the subway had arrived on his phone. He didn't recognize the man but sent a message back to Frank to tell him to contact the case officer to see if any passengers had been identified during their initial investigation.

  Lucking into a spot on a side street, Eldridge walked past several food vendors. The aroma of sausages and French fries that filled the air, along with the sizzle from the grills, triggered a Pavlovian response from his stomach. It growled. He beelined for a nearby vendor when he flashed on an image of his face with his partner's gut. He shuddered. I can wait. His stomach protested, indicating it couldn’t. Eldridge marched toward the NerdTech building, popping a breath mint in his mouth to try and stem the hunger.

  His stomach growled harder.

  Entering the impressive marble lobby, he scanned the directory and found NerdTech had the entire twelfth floor. He boarded an elevator and by the eighth floor he and a young woman in a smart business suit remained. His stomach rumbled. Loudly.

  She looked at him and smiled. “You should feed that thing,” she said, a sly look on her face as she looked him up and down.

  Eldridge wasn’t sure what to say. “I will.”

  The bell chimed for the eleventh floor and the doors opened. She pulled a business card from her purse and stuffed it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, running her finger slowly down his chest toward his stomach. “Does it like blondes?”

  His stomach growled.

  She smiled and exited the elevator.

  The doors closed behind her and Eldridge laughed. Vinny will hate me for this one.

  The elevators opened to a striking reception area, marble flooring and columns clashed with steel and glass, fusing the modern with the classic. In the room’s center sat the reception desk and behind it, through glass with a large NerdTech logo smoked into it, Eldridge glimpsed what appeared to be hundreds of people answering phones. A striking young woman greeted him, her Hollywood white smile further enhanced by her deeply tanned skin, her nameplate proudly announcing Tracy Oswald was a Front Office Coordinator, not a receptionist.

  “Welcome to NerdTech,” she bubbled. “How can I help you today?”

  Eldridge flashed his badge. “I'm
Detective Eldridge, Homicide. I need to talk to somebody who can help me track one of your vans.”

  “Ummm, you probably want to talk to Mr. Gupta.” She hit a button on her phone. “Mr. Gupta to reception please.” She hung up and a moment later her voice echoed over the intercom system. She pointed toward a waiting area nearby. “Please have a seat. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

  Eldridge shook his head as he walked to what appeared to be very expensive Italian leather couches. “No thanks.” He sank into the plush couch, the gentle sigh it made echoed in his head as he remembered the uncomfortable chair at the office. Leaning back, he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations as the soft leather enveloped his body, the rich aroma filling his nostrils. He let himself relax for a moment, then returned to the man from the stairwell. No matter how hard he tried to remember what the man looked like, he kept drawing a blank. After a few minutes Eldridge heard whispering at the desk. He opened his eyes and saw an Indian man talking to the receptionist. Eldridge rose as the man walked toward him, his somewhat portly frame disguised well by a very expensive suit.

  “Detective? I'm Sanjiv Gupta. How may I help you?”

  Eldridge shook the extended hand and immediately regretted it, his hand returned soaked. He successfully hid his disgust as he surreptitiously wiped it on a handkerchief he kept in his right pants pocket for just such occasions. “Detective Eldridge, Homicide. Mr. Gupta, I'm trying to track one of your employees. He was at the St. Luke's Hospital two nights ago.”

  “I'd be happy to check into that for you, Detective. Please follow me to my office.”

  Gupta’s voice, and the wording of the response, reminded Eldridge of dealing with tech support for his laptop. Your question is important to us, Detective. Eldridge followed Gupta to a lavish office, a large mahogany desk filled a small portion of the back wall of floor to ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. I’m in the wrong business. Comfortable chairs, along with what looked like a pullout couch against one wall, several glass and chrome tables and an impressive bookcase, completed the room. He eyed two other doors, one appearing to be an escape door to a back hallway in the event he didn’t want to be found in his office, the other revealed a sliver of a granite countertop. Private bathroom? The art filling the walls impressed Eldridge until he noticed the little logo of an art bank in the corner of one. Somebody at the art bank has good taste.

  Gupta sat behind his desk and punched up the appointment schedule on his computer. “I don't see any calls for St. Luke's here for over a month.” He leaned back in his chair, pushing the tips of his fingers together, his elbows resting on the arms of his high-back leather chair. “Are you sure it was one of our guys?”

  “He was seen wearing your uniform—”

  Gupta chuckled. “Detective, we give away hundreds of those hats and shirts to our clients as promotional items,” interrupted Gupta. “I think perhaps you're looking in the wrong place.”

  “—and one of your vans was seen leaving the scene,” finished Eldridge, hiding the annoyance in his voice. This shut Gupta up for a moment.

  But only a moment. “You saw one of our vans?” He looked back at the computer. “We have nothing here for that hospital.” He hit a few more keys. “And we had nothing in the geographical area two nights ago either. Most of our calls in that area are during office hours. Evenings and weekends tend to push out to the residential areas. We have had several of our roof nerds stolen over the years. Perhaps it was one of those?”

  Eldridge ignored the suggestion. “How many vans would you have had on duty that night?”

  Gupta hit a few more keys. “Ninety-seven.” Eldridge sighed. It's never easy. Gupta looked at him. “You said you were Homicide? What is this about?”

  “I can't say. Do you have employee photos that I could look at?”

  Gupta turned away from the computer and crossed his arms. “We do, but due to privacy laws I can't release them without a warrant, I'm afraid.”

  Eldridge nodded, the smug look on Gupta’s face pissing him off. “Warrant it is. Have those files ready for me when I get back.”

  Gupta smiled. “I'm a very busy man, Detective. I'll wait to see if you're successful.” He rose from his desk and offered his sweaty hand again for Eldridge to shake.

  Prepared, Eldridge faked a sneeze into his right hand. “Better not,” he smiled. “I think I'm coming down with something.” As he rode down the elevator he began to have doubts. Maybe it was just someone pretending to be from NerdTech with a stolen roof ornament?

  He looked at his watch and decided it was best to head to the television station to pick up the latest video, rather than wait for the lawyers to get it to him.

  His stomach growled.

  And then lunch.

  His stomach growled again, as if in protest to coming second.

  Aynslee paid the cabby and stepped out onto the sun baked concrete in front of her station’s offices. She had barely closed the door when a large, disheveled man, stepped up to her, uncomfortably close, her personal space definitely violated. With the cab at her back, she had nowhere to go. He jabbed a finger at her.

  “Are you Aynslee Kai?”

  The tone of his voice set off alarm bells in her head. She knew she shouldn’t answer him, just get away, but she also knew he was already fully aware of the answer. Before she could say anything, he reached out and grabbed her by both shoulders, then threw her to the side. It happened so quickly she had no time to react. She felt her entire body sail through the air, her feet no longer seeming to be in contact with the ground they were firmly planted on only moments before. Her waist then shoulders slammed against the hot, filthy sidewalk, followed by her head bouncing off the concrete. Stunned, she lay there for a moment as the world turned black before snapping back into focus.

  “You heartless bitch!” he yelled. “How dare you broadcast that video of my baby being killed?” He spat on her and continued, “Her poor mother tried to commit suicide! Don't you people ever think of the consequences of your actions? Are ratings the only things you care about?” The man drew back his foot, the crazed expression on his face leaving no doubt as to his intentions. Aynslee raised her arms to protect her head from the impending blow and squeezed her eyes shut as she curled into a ball.

  But the blow never came. Instead, she heard someone yell, “Hey!” She opened her eyes and saw the man turn toward the voice, a look of surprise spreading across his face. He was tackled full force by someone, their shoulder impacting her attacker’s midriff, eliciting a gasp for air as they both tumbled to the ground next to her. She scrambled out of the way as the two men rolled around for a few seconds. Her savior flipped her attacker over on his stomach and shoved his arm behind his back and upward, causing him to howl in pain. The man retrieved a pair of handcuffs from his belt, expertly cuffed his prisoner and hauled him to his feet, prostrating him over the trunk of the cab. When he turned to face her, her heart leapt. Hayden!

  “Are you okay, Miss Kai?” he asked, genuine, or at least she told herself it was genuine, concern in his voice as he reached out his hand to help her up. For a moment she stared at him in awe, feeling like the stereotypical maiden in distress, rescued by her knight in shining armor. Regaining her composure, she reached up and took his hand as she put on a brave face.

  “I'll be fine.” She stood and saw a large crowd surrounding her, in fact, slowly walking around her in a circle, as if she were the center post of a spinning merry-go-round. But why are the buildings moving? Confused, the scene turned into a blur as she collapsed.

  At first all she heard was indistinguishable, a blend of voices and the sounds of a bustling city, no one thing standing out. As she pushed through the din, she thought she heard Hayden giving orders to somebody. She focused on his voice, the voice of her savior, and the sounds began to separate, but all she really heard was his voice. His calm, soothing voice. She felt a warm hand touch her face, the palm against her cheek, the fingers reac
hing under her neck and lifting. Something soft was placed under her head and the hand gently lowered her, but remained. She felt something cool touch her forehead and cheeks. God, that feels good. She concentrated on the sensation and slowly opened her eyes. At first everything remained an unfocused blur, but her vision slowly cleared, revealing the concerned face of Hayden looking down at her, his hand gently caressing her cheek. She smiled at him and leaned into his hand, enjoying the warmth of his skin on hers, trying to remember what had happened to get her into such a wonderful situation. She looked around at the crowd of onlookers and police, suddenly remembering where she was, and flushed. “What happened?”

  “You fainted,” he replied. She leaned forward to get up when he stopped her with a gentle hand on her chest. “There's an ambulance on the way. You took quite a blow to your head, you should rest until the paramedics get here.” She nodded weakly and lay back down, abandoning all hope of trying to impress him with her iron will. She closed her eyes, trying to settle her spinning head, embarrassed by her display when she had first awoken, wondering if he had noticed. I hope not! In the distance the siren of an ambulance wailed as it battled its way through New York City traffic. The spinning continued, and she felt herself begin to black out again, her head falling to the side, held by Hayden’s warm, steadying hand.

  When she awoke she was disappointed to find Hayden’s hand gone, replaced by the cold, impersonal, latex gloved hand of a paramedic checking her. At least this time she was lying on a soft stretcher. She looked around and quickly determined she was in the back of an ambulance.

  “She’s awake,” said the paramedic shining a flashlight in her eyes. “Ma’am, you’ve had a nasty fall and hit your head. We’re going to take you to the hospital for observation.”

  Aynslee at first didn’t register what he said, then suddenly, as if hit by a defibrillator, it all came back. She raised her arm and looked at her watch. Shit! She sat up on her elbows. “No, I'll be fine,” she said. “I have a broadcast to do.”

  “I really think you should listen to the paramedics, Miss Kai.” Hayden! His voice sang out from behind her. She looked around and noticed the back of the ambulance was open, and they had not left her office building. He was standing at the bumper, looking at her. The sincerity in his voice almost made her agree. Anything for you! Gritting her teeth to hide the pain, she lifted herself off the stretcher.

  “Ma’am, you really should let us take you to the hospital.”

  She shook her head and immediately regretted it. “No, I'm okay. Thank you for your help.” Hayden helped her out of the ambulance, frowning, but saying nothing. She headed toward the studio entrance, Hayden following, the grimace on her face the sole outward indication of the discomfort she was in. On the elevator, she leaned into the corner and gripped both railings, her eyes focused on the floor. “Who attacked me?” she asked, not making eye contact.

  “Don’t know yet,” he replied as he punched the button for her floor. “He had no ID on him. I had him taken to booking, hopefully we’ll put a name to him shortly.”

  Aynslee gave a single nod, afraid to disturb the delicate equilibrium she had managed to establish. She knew she wasn’t fooling him, but she wasn’t willing to admit how horrible she felt. Her head throbbed, spun at the slightest movement, and she was still shaken from the terrifying experience of being assaulted by a complete stranger. She wanted to burst into tears and let the fear and frustration out. She wanted to be held.

  “You're sure you're okay, Miss Kai?”

  “Yes.” Hold me!

  He nodded. “Very well.”

  The elevator doors opened and they walked toward her office, coworkers popping their heads over their dividers asking if she was okay, most having already heard what had happened on the street below. She ignored them all, determined to reach her office without collapsing again, desperately hoping none of the drama queens came running from their desks to give her a motherly hug. Finally in the sanctuary of her office, she sank into her chair and rested her head against the back, using the swivel in its base to bring Hayden into her line of sight.

  He stood at the side of her desk, looking at her. “Your message said you got another video?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm glad you decided to cooperate with the investigation.”

  “I promised to let you know, but I still get the exclusive,” she replied as she logged into her computer. “This is airing tonight.”

  He stepped around the desk and leaned over her shoulder. “I would expect nothing less.”

  His mouth so close to her ear, his hot breath on her neck sent shivers down her spine, her pain forgotten. She caught a slight waft of his aftershave and inhaled through her nose, taking in every bit of his scent she could without making it too obvious. She had read about pheromones and his were working overtime on her. Oh, God, I've got to ask him out!

  The video appeared on the screen, confusing at first, the image dark and the view shifting rapidly like a chase scene in Cloverfield. “He must be crawling in the air ducts. We're pretty sure that's where the shots came from,” his gentle yet strong voice whispered in her ear. The image stabilized somewhat as it brightened and the killer stopped moving. The video showed an angle from above and ahead of the bed, the intended victim attached to various sensors below. He pointed toward the camera as the barrel of a pistol entered the view. There were five shots, the last two hitting their target in the chest. The image went dark again and bounced around as the shooter backed up. It ended with an intense flash of light. “That must have been the explosion at the end.” He handed her his card with his email address. “Forward this to me. I'll also have the techs come down and try to trace the email again.” He stepped back around the desk.

  Aynslee dug deep for some courage. “Detective Eldridge?”

  He turned to face her. “Yes?”

  “Would you, ah, like to get some coffee some time?” Her cheeks flushed. She felt like a school girl.

  “I don't think that would be appropriate, Miss Kai,” he replied. “You're a witness in an active investigation.”

  “Of course.” Aynslee, her mind reeling for a way out of the embarrassment, said, “Maybe when this is done?” That wasn’t it.

  “Perhaps,” he said as he left the office.

  Perhaps? Why not, “Yes! I'd love to!” Aynslee slumped in her chair, her head hitting the back. She winced. Maybe I should have gone to the hospital.

  Detective Justin Shakespeare climbed into his car, keys in one hand, a dozen Krispy Kreme's in the other. He had over three decades on the force and only a few years left until he could retire with a full pension. Once a good cop, he himself would be the first to admit the last five years of his career were a joke. In his mid-forties he had inexplicably begun to gain weight, and as any self-respecting cop would tell you, you only go to a doctor if you've been shot. Twice. But he finally got concerned enough he at last went. Diabetes. He had tried everything to lose weight, to no avail, but he hadn't given up. Exercise, proper diet, medication, relaxation techniques, he had tried them all, but his blood sugar continued out of control, the weight continued its relentless march up.

  And it was the diabetes that had sent his career into a spiral. Five years ago he had worked a crime scene for almost ten hours, going through the evidence collected with Vinny Fantino's crew and his former partner. With time of the essence, he rushed a weapon they found over to ballistics. On the way his blood sugar dropped, the now familiar yet still terrifying feeling of disorientation setting in. He knew if he didn't act quickly he could end up in a coma so he pulled over and grabbed a quick sandwich in a deli.

  It had all taken less than fifteen minutes, but those precious few minutes were long enough to not only save his own life, but also for someone to steal the gun from his car. Disoriented from his hypoglycemic episode, he had left the evidence bag in plain sight, the car not only unlocked, but the windows down as well. Too ashamed of why he had pulled over, he told peop
le he was hungry and had stopped to eat. He made no mention of his diabetes, and because of it, there was now no love lost between him and Vinny. Vinny had taken him to task in front of the entire precinct and the case was nearly lost. Fortunately Vinny's team came up with other evidence, but not before humiliating Shakespeare in public.

  And that's when he stopped caring.

  He knew people made fun of him behind his back, he knew his young partner had no respect for him, and he knew he was dying. After trying everything, he had given up and decided to enjoy his last few years by eating. He didn't have any family so he didn't feel guilty about leaving anyone behind, but deep down he was ashamed. He felt like a failure not only in his personal life but his professional life as well. But over the past few months he had begun to feel differently. He had met a girl. A great girl. A girl who loved him for who he was, warts and all, and it had made him want to live again. She had a great teenaged son who he had taken to, and they were talking about moving in together. He was even tossing around the idea of working out again. He eyed the donuts on the passenger seat of his car. But not today. With his personal life perhaps on the mend, he wondered if it wasn’t time to try and salvage what was left of his self-respect in his professional life. He had heard the kid had caught an interesting case and decided perhaps it was time to give him a hand. If he'll take it.

  While en route to the precinct, another photo arrived from the subway video, this one of a clearly terrified Ibrahim Jamar. On a hunch, Eldridge headed to the lab and found Frank alone, listening to Korn at full volume as he pecked away at a keyboard, his head nodding with the beat. “Hey, Frank!” he shouted, trying to be heard over the din of Twisted Transistor. The only response was a banging of the head. Eldridge stepped into Frank’s field of vision, waving his arms, causing Frank to jump. He quickly hit the pause button on his keyboard.

  “Sorry, Detective, just rockin’ out. How can I help you?”

  Eldridge plunked himself into a nearby chair. “Gotta a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can you pull up the video from the subway and play it for me?”

  “Sure thing.” Frank used his right leg to propel the chair across the room to another computer. A few keystrokes later he had the image displayed on a large monitor mounted to the wall. Eldridge watched, keeping an eye out specifically for Ibrahim Jamar, but other than a couple of quick flashes of him in the background, there was nothing more.

  Eldridge leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. “What was the best still of Ibrahim Jamar you were able to get from this video?”

  “You mean without running it through the NASA algorithms?”

  Eldridge nodded.

  Frank opened a folder on the computer showing several thumbnails of the passengers. He displayed three photos on the screen. “These are the best I could get.”

  Eldridge looked at them and shook his head. “There's no way you could recognize him from that.”

  “No, it doesn't look likely. Too much pixelization,” agreed Frank.

  “Then how the hell is our killer identifying the passengers?”

  Frank shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, but it can't be from the video.”

  Eldridge headed from the lab and returned to his desk. If he's not using the video, then he has to be identifying them in some other way. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes for a moment. He heard a groan from across his desk. Opening his eyes, he saw Shakespeare pour himself into his chair, his portly frame surging over and under the arms.

  “Hey, kid, how's it goin'?” Eldridge watched as his partner opened a box of Krispy Kremes, his right hand poised over the warm, glazed donuts, three fingers twitching as if tapping out a tune on a piano, then like a hunter after its prey, his hand darted in and clutched one of the donuts, leaving Eldridge to wonder what made the decision so hard in the first place since they were all the same. Shakespeare polished off the donut in seconds and began the long process of sucking the glaze off his fingers.

  Eldridge looked away in disgust. Does he chew? “Fine, just working on those video murders.”

  “Where're you at?”

  “Just trying to figure out how he's identifying his victims.” Eldridge leaned forward and set his elbows on his desk, crossing his arms. “They seem to all have been on the subway last year when the Arnette woman was beaten to death.”

  “Right.” Shakespeare turned his attention to his index finger. “Wasn’t there a video?”

  “Yeah, but I looked at it and there's no way you can recognize one of the victims. He's sitting way in the back, he's almost a blur.”

  Shakespeare's index finger exited his mouth with a pop. “Maybe he's not using the video.”

  “Then what would he be using?”

  “Well, if I were somebody looking at life in prison or worse, I'd—” He paused for a moment to lick his thumb. “—be looking to maybe get rid of some witnesses.”

  “Hmmm, maybe,” said Eldridge. “But they've got these guys pretty much dead to rights.”

  “Yeah, but you know who has witness lists besides the DA?” asked Shakespeare as he decided upon which donut to inhale next. “Defense attorneys.”

  Eldridge wasn’t sure. “It's a long shot.”

  “Want me to check it out?”

  Eldridge nearly choked. “You want to check it out?”

  “Sure, why not?” Shakespeare finished off another donut. “I haven't been to Rikers in a while. I'll go see the two perps and see if I can persuade them to come clean.”

  “They'll never see you without their attorney.”

  “Actually, I heard they just fired their attorney last week. Might be time they got a new one.”

  Eldridge raised his hands. “I don't wanna hear about it.” He knew Shakespeare was going to pull something. “Just let me know if you find out anything. I’m heading to Interrogation One if anyone needs me.” Shakespeare grunted an acknowledgement, his mouth full of his latest victim.

  Eldridge headed down to holding and opened the interrogation room door, the tired, disheveled man sitting at the table looked up at him, a hint of defiance remaining, his two days growth of facial hair betraying the fact his problems went far beyond this afternoon’s events. He had refused to cooperate on scene, but once taken downtown to be booked for assault, he had quickly changed his tune. Fingerprints usually get the innocent to talk. When Eldridge heard who the man was, he told them to wait before filing the charges, and had him placed in an interrogation room instead. It had been a few hours of waiting for the man, which Eldridge fully expected to have pissed him off, but it was better than Rikers, and possibly the State Penn.

  “Mr. Coverdale, I'm Detective Eldridge, Homicide.” Tammera Coverdale's father, Hugh Coverdale, glowered at him. “I'd like to ask you a few questions about your daughter.”

  Coverdale’s anger, seething below the surface for hours without release, burst forth. “It's about goddamned time!” he yelled. “Do you realize that nobody has asked us any questions since the day you guys found her?”

  Eldridge remained calm, letting the man vent, and sat in a chair across the table from him. “I'm sorry, sir. I've recently taken over the case as part of a larger investigation. Your daughter is one of at least four people that have been murdered recently by, we believe, the same perpetrator.”

  “Four?” This news trimmed Coverdale's sails. “You mean it wasn’t some drunk who did this?”

  Eldridge shook his head. “No, it definitely wasn’t the man discovered with your daughter's body. We believe your daughter's death is in relation to the subway murder last year.”

  Eldridge watched Coverdale process this new information for a moment. Finally, the father sighed, the fight in him gone.

  “She was supposed to testify in a few weeks.” He leaned forward, placed his head in his hands and pulled at his hair. “I encouraged her to testify. Practically insisted.” He looked up at Eldridge, tears welled in his eyes. “Do you think she was kill
ed because of me?”

  Eldridge lowered his voice and leaned toward the distraught man. “Sir, four people connected with the subway that night have been killed so far, with videos taken of all of the murders. One of them we didn’t even know was on the subway until after his death. I don’t think it would have mattered.” He doubted this new information would help how the man felt now, but in time, he would come to realize it wasn’t his fault. “Has your daughter said anything about any threats recently?”

  Coverdale shook his head. “No, but I'm not the one to ask. She tells her mother everything.”

  Eldridge nodded. “I'll be by to question her later. But for now, as far as you know, your daughter hasn't had anything unusual happen to her, nobody following her, threatening her, hang-up phone calls, nothing out of the ordinary?”

  “Nothing she's told me.”

  “Okay, thank you, Mr. Coverdale.” Eldridge rose and opened the door.

  “What happens to me now?” asked Coverdale.

  Eldridge turned back to face him. “That depends if Miss Kai decides to press charges.” Eldridge closed the door behind him, leaving Coverdale to dwell on what might happen to him next. Eldridge did feel sympathy for the man, his daughter killed and her murder played out for everyone to see as if a form of entertainment. He hoped Aynslee wouldn't press charges, but he'd have to wait and see what kind of woman she truly was.

  Trace stood in front of Chelsie’s apartment door and knocked again. She cocked an ear, trying to catch any telltale sound from inside. Nothing. She eyed the key to Chelsie’s apartment the parents had given to her. If it weren’t for this key, she wouldn’t have been surprised to find the girl holed up in her apartment, eating a tub of cookie dough ice cream, mourning a breakup with the one true love of her life, a breakup that would leave her alone and miserable for eternity. She knew what young heartbreak was like. Not much better than adult heartbreak, except you know it will happen again.

  But the key changed everything. The parents had already visited half a dozen times over the past days, so she knew what she was going to find. She slipped the key in the keyhole and turned. The tumblers clicked, and she turned the knob, pushing the door open. “NYPD, is anyone here!” she called, knowing full well there would be no answer. She stepped across the threshold and closed the door behind her. Her hand on the gun at her hip, she slowly entered, carefully examining every corner, every cavity, anywhere a person, or a body, might be hiding.

  No smell, so if she’s dead, the body isn’t here.

  She looked for a freezer, but found none.

  She stepped into the apartment’s lone bedroom and found it too empty, the usual mess of a young girl’s life strewn about, toiletries and makeup cluttering the bathroom’s vanity and countertop. No evidence whatsoever that she had packed anything for a trip. Her life was still here, untouched. She checked the laundry and found casual clothes near the top, but no evidence of the type of clothes her parents’ had said Chelsie wore for her job. She checked out the floor, then the living area. Nothing. And there was no purse in sight, except a nice Gucci knockoff in the closet, empty. Probably for her nights on the town.

  Trace stood in the center of the apartment, hands on her hips, her trained eye taking everything in. She definitely didn’t make it home from work. She spotted a note on the kitchen counter and hurried toward it, momentarily excited it might be a clue, the emotion proving fleeting as it turned out to be from the parents. “Please call, we're worried sick! Mom & Dad.”

  She continued her search, but found nothing. No evidence of a boyfriend, no diary, no personal papers. A few bottles of beer in the well-stocked fridge told her she didn't have a drinking problem; there were no signs of drug paraphernalia. A few framed photos on the end tables and nightstands in her bedroom, all of her and her parents, did nothing to indicate anyone special in her life. The only thing setting it apart from any other single girl's apartment was the sheer volume of books. Chelsie appeared to be an avid reader of both fiction and non-fiction, mostly medical related.

  This is a dead end.

  Trace took a handful of photos with her phone, just in case someone might return to retrieve something, then left, deciding her time might be better spent interviewing people at the bar where Chelsie worked.

  For the first time in years Shakespeare felt alive. Coming to Rikers was a crazy idea, especially with what he planned on doing. Hell, it was illegal, but he didn't care. He knew if he was caught he'd just be asked to resign; the department wouldn't want the scandal. But if he succeeded, he might bust open this case for the kid. He had no interest in furthering his own career. He didn't even care what the others thought of him. He just cared what he thought of himself. And right now, he was feeling pretty damned good as he entered the receiving area. Adjusting his large white Boss Hogg Stetson, he approached the front desk. “Howdy, I'm Justin Shapiro and I'm here to meet with my clients, Denzel Todd and Ian Temple.” Shakespeare handed over fake ID matching the bogus name he had just given to the desk officer, relishing the guard’s stunned expression as he took in the ridiculous spectacle in front of him. He had always found the more ridiculous the disguise, the more willing people were to believe it. And this was one of his favorite recurring characters to play.

  “So those two bastards got another lawyer?”

  “Hey, I won't have you talking about those two fine gentlemen like that!” said Shakespeare, enjoying the bombastic performance, a fake southern accent, curled mustache, bad hairpiece and loud white suit completing the disguise. “They're innocent until proven guilty.”

  “Whatever,” said the disinterested Corrections Officer as he wrote down “Shapiro's” information in the visitors log. He called for the two prisoners to be brought to an interview room then pointed toward the waiting area. “Wait there until you're called.”

  Shakespeare didn't have long to wait. A CO led him into a small, depressing room, the drab, grey paint on the walls tired and chipped, the concrete scraped and pitted from decades of impacts with various items, most likely including the body parts of lawyers and convicts. A metal table, bolted to the floor, occupied the center of the room, four metal chairs, two of which were also bolted down, the other two, meant for the visitors, bore the scars of having been thrown around at one time or another, most likely contributing their fair share of the damage to their surroundings. The florescent lighting hummed overhead, augmented only slightly by the natural light coming in from a small window near the ceiling, too small to fit even the tiniest of adults, making the rusted bars crisscrossing it redundant. In the two bolted chairs sat his “clients”, their feet and hands shackled together, the chains cuffed to a bolt in the floor.

  “Thank you, Officer, I'd like to speak to my clients in private, if you don't mind,” said Shakespeare, smiling as he held out his arm, ushering the guard toward the door. The guard nodded and closed the door, leaving Shakespeare alone with two of the most reviled young men in New York.

  Shakespeare turned and faced the two prisoners, a broad smile stretched across his face. They’re only boys!

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked one.

  Shakespeare sat down in the chair opposite them. “You must be Denzel,” he said as he opened a brief case and pulled out two files. “Denzel Todd, twenty-two years old, mother died a crack whore, never knew who your daddy was. Says here you've been in and out of jail more times than you can count.”

  “Fuck you!” yelled Denzel, yanking at the chains.

  “And you are Ian Temple,” he said, turning to the other boy. “Nineteen years old, dad died in Iraq, mom is a legal secretary at a good firm.” He leaned toward Ian. “What are you doing hanging around with a lowlife like this?” he asked, jerking his thumb toward Denzel. Ian lowered his eyes and looked at the floor.

  “Hey, fuck you, man! Who the fuck are you anyway?” Denzel struggled against his chains, yanking at them with all his might, the rattling attracting the attention of the CO outside who knocked on the door and
looked through the small Plexiglas window.

  Shakespeare waved him off. “I'm your new lawyer, Justin Shapiro,” replied Shakespeare, returning his attention to the boys. “I'm here to see if I can get you gentlemen off.”

  Denzel tossed his head back and laughed, no longer struggling with his chains. “Yeah, like that's gonna happen. What you been snortin' anyway? Got any left?” he asked, laughing and elbowing his partner, clearly impressed with what he perceived to be a clever sense of humor.

  Shakespeare smiled and pulled another file from the brief case. “Well, I have some good news for you that might change your thinking on this.” Shakespeare took four pictures from the file and spread them face down in front of him. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Whoever you hired has managed to eliminate four witnesses already.”

  Ian and Denzel looked at each other then back at Shakespeare. “What do you mean, eliminated?” asked Denzel.

  Shakespeare flipped each picture over, revealing the faces of Tammera, Logan and Aaron, along with what remained of Ibrahim, to Denzel and Ian. “What do you think I mean?” asked Shakespeare, pretending to be exasperated. “Eliminated! Kaput, pushing up daisies, knockin' at the Pearly Gates, having dinner with Tupac, dead! What the hell else could I mean?”

  Ian looked shocked. “Y-you mean f-four more p-people are dead?” he asked with a pronounced stutter, a look of wide-eyed horror on his face.

  “Y-yes, I-I d-do,” mocked Shakespeare.

  “Hey, lay off him asshole or I'll mess you up!”

  Shakespeare leaned back. So, Denzel is Ian's protector. “Okay, Denzel, you're in charge,” said Shakespeare, playing to the boy's ego. “Your man has managed to eliminate four of the witnesses against you. There's still some more but he's got some time.”

  “W-we d-didn't hire any b-body,” stammered Ian.

  “Hey, of course you didn't.” Shakespeare opened his hands in a dismissive manner and raised his shoulders. “Someone just happens to be out there helping you out. You never asked him to, he just volunteered.”

  “Well, so what if someone is helpin' us out, that's a good thing, right?” Denzel didn't sound certain.

  “Oh yeah, it's a great thing!” said Shakespeare with an exaggerated grin. “But here's the problem,” he said, again lowering his voice and leaning toward them. “A new, very credible witness has come forward. I need to get their name to your guy so he can take care of them.”

  Denzel shook his head. “That's not possible, we can't get in touch with him.”

  “Sure you can. Listen, this is one hell of a witness. Friend of the DA. The jury’s gonna buy his story, hook, line and sinker. There's nothing I can do to stop this guy from burying you. The only way is if he can't make it to the stand.” Shakespeare gathered the pictures and placed them back in his briefcase. “Listen, I'll give you the name, you call your guy and give it to him, and everything is good, okay?”

  “We can’t get in touch with him,” repeated a sullen Denzel.

  “Fine.” Shakespeare stood and headed toward the door. “It’s your funeral.”

  “Wait!”

  Shakespeare turned around to see Denzel looking at the floor. “What?”

  “We didn't hire no hit man,” mumbled Denzel.

  “What was that?” Shakespeare rounded the table and leaned forward on his fists, cocking his ear in a larger-than-life manner. “I didn't hear you.”

  “I said, we didn't hire no hit man!” said Denzel, this time with a hint of desperation in his voice.

  “What? Naaaw, I don't believe that for a second!” said Shakespeare, shaking his head as he sat back down. “You're telling me that you two had nothing to do with eliminating those witnesses?”

  Denzel lowered his head and looked at the floor. “No.”

  “You're serious? Listen, now's not the time to grow a conscience. If we get rid of this one witness, you guys could end up walking.”

  Denzel raised his head and looked Shakespeare in the eyes. “If we had a guy on the outside, don't you think we'd give him to you?” yelled Denzel in frustration. “But we don't, there's nobody, nothing! Just a bunch of useless legal aide lawyers and that's it! We got nobody helpin' us 'cept you!”

  Shakespeare stood and headed to the door. “And you don't even have me, ya pieces of shit.” He rapped on the door and it opened. He walked out, leaving his two “clients” in confused silence. When he got into his car he called Eldridge's phone and was sent directly to voicemail. “Hey, kid, it's me. No way these two guys have anything to do with your murders.” He snapped the phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat. His stomach rumbled. Well, that deserves a snack! He put the car in gear and headed across the Francis Buono Bridge toward his favorite hotdog stand in Queens, ripping off his wig and fake mustache. He eyed the white suit. Maybe I should change first?

  “What's got you so happy?”

  Frank grinned at Eldridge as he entered the lab. “Watch this!” He hit a button on his keyboard and the subway beating video flashed on the plasma display, replaying the horror of that day. Eldridge opened his mouth to say something but Frank raised his index finger. “Wait!” said Frank, turning it into a two syllable word as he bent his finger and jabbed at the screen. The video paused on an image of Ibrahim Jamar sitting in his seat and sat frozen for almost a minute before continuing, the only difference between the original and the one found on the DVD player left at the hospital.

  “Yeah, so it pauses on our victim. I already knew that.”

  “Yeah, but did you notice anything?”

  “What?”

  Frank backed up the video to where the image of Ibrahim had frozen and pressed pause. “Now do you notice anything?”

  Eldridge raised his hands in exasperation. “What, what am I supposed to be noticing?”

  “Do you recognize who that is?”

  “Of course I do, it's Ibrahim Jamar, our cab driver who was abducted, shot and blown up!”

  “Exactly.” Frank had a satisfied look on his face. Eldridge stared at him. “Man, you cops aren't too bright are you?”

  Eldridge recognized the Leo Getz reference for what it was, surprised someone as young as Frank knew Lethal Weapon. Then it hit him. His mouth opened and his eyebrows shot up, resulting in a look of relief from Frank.

  “Got it? This image has been cleaned up! Whoever is doing this has access to the same technology I'm using here to clean up our video,” gushed Frank. “This guy is good!”

  Suddenly NerdTech didn't seem like such a stretch. “What kind of horsepower would he need?”

  “I'm using some incredibly powerful multi-core processors here, very expensive stuff. There's no way some NerdTech employee owns this stuff.”

  “But he could have access to this kind of hardware? As part of his job, maybe?”

  “Perhaps. But even so, the routines take a long time to run and I'd be surprised if anyone would leave hardware this powerful unattended for long enough.”

  “So then how's he doing it?”

  “Well, there's nothing to say you can't do this at home, it would just take a really long time.”

  “How long?”

  “Well, it could take weeks per image. If he's done this for everybody on the train, hell, it could have taken him months, maybe even longer!”

  Eldridge nodded. “So, he's been working on this since the beginning.”

  “Holy shit, Detective,” exclaimed Frank. “Do you realize how much work that is? He'd have to be obsessed to do something like this!”

  Eldridge headed toward the door. “He's killed four of them already. I'd say that counts as obsessed.”

  Chelsie woke to find herself lying on something comfortable. Incredibly comfortable. She hadn’t experienced anything so soft in days. She rolled onto her back, enjoying the sensation as she stretched her arms above her head and reached out with her legs, extending them as far as she could, working out the kinks. She opened her eyes and snapped them shut again, a bright light, the brigh
test she had seen in days, nearly blinding her. She opened her eyes a sliver, trying to adjust. The soft bed she lay in and the bright light caused her heart to pound in excitement. Was I rescued? It took a minute, but with each passing second her surroundings came into focus and her elation turned to despair, the dirt and concrete walls she had only touched until now, finally revealed by a light dangling from the ceiling, her soft, comfortable bed, nothing more than a thin mattress tossed on the floor of her prison. She lay her head down and closed her eyes, shutting out the horror surrounding her as her body heaved with sobs, a wave of self-pity taking over.

  What did I do to deserve this?

  She thought of her mom and dad, what they must be going through, what she would give to have her overprotective mother there with her right now, holding her, telling her it was going to be alright, to have her father there to protect her from her captor. This isn’t fair! She hugged her knees to her chest, and tried to steady her crying. She pictured her parents. She could imagine her father’s soothing voice. Stay strong.

  She gasped, inhaling deeply, and held it for a moment, as if the air were steel, fortifying her against the horrors outside the fragile shell of her body. She slowly exhaled, letting the air audibly escape past her pursed lips.

  I will, Daddy.

  Eldridge exited the courthouse’s underground parking, the warrant for the NerdTech employee files issued earlier that morning, sat on the passenger seat beside him. He steered his car toward the NerdTech offices, determined now more than ever he was on the right track. With both a NerdTech uniform and van seen in the vicinity, someone with advanced computer knowledge uploading videos on hijacked wireless networks, and extremely advanced photographic analysis software utilized to identify the victims, everything pointed to someone at NerdTech. The familiar feeling that came over him when he was about to break a case wide open, filled him with a natural high he would never get enough of. This was the turning point, he could feel it in his gut, and his gut was rarely wrong. This was why he became a cop, the excitement of knowing you were about to put a criminal in jail, especially a murderer, was something no drug could recreate. His spine tingled, anticipating the rush of seeing his suspect looking back at him from an employee file.

  He also couldn’t wait to shove the warrant in Gupta's smug face.

  The traffic moved slower than usual, even for this time of morning. Creeping along for almost half an hour, the constant honking of horns slowly killing his joy, he finally came upon the cause of the chaos, a broken-down Jaguar in the middle of an intersection, hood up, its owner standing by the open driver’s side door, the entire dash flashing with warning lights, as he screamed at the dealer on his cell phone about his six-figure lemon. Eldridge shook his head. Everybody knows you don’t buy Jags to actually get anywhere. As he cleared the intersection, traffic finally returned to a normal pace and he soon arrived at NerdTech.

  Gupta wasn’t pleased to see him, the plastic smile failing to hide the knowledge he was about to taste his own shoes. He extended his hand regardless, and Eldridge, having planned ahead, passed him the warrant, struggling to keep his delight from being too obvious. “I need all of your personnel records for anyone who may have access to one of your vehicles.”

  Gupta read the warrant carefully, as if looking for some reason to not comply, then turned to the receptionist. “Get somebody from Legal in my office, ASAP.” She nodded and turned to her computer to look up the extension. Gupta pointed to the couches. “You’ll have to wait until our lawyers look at this.”

  Eldridge walked past Gupta and headed toward his office. Gupta, startled, ran after him, opening his mouth to protest. Eldridge cut him off. “Your lawyer can review it at his leisure. That warrant gives me immediate access, and you will provide me with the information detailed in that court order now, or I will have all of your computers seized and our techs will search for the information themselves. It should take a few weeks since they are very busy. Your choice.” Arriving at the office, Eldridge held his arm out and beckoned Gupta in. “After you.”

  A subdued Gupta shuffled past him and sat behind his desk. “Do you want me to filter them somehow?”

  “White males for now, we don't know anything else beyond that.”

  Gupta nodded and hit a few keys. The printer beside his desk powered up and began spitting out employee records.

  Eldridge eyed the rapidly growing stack of paper. “How many does that leave?”

  “One-hundred-forty-two.”

  “You're kidding me!”

  “No, Detective.” Gupta smiled, apparently garnering some satisfaction at the work ahead of Eldridge. “You are fortunate that you were able to specify a white male. Otherwise you would be looking at over three hundred.”

  Eldridge's earlier optimism waned as he leafed through the thick set of papers Gupta handed him, each with a photo and contact details for all NerdTech’s white male employees. Determined not to give Gupta the satisfaction of knowing how discouraged he was, he shoved the stack of papers under his arm and dropped his card on Gupta’s desk. “E-mail me that as well for our techs in case we want to cross reference it with anything.”

  Gupta nodded. “Of course, Detective.”

  Eldridge headed to his car with 142 sheets of paper under his arm, and his hopes of a turning point being reached, dashed. As he trotted across the street, a nearby Starbucks beckoned, his need for a pick-me-up greater than his need to return to the station. Sinking into a ridiculously comfortable chair, he sipped his Venti coffee with no sugar, no cream, no foam, no cinnamon and definitely no vanilla or caramel. Just black, the way it was meant to be! He flipped through the records, hoping to narrow down the list of possibilities. He knew some were not the man he had seen in the hospital simply by looking at them. Some too fat, others too old. When he finished, he had the list whittled down to a little under one hundred names. Some progress.

  As he finished his coffee his phone buzzed with a message from the lab informing him a hijacked wireless network in SoHo was used to upload the latest video. He called Gupta and confirmed five employees from the list were in the area when the message was sent. Eldridge flipped through the pages and found all five, two of which he had already eliminated in his too fat/too old pile. Real progress! But maybe not. He looked at the photos, certain he hadn't seen the three remaining men before. One was a maybe, but he couldn’t honestly say he was ringing a bell. He called Gupta back. “Were any of these five on duty three nights ago?” He heard Gupta hitting keys.

  “One. Chris Messina.”

  Eldridge’s heart thumped in his chest, his gut feeling returning. “Where is he now?”

  A few more key taps echoed through the phone. “GPS has him here. Probably for a meeting.”

  “Keep him there.”

  “Are you serious? Greedo? There’s no way he has anything to do with this.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Eldridge snapped his phone shut, downed the rest of his coffee and rushed from the Starbucks, tossing his cup in the trash. A voice straight from the sixties yelled at him, “Hey, man, reduce, reuse, recycle, man!” Eldridge did a double-take at the Starbucks’ resident-granola as the man reached into the trash to retrieve the cup he had tossed moments ago. With no time to get into an environmental debate, he continued on to the NerdTech offices and found Gupta waiting for him with his suspect.

  “Detective Eldridge, this is Chris Messina,” said Gupta. “Perhaps we should talk in my office?”

  Eldridge nodded and followed several steps behind a clearly nervous Messina, his royal blue dress shirt stained with large, expanding sweat stains, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and back of his neck, his pasty white face glistening and sickly pale. Someone opened the door to a photocopier room as they walked by and Messina jumped to the other side of the hall, grabbing his chest. This has got to be him. Eldridge reached under his sport coat and adjusted his holster. But he doesn’t look at all like the guy from the
stairwell!

  “What's this all about?” asked Messina when the door closed. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Eldridge looked at the man standing before him. He stood about five foot eleven, 190 pounds with salt and pepper hair, probably in his late-thirties. There was no way this man could be mistaken for the one from the hospital, that man standing at least a head shorter than Eldridge, and ten to fifteen years younger than Messina. Then why is he so damned nervous? He decided to play it out. “That depends, Mr. Messina. Were you at St. Luke's hospital this week?”

  “St. Luke's? I've never been there in my life!”

  “Where were you Tuesday night?”

  “Tuesday?” Messina stammered. “Oh, thank God!” He breathed out a sigh of relief, a hint of color returning to his face. “I was with my wife and kid at a piano recital!”

  “Can anyone confirm that?”

  Messina bobbed his head, clearly relieved. “Of course, a couple hundred people!” Messina smiled and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead and neck.

  “And between what times were you at this recital?”

  “Between seven and ten.”

  Well, he couldn’t have been at the hospital.

  “But I have you taking a call around eleven,” said Gupta, looking at his computer. “The notes say they couldn’t reach you for almost three hours.”

  “Yeah, I was on call.”

  Eldridge detected a note of panic in his voice, the little color that had returned, quickly gone. Why? He's already cleared himself.

  Messina wiped his forehead again, alternating his attention between Gupta and Eldridge, as if unsure of who he would get in more trouble with. He apparently decided on Gupta. “I'm sorry, sir, I hardly ever get called on Tuesday night and I needed the money, so I took the shift and went to the recital. I turned off my phone in the recital and then forgot to turn it back on when I got out. I'm sorry, Mr. Gupta, it won't happen again.”

  “See that it doesn't,” warned Gupta. He turned to Eldridge. “Are we done here?”

  “For now,” replied Eldridge. Another dead end. He looked at Messina for a moment, then reached out to shake his hand. Messina took it, his hand shaking almost uncontrollably. This guy is definitely hiding something. Eldridge decided to sit on him for a while.

  Aynslee looked in the mirror and smiled. Definitely worth it. Two torturous hours in the stylist's chair with a bruised skull had resulted in a new look that wouldn't launch a thousand ships, but just might launch her career those final few steps. When she had first sat down she said she wanted something bold, dramatic, different. Serge suggested leaving her hair long, straightening it, and going with an extreme change—from boring brunette to blonde bombshell. Aynslee hadn’t been sure. Serge’s “trust me, darling” were words she had heard numerous times before, and he had never disappointed. It was probably the throbbing headache rather than her innate trust in her stylist, that made her agree, but in the end, she loved the look. Her light brown complexion contrasted beautifully with the new color and heads were definitely turning in the studio. I wonder if Hayden will like it?

  The attack by Tammera's father had shaken her up. When it happened, she had no idea who he was; he was nothing more than a man who screamed at her and shoved her to the ground. She remembered hitting her head and blacking out for a moment, coming to as he was about to deliver the finishing blow.

  But Hayden had saved her.

  She shuddered to think what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up when he did, the ironic coincidence of him being there to view the video of a murder, resulting in the saving of a life. Her life. Since Hayden‘s rescue, her mind had created an extensive fantasy around the incident, a dream world she found herself escaping to whenever she had a moment to herself, something she hadn’t done since her teenage crush days. She sighed and returned to reality as the director cued them for the supper hour newscast. Tonight, she was co-anchor. One more step out of the way!

  Abby stepped from her Dojo and into the crisp evening air, chatting with a new student, Bruce, who had joined earlier that evening. There had been a time when she would never have considered talking to a strange man, especially on the street at night, but Karate had changed that. She signed up a year ago and was, in her opinion, doing quite well, considering she was testing for her green belt next week, was in the best shape of her life, and loved the feeling of confidence and security it gave her. Not to mention feeling sexy again after her bitter divorce. She looked at the young man and touched his arm. You’re incorrigible! He’s barely half your age!

  “Oh, I'm sure you're going to love it,” she said. “Shihan Jamie is excellent and very patient.”

  “I hope so,” the young man said. “I've always wanted to get into it but I kept putting it off. I guess I just thought that you had to start as a kid.”

  Abby laughed. “I just started a year ago and I'm only thirty-five.” A little white lie never hurt anyone. “I’m already testing for my green belt next week.”

  “Really? What made you start?”

  She opened the trunk of her car with her key fob and tossed her gym bag inside. Pausing, she debated on whether or not she should tell him, but the eager expression on his innocent face made her trust him. “There was an incident a year ago on a subway where a girl was killed,” she began.

  “Really?” Bruce was wide-eyed. “What happened?”

  “You never heard about it?” Who hasn't heard of this?

  Bruce cast his eyes down, a hint of shame on his face. “To be perfectly honest, I get most of my news from the entertainment section of Digg.”

  Abby nodded. What the hell is “dig”? “Well, a year ago two guys beat a girl to death on the subway. I was there when it happened and I was too scared to do anything about it.”

  “It must have been terrifying.”

  “It was. I swore after that night I would learn how to defend myself and others. The next day I came to the Dojo and I've been going four times a week since.”

  Bruce nodded his head. “Yeah, it was a brutal thing that happened that day,” he said, the tone of his voice dramatically different from moments ago.

  Abby paused, suddenly apprehensive. “I thought you didn't know what I was talking about?”

  Bruce looked directly at her, all expression drained from his face. His hand snapped out from his side and he clutched her wrist with an iron grip, pulling her toward the still open trunk. Abby, consumed with panic, couldn’t understand what was happening, or what to do. She became light headed, exactly like a year ago, as her emotions took over.

  “She was my—.”

  The reality of the situation rushed back with a roar. “No!” she yelled, anger and fear mixed in her voice. She broke his wrist lock with a move she had practiced for months, never dreaming she would have to use it in the real world, then followed it up with a front snap kick to his groin. Her attacker buckled forward in agony, trying to grab her again, as she yelled for help and ran toward the Dojo. Nearing the door, something hit her back then an agonizing pain shot through her entire body, every muscle contracting, her clenched fists and arms shaking uncontrollably. She collapsed to the ground, mere feet from the door, unable to reach out, every muscle and sinew taut and no longer under her control, her teeth, clenched together as if wired shut, not letting a sound escape. The pain stopped as suddenly as it had started, her muscles released, completely exhausted of energy, and she slumped to the ground.

  She pushed herself on her back, her weakened muscles screaming from the effort, and saw Bruce stumble toward her, his outstretched hand aiming a Tazer at her. He squeezed the trigger and the electricity shot through her nerve endings from head to toe again, spasms wracked her body as she jerked around on the sidewalk, helpless. Releasing the trigger, he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and dumped her unceremoniously into the trunk. He ripped the keys from her still clenched hand then slammed the lid closed, sealing her inside. As her strength slowly retu
rned, she kicked at the trunk roof and yelled for help. The car screeched to a halt, sending her rolling. She heard the car door and a moment later the trunk lid was thrown open. Bruce leaned in, holding the Tazer in his left hand and a white cloth in the other. He pointed the Tazer at her head and pressed the damp cloth tight over her mouth, a pungent odor overwhelming her nostrils. Almost immediately the world swam around her, the chemical on the cloth causing her to breathe deeply, her sinuses tingling as if from the initial blast of a breath mint, then she went numb. She struggled but it was no use. Within seconds she was unconscious.

  Aynslee sat in the makeup chair prepping to tape a segment for the evening newscast when her BlackBerry pulsed in her lap. She pressed the button on her Bluetooth headset. “Aynslee Kai.”

  “Is this Aynslee Kai, the reporter?”

  “Yes.” She motioned to the stylist working on her hair to get her a pen and paper. “How can I help you?”

  “My name is Rafi Jamar, Ibrahim Jamar's cousin, the man who was killed in the hospital explosion.”

  Aynslee looked at the stylist with frustration as the woman searched for something to write with. Leaning forward, Aynslee snatched an eyeliner pencil and wrote on her hand. Ibrahim Jamar.

  “I have information you may be interested in,” the man continued, his thick accent and name making her think he was sub-Saharan African, not long in the country.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “First, I want to know how much money you will pay me for this information.”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Jamar, but we are a legitimate news organization, we don't pay for stories.”

  The man's voice became curt. “Fine, someone will pay for what I know.”

  You’re going to lose him! “What is it you know, maybe we can work something out, perhaps get you on TV.” Aynslee couldn’t think of anything else to offer the man.

  “TV doesn't put food on the table. Cash does.”

  She decided to try the oldest trick in the book. “Well, I'm sorry, sir, maybe if I knew what you were offering I could talk to my news director to see what we could do, but I'd need to know what it is you think is so valuable.”

  The man laughed. “Nice try, Miss Kai, I'm not going to tell you what I know without seeing some cash first.”

  Well, it was worth a shot. “I need some inkling, Mr. Jamar, just a hint. Work with me and I'll see what I can do.” There was a pause for a moment. Got you!

  “Fine, ask your news director if he knows about the DVD player that was found at the scene of the explosion. I'll call back in one hour then I go to another news organization.”

  Aynslee jumped from the chair, not to talk to Jeff, but to track down the lead just handed to her. She now knew the victim’s identity and probably as much about the DVD player as this Rafi Jamar knew—the fact it existed. Rushing into her office, she came to a halt when she saw her chair. A CD sat on it, a handwritten label, “Love Songs for Aynslee” attached, along with a single, red rose. She shivered as she thought of Reggie in her office. This is getting weird.

  Abby came to, tied to a chair in the living room of her house, a house hard won in the divorce settlement, a house she now lived in alone, a house where there was no one to save her. The tape across her mouth muffled the desperate screams that erupted when she saw Bruce sitting in another chair facing her, his impassive stare scarier than anything she could have imagined. He pointed a remote control at her DVD player and pressed play, the video from that night flashed on the screen, eventually pausing on an image of her terrified face as she fled the subway car. What had he said? “She was my”? She was my what? What was she to him? She screamed against the tape to no avail, the only response from the formerly talkative man to pull out a cell phone and video tape her. At that moment everything came together. The killings on TV! This time panic took complete hold. There were no self-defense moves she could use to get herself out of this situation, too tightly bound to the chair to move, her taped mouth unable to reason with her assailant, she knew she was going to die. Her eyes filled with tears as he pulled a gun from his belt. Struggling against the bindings, she watched him raise the weapon, his finger squeezing the trigger so slowly she wondered if it were her imagination, or the fact so few seconds remained in her life her brain was making each one of them count.

  Throwing her weight to the left, she and the chair toppled to the floor, the crash rattling the china in a nearby hutch. Desperate, she rubbed her face against the carpeting, trying to remove the tape, it catching slightly on the pile, the sensation of the sticky backing pulling from her skin as he stepped toward her and knelt down so she could see his face. He continued to hold the cell phone out, recording everything, when the tape at last ripped away.

  “No, please, wait!” she cried, gasping to catch her breath as the gun entered her field of vision. “I told you, I felt terrible about it, I felt so bad that I took Karate so that if it ever happened again I would be able to help!” The gun, now aimed directly at her forehead, its long, narrow barrel all she could see, the world around her an unfocused blur, the camera lens of her life now focused on only one thing, the final antagonist who would remove her from the second act of a life about to become nothing more than a supporting actor with no legacy, no children, an ex-husband who hated her, and a dead-end career where in a year no one would remember her name. “No, please don't, please!” She sobbed at the futility and closed her eyes, desperately searching for what she might say to make him stop. “Who was she to you?” she blurted out in one last attempt to appeal to his human side.

  And it worked. He did stop. His finger relaxed on the trigger and confusion entered his eyes followed by what she thought might be the onset of tears. She decided to keep pressing. “You started to tell me, please, I would like to know who she was, why she was important to you.” She fought to steady her voice, to try and reduce the adrenaline of the situation.

  A single tear escaped his right eye, the sensation it made as it rolled down his face seemed to surprise him, ripping him back into the reality of the moment, his resolve taking hold again. “She was my—.” He squeezed the trigger, forever silencing the answer.

 

  SEVEN

 

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