TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
IF YOU DO NOT LEAVE SOON
YOU WON’T SURVIVE PAST NOON
Frank grabbed the curtains and yanked them shut. I’m being watched. He held his thumb over the power button, but hesitated. I’m in my own building. I just need to get to my apartment. How hard can that be?
But who had sent him the text message? And why? It had to be the killer. And for a brief instant he felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. I’m innocent! I must be! There’s a third person involved! It must be whoever drugged him—but that could wait. Regardless of whether or not they were in fact helping him now, he knew he needed to get to his apartment on the eighth floor, with the garbage bag and suitcase. But there was a problem. He knew they had cameras in the elevators. If he were seen getting on at this floor, how could he explain that? But he also knew they didn’t have cameras in the stairwells. From the view, he figured he was three, maybe four floors up. Could he make it up four or five flights of stairs without being seen? Would they have uniforms in the stairwells?
He took another quick peak out the window to the street below. He could see only one squad car, but two more pulled up as he looked. If they don’t have people in the stairwells now, they will soon.
The phone vibrated again.
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
DON’T WASTE YOUR CHANCE
ON ONE LAST GLANCE.
This was advice he decided to take. He ran to the door, opened it slowly and looked out. Seeing no one, he stuffed his hand in the sleeve of the sweater and cleaned the doorframe along with the door handle on either side. He grabbed the garbage bag and the suit case, then walked with purpose toward the garbage chute, which he now knew the exact location of. He opened the door to the small room and was about to shove the bag down the chute, when he thought better of it. He reached in and pulled out the empty bleach containers and other items he wouldn’t be able to flush upstairs in his own apartment, and shoved them down the chute, all the while careful to keep his hands in the sleeves to protect against fingerprints. Finished, a check out the door found the hallway still clear, and he walked quickly toward the stairwell.
He opened the door and stepped halfway in, listening for footfalls. Nothing. He stepped inside and took the stairs two at a time. Fifth floor. He raced past, grabbing the rails as needed, not worrying about leaving prints here, since he could honestly claim he occasionally took them to keep in shape. Sixth floor. He heard the door open one floor below. He couldn’t risk it; he kept racing up the steps. Seventh floor.
“Hey, you there, police! Stop!”
It was Trace. He hesitated, but for only a moment. He knew they couldn’t see him, as long as he kept away from the railing, and kept at least a double-flight of steps ahead of them. He moved to the outside edge of the stairwell and continued to run.
“Stop!”
The urgency in Trace’s voice told him he was no longer a curiosity, but a suspect. He raced up the steps, the echo of several sets of boots below him echoing through the stairwell, and he knew they were gaining, as they could hug the inside, and didn’t have a suitcase hampering their ascent. Eighth floor. He grabbed the handle and pushed, spilling out into his hallway. He raced toward his apartment, fishing the keys out of his pocket as he did so. He skidded to a halt in front of the door, stuck the key in the lock and turned. He shoved himself against the door as the doors at the end of the hallway burst open. He thrust himself inside and closed the door behind him as quietly as he could, bolting it. He heard the pounding of footsteps down the hall halt near his door.
Think fast.
He raced into his bedroom, shoved the suitcase and garbage bag under his bed, stripped out of his clothes, throwing them all in the hamper, then wrapped a towel around his waist. Somebody hammered on a door, but it wasn’t his. They don’t know which apartment it was! He took a deep breath, checked himself in the mirror, and walked toward the door just as the sound of a fist hammering on it thundered through the apartment.
“NYPD, open up!”
He counted to five then opened the door.
“Detective Trace! What’re you doing here?”
TWO
Trace tried not to let her jaw drop. “Frank? What the hell are you doing here?” Frank’s face flushed a little more than it already was.
“Um, living?”
“Huh?”
“I live here.”
Trace eyed him for a moment as she processed the information. Her eye wandered down involuntarily, taking in the young, firm body standing in front of her, the bruises from the shooting still evident, but a pale yellowish brown now. Not bad, kid. She chuckled inside. You’re old enough to be his—. Her eyes flew back up as she realized she was staring at the towel around his waist. Older sister.
“Were you just in the hall?”
He shook his head. “No, why?”
“We had a murder reported here.”
“Here”—he swept his hand inside—“in this apartment?”
A little dramatic, aren’t we kid?
“No, in this building.” She pointed at the towel. “Weren’t you supposed to be at the funeral?”
“Weren’t you?”
Trace raised her eyebrows and opened her hands, palms upward, trying to convey the idiocy of his question without saying it. “I got called to a possible murder?”
He blushed. “Oh, yeah, well, ummm, I guess that’s as good an excuse as any.”
“And yours?”
He paused, as if thinking up one. Take it easy kid, nobody blames you for not going.
“I guess I just couldn’t face it, you know, the body and all, the—” His voice cracked.
The big sister in her wanted to reach out and give him a hug, but she resisted.
“Don’t worry about it, I understand.” She squared her shoulders, bringing the situation back to business. “Did you hear anybody run past here a few minutes ago, or a door open?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Can’t say I did, but then again, it’s not the kind of thing you listen for—doors are opening and closing all the time in an apartment building.”
Trace nodded.
“Okay, Frank. You take it easy, we’ll see you Monday.”
He gave a weak smile and closed the door.
Trace turned to the two uniforms.
“Did either of you see which door the guy went into?”
The first, an Officer Richards, shook his head. “No, ma’am, can’t say as I saw anyone. Could have gone out the other stairwell door for all we know.”
Trace nodded.
“Possible, but I didn’t think he had that much of a head start.” She pointed at Richards. “You stay here; detain anyone who tries to leave.” She turned to the other. “And you come with me, we’ll continue where we left off.”
She walked toward the stairwell and pushed open the door.
There’s no way the guy got this far.
Frank leaned with his back against the door, listening to his heart hammer in his chest, and Trace talking to the two officers. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, each one sounding so loud he feared they would be heard on the other side of the door. He heard the stairwell door open, then close.
They’re gone.
He pushed himself off the door then looked through the peephole and nearly swallowed his heart as it leapt from his chest. One of the uniforms was standing directly in front of his door. He quickly stepped back, then tiptoed deeper into the apartment. He turned the television on to make some background noise, then went into his bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He closed his eyes, and breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, trying to calm himself. After a few minutes the pounding in his chest had eased, and he was able to focus. He moved his heels back and felt them touch the suitcase from Sarah’s apartment. He had to get rid of the evidence there, he knew, but for now, there was no way to get it out of
the building. As if to reinforce the point, he heard another siren out on the street.
His phone vibrated. He searched for where he had tossed it in his mad rush to get undressed, and found it still in his pants pocket, in the hamper. He flipped it open and hit the button to read the newly arrived text message.
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
WHAT WILL YOUR POLICE FRIENDS THINK
WHEN THEY DISCOVER YOUR DRINK?
What does it mean?
Then he knew. They would retrace Sarah’s last movements, and he would be seen on the security cameras leaving with her, to go get the coffee.
Frank’s mouth filled with bile as he rushed to the bathroom.
Trace stood impatiently waiting for the building maintenance man to open the apartment. It had taken hours of knocking door to door fruitlessly, and then hours more waiting for the warrants to search the apartments they hadn’t gained access to. The warrants were specific. Enter, search for a body of a woman meeting the description, then exit, leaving the place exactly as it had been found, even if they found a different body. She’d done this before, and hated the part where she couldn’t act on what they saw. They almost always found something in any building they did this type of search. But the law was the law.
No matter how flawed.
The super unlocked the door and she motioned him aside.
“NYPD, executing a search warrant!” she yelled at the door, then turned the handle and pushed. The door opened into a darkened apartment, the lights all out, the drapes closed shut. She reached a gloved hand out and flicked the light switch nearest the door. The light in the entranceway blazed, and Trace quickly found a panel of several light switches. She flipped them all on, lighting the open concept kitchen and living room.
The incredibly clean, nearly gleaming, kitchen and living room.
And reeking from bleach.
The hairs on the back of Trace’s neck stood up and she motioned to the two uniforms to follow her in. She cautiously stepped across the threshold and into the entranceway. She quickly glanced behind the door to make sure no one was there, then slid the closet door aside. Empty, save for a few jackets and other expected items.
She cleared the kitchen, then living room, and stepped into the bedroom. She motioned to the uniforms to check the closets and under the bed, while she stepped out and entered the bathroom. She flicked the light switch, and frowned.
In the tub lay their victim.
And sitting on the bathroom vanity, a photo showing two naked people lying under bed sheets together, two circular swirling patterns obscuring their faces, as if someone had stuck their thumb in wet paint and twisted.
Vinny grabbed the last of the gear from the back of the Crime Scene Unit truck and headed for the lobby. By now a large crowd had gathered, the flickering lights of the squad cars drawing them like moths to a flame. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area, and pedestrians were redirected to the other side of the street unless they lived in the building. He turned to use his shoulder against the glass door when he saw Shakespeare’s distinctive mint condition 1959 Cadillac Eldorado Seville pull up, its bright red with white soft top screaming to be noticed. For a fat guy, he doesn’t seem to mind drawing attention to himself. He made momentary eye contact and nodded, then pushed the door open and entered the lobby.
As he waited for the elevator to arrive, Shakespeare waddled through the door and walked up to him, slightly out of breath. How the hell can you be out of breath from just two minutes of walking?
“Hi, Shakes.” He eyed his severely overweight colleague. “You okay?”
He nodded. “Fine, but I’m definitely going to start hitting the treadmill. This is getting ridiculous.”
Maybe if you lay off the damned Krispy Kreme’s, you wouldn’t be in such shit shape.
An elevator chimed and they climbed aboard along with several other members of his team. They rode to the fourth floor in silence. Shakespeare held the door open for Vinny’s team, then took up the rear. An officer noted down their badge numbers and let them enter the apartment. Shakespeare immediately headed toward Trace, who didn’t look happy to see him. Vinny didn’t blame her. He didn’t like Shakespeare. As a matter of fact, for years he had despised the fat bastard, but he had to admit the past couple of weeks Shakespeare seemed to be back to his old self, if not form. Maybe some good can come from Hayden’s death.
“In the bathroom, Vinny!” Trace thumbed at a room to the left as she turned back to Shakespeare. He entered the bathroom as he heard her say, “Jesus Christ, how am I ever going to get my gold shield if the LT keeps handing off my cases?”
Vinny looked at the tub and whistled. Is this place ever clean!
He looked at the photo on the vanity and pointed at it.
“CC, dust and bag that. It’ll be key, I’m sure.” He leaned in and looked at the two swirls over the faces. “And you better call Frank. I think we may need his computer talents on this one.”
Shakespeare splayed his hands, palms up. “Sorry, Trace, but the LT wanted more experience on this.” Trace wasn’t making eye contact, and Shakespeare knew she was biting her tongue. He wouldn’t want to give up a case to him either. Not with the reputation he’d managed to garner for himself over the past few years. Lazy. Sloth. Pig. Unreliable. Incompetent. And those were the polite words he had heard said about him. But he was determined to change people’s opinions of him, to get his reputation back. There was a time when he was considered the best detective in the Bureau. People wanted to work with him. People wanted his opinion.
Not anymore.
“Listen, Trace, you’re still on the case, I’m just lead.”
She nodded her head, still not making eye contact.
If she bites that lip any harder she’ll draw blood.
He looked around. “Okay, tell me what you’ve got.”
This seemed to snap Trace out of her funk, and to her credit she became all business.
“At 9:32 this morning we received an anonymous tip with a computer distorted voice, phoned in from a throwaway cell phone, that the body of a young female would be found in this building, but no apartment number was given.”
“Distorted, eh? That’s unusual.”
Trace nodded. “We went door to door, narrowed it down to a couple of dozen units, got warrants, and started executing. We found the vic in the bathroom about an hour ago.”
Shakespeare slowly spun on his heel, taking in the living room and kitchen area. “This place is spotless.” He sniffed. “Bleach?”
“It was really strong when we first arrived. I don’t think they’re going to find anything except maybe in the bathroom. This place has been cleaned top to bottom, by a pro.”
Shakespeare’s right eyebrow shot up at the conclusion. “A pro? What do we know about the vic?”
“Nothing yet. White female, mid-twenties, blonde, dead less than a day I’d say. ME can tell us more when he gets here.”
“No ID?”
“Nothing that I’ve found.”
“Name?”
“According to building management, Larissa Channing.”
Frank stood over the toilet, flushing wad after wad of paper towel and Kleenex he had taken from Sarah’s apartment. He couldn’t risk putting anything in the trash disposal as that would certainly be searched. As he waited for the tank to fill again, his cellphone rang. He pulled it from his pocket. Cruz. He knew he had to answer it now that Trace knew he was here. He pressed Talk.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Frank, it’s Connie Cruz, how are yah?”
“Fine.”
“Listen, we need you at a crime scene.”
He knew CC would be the primary CSU criminalist today since Vinny would have taken the day off for the funeral. That meant she was almost definitely in the building. Should I play dumb?
“The one in my building?”
“Huh?”
“Trace was here earlier, going door to door.”
/> “You live here?”
“Yeah, eighth floor. What apartment number?”
“Four-oh-four.”
“Okay, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Best not to play dumb.
He hid everything away in the suitcase again, got dressed, and took the same stairwell he had used earlier to the fourth floor, making certain he touched everything he could reasonably touch, just in case they decided to dust it for prints.
He pushed open the door and slammed it shut, making certain the officer manning the crime scene entrance saw him exit the stairwell. Now he had established a witness. He took a deep breath as he approached the apartment. He hadn’t even realized Sarah lived in his building. In fact, he found it nearly impossible to believe they hadn’t bumped into each other, but maybe she was new, maybe she had just moved in. He showed his ID to the officer and entered the apartment. It was eerie. Almost as if in a movie. He had been here only hours before, cleaning like a mad man, after a night of God only knows what, and now, here he was on the job, the apartment filled with his colleagues, hell bent on capturing him. He wanted to cry out he didn’t do it. To tell them everything he knew. To tell them how ashamed he felt at what he had done. And how terrified he was.
Trace nodded at him.
Shakespeare turned to him. “What are you doing here?”
Frank gulped and he was sure he had turned several shades paler. “CC called me to look at something.”
Shakespeare’s eyebrow shot up.
That can’t be good.
Trace pointed to the left. “Hey, Frank. CC’s in the bathroom.”
He hurried toward the bathroom before the conversation could continue, and stepped inside to find Vinny and CC leaning over Sarah’s body. He looked away. “You needed me for something?”
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 3
