Samantha had thought Richard was adorable when they first met. He was early fifties, in good shape from all Savile Row clad appearances, was a good conversationalist, had exceptional taste in food and wine, and his story had touched her. They had come to an arrangement. He would pay her two thousand dollars a week, provide her with a car, and she would be available whenever he needed her. She convinced herself it wasn’t prostitution. Yes, money was exchanged, but there were no pimps involved, no multiple partners, nothing kinky. Just straight sex, and not all that great sex, in exchange for some cash she used to pay off her student loans and enjoy a lifestyle she hadn’t imagined possible. It was a symbiotic relationship. Besides, his wife cost him far more than two thousand a week, and really, wasn’t dating just legalized prostitution anyway? Men take girls out for dinner and a Broadway show, and expect something in return. What, nice conversation? No, they expected a roll in the hay for the three hundred bucks they just shelled out. Hell, a prostitute was cheaper, so if they knew they would never get anything out of it, why bother dating?
What have you become that you are so cynical?
She sighed as the elevator doors opened to the 42nd floor.
I am a tramp. But a tramp with a purpose.
“What’s up?”
“Huh?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Bad news?”
Frank shook his head and looked in the side view mirror, avoiding eye contact with the officer who was driving him to the lab. “No, just the victim isn’t who we thought it was.”
“No shit? Man, you detectives have the life. As soon as I’m eligible, I’m taking the exam.” He stuck out his hand. “Scaramell. Call me Steve.”
Frank eyed the hand and shook it weakly. “Frank Brata.”
“Nice to meet you, Frank. How long’ve you been a detective?”
“I’m not. I’m a computer tech. I investigate the electronic side of things, set up electronic surveillance, stuff like that.”
“You’re the one who got shot a couple of weeks ago, aren’t you?”
Frank’s ribs winced in remembrance. “Yes.”
Scaramell nodded. “Man, that must have been something. Haven’t been shot yet, hope never to be obviously, haven’t even had to fire my weapon yet.” Scaramell cranked the steering wheel and descended into the underground parking at the lab. “Here you go, Frank. Good luck!”
Frank nodded and rushed from the squad car and into the stairwell, racing up the few flights of stairs and into the sanctuary of his deserted lab. He sat at his computer and logged in, quickly scanning the photo. His fingers hammered away at the keyboard as he configured the software to try and reverse the swirl. He selected the swirl obscuring the face of the woman with his mouse and clicked, beginning the process.
Soon he would know just who was hidden in the photo.
And he prayed it wasn’t Sarah.
Or him.
Shakespeare knew he had to eat, and he wasn’t far from the diner in Hell’s Kitchen where Louise was working. He had barely seen her the past few weeks since he had recommitted to the job, and missed her. They didn’t live together, she had said she didn’t feel right living in sin with a teenage son, and she wasn’t ready to remarry. Hell, marriage had been a four letter word to him until recently. But now he found himself considering it. Not anytime soon, but at least it was something he could see for himself before he met his maker.
Remember to visit the Father.
He had promised to drop in after the funeral and visit Father O’Neil who had just been released from hospital. He secretly felt it was the Father’s way of trying to get him back to church on a regular basis, but what had happened two weeks ago was just too fresh, too raw, too evil, to rekindle any type of belief in God at this moment.
Then why do you pray to him nightly?
He didn’t know why. But he found himself doing more and more praying. Not hands and knees praying, just silent prayers to himself, more than anything else. His diabetes and its myriad of related health problems were a constant source for prayers along the lines of repeated “God help me” pleas when climbing stairs, or getting off the couch and feeling a tightening in his chest.
I have to start taking better care of myself.
He pulled his Caddy up in front of the diner and climbed out, his hand caressing the driver side fin as he walked around it and into the diner. He loved that car. It had been his dad’s, and he had “pre-inherited” it, as his dad called it, when macular degeneration had claimed his father’s eyesight a few years ago. He had grown up with that car, and now it was his. Mint condition, and he had sworn to keep it that way. Blind or not, he knew his dad would tear him a new asshole if he let anything happen to it.
He stepped into the diner and waved at Louise behind the counter.
“Hey, hon!”
“Shakey!”
He blushed slightly at the nickname as she pushed herself over the counter to give him a kiss, her feet no longer touching the ground. He returned the kiss and sat down at a stool near the cash register. It was nearly five, too early for the dinner rush, so the place was fairly quiet, with only the regulars who spent the better part of their lives here drinking coffee and arguing politics or the news of the day. Lately it was nothing but solutions to the financial crisis.
“How’s business?”
“Quiet now, but steady all day. Good thing you didn’t come in here earlier, it was hoppin’. And my puppies are barkin’ right now.”
“That’s cuz you wear those damned high heels. You should wear comfortable shoes in your line of work.”
She swatted him on the arm. “You know very well that every inch of heel adds five percent to the tip, especially with these dirty old men!” She raised her voice so a table of half a dozen vets could hear.
“Don’t you dare stop wearin’ them, darlin’!” yelled Phillip “Flip” Johnson, a World War Two vet who had landed on Utah beach on D-Day. “If you do, I’m goin’ across the street for my coffee.”
“Oh you know very well you don’t like their coffee,” replied Louise. She returned her attention to Shakespeare. “So, what can I get yah?”
“The usual.”
“Right away, darlin’.” She turned around and yelled into the kitchen. “One Philly with the runs, easy on the wax!”
“Comin’ up!” yelled the chef and owner Mitch. He leaned through the opening where he plated the food. “That you, Shakey?”
“Hey, Mitch, how’s it goin’?”
“Can’t complain!”
“Cuz’ no one will listen!” yelled Flip.
The table of old timers roared with laughter, then surrendered in a spate of coughing.
Louise lowered her voice and leaned in as she poured him a cup of coffee. “So, how was it?”
Shakespeare knew what she meant. The funeral. “About as good as you could expect, I guess. Not a very good turnout, but at least a few of us were there.” He shrugged his shoulders and took a sip of the bitter brew. “I don’t know, hon, it was just strange. He was my partner for three years, but I never really got to know him until those last few days, then—” He stopped. He had relived the shooting enough over the past two weeks, what with Internal Affairs grilling him, and non-stop questioning and whispers among his fellow officers.
She patted him on the hand, as if she knew what he was thinking. “It’s okay, dear. It’s over now.” She forced a smile. “So what’s going on? I expected you earlier.”
“Caught a new case. Weird one. Woman found dead in a bath tub, but it wasn’t her apartment. No ID yet, but we’re working on it.”
“Sounds kind of routine. What’s weird about it?”
“Well, someone left a photograph of two people bumpin’ uglies, but hid the faces with some computer tricks.”
“That is weird. Sounds more serial killer to me than a regular crime of passion or drug hit.”
Shakespeare smiled. “We’ll make a cop of you yet!”
She grinned. �
�Tell me more.”
That was one of the many things he loved about her. She loved reading mysteries, watching mystery TV shows, and hearing about his cases. She acted as a sounding board to his ideas, and he loved talking shop with someone who genuinely found it interesting. “Well, remember Frank?”
“The one who got shot?”
“Yup. Well, he lives in the building.”
“Quite the coincidence.”
“Yeah.” Shakespeare took another sip.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, there’s something I can’t quite put my finger on.” He counted off with his fingers. “One, Trace says she chased somebody onto his floor. Two, he was very jumpy, even passed out when he saw the body. And three, he never showed up for the funeral when he said he would.”
“Well, there’s your answer, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Order up!” yelled Mitch.
Louise turned around and grabbed the plate Mitch had pushed through. She placed the Philly melt sandwich in front of him, and removed the small bowl of au jus gravy and placed it beside the plate. “Bon appetite.”
Shakespeare smiled and sliced into the sandwich, taking a bite. His stomach rumbled in appreciation. He motioned with his knife. “You were saying?”
“Well, you said it yourself. He was supposed to go to the funeral. He was probably embarrassed about not going, he’s pretty green from what I remember you telling me, not a crime scene guy, probably saw his first body, and coming off of the shooting and Eldridge’s death, it all just caught up to him.”
Shakespeare swallowed another bite. “Maybe.”
“Humph. I know that tone. You think he’s involved somehow.”
“Perhaps, but how for the life of me I don’t know. I just can’t see the kid being a murderer.”
Then again, did you ever see the past two weeks happening?
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, dear.”
“Hey, sweet cheeks, howsabout some more coffee over here?” yelled Flip.
“Excuse me for a minute while I teach an old timer some manners.”
Shakespeare smiled and turned to watch the show.
“Oh, darling, how I’ve missed you.”
Samantha threw her arms around Richard and kissed him passionately. She had to admit, though the sex wasn’t the greatest, the man knew how to kiss. For several minutes they just stood in the entrance, their hands exploring each other’s bodies, their mouths expressing the growing passion, then he pushed her up against the door, grinding his hips into hers, and she knew what he wanted. She gave herself to him, completely, shutting her eyes, imagining someone else, but careful to call Richard’s name, and when she felt him release, she faked her own, and spent, Richard let her go, leaving her on the entrance floor as he left to clean up in the bathroom.
I am a tramp.
She picked herself up, straightened her clothes, kicked off her heels and looked about the suite. It was huge. The light yellow and gold wallpaper on the walls was offset by floor to ceiling royal blue curtains, trimmed in gold, the light sheers covering the nearly suite-wide windows letting plenty of light in from this height. A checkered royal blue and white wall to wall carpet was wonderful to the touch, her bare feet enjoying the extra underlay. She perched herself in one of the regal looking chairs scattered about what could easily be mistaken for some millionaire’s living room.
This is the life.
A life she knew she wasn’t really living. Once or twice a week she’d live like this, occasionally, like today, she’d get a weekend of luxury—trapped in a palatial room, hiding from the servants, as he couldn’t risk being seen with someone other than his wife. She was sure the help knew what was going on, but as long as he had his “plausible deniability” as he called it, he was okay.
But she did live a decent life beyond that of a monogamous whore. The money he paid her allowed her to live in a good apartment in a good building. He showered her with gifts, which meant she was able to deck out the apartment with beautiful fashions, and if she needed anything, the mere mention of it usually had delivery men showing up within a week. Last week it was a new Panasonic 65” 3D television she had heard about and mentioned in their idle chitchat over dinner.
I wonder what I’ll ask for tonight.
She disgusted herself. But was what she was doing really wrong? There were no pimps, no drugs, no disease, no children. She was sleeping with one man, who treated her extremely well. Yes he was married, yes he was paying her, but who was getting hurt?
The wife?
From every indication she had, the wife had brought it upon herself, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, right?
She shook her head. She didn’t want to think about the wife. Every time she did, she felt queasy. Which is what told her, deep down, what she was doing was wrong, but also that she was a good person. Surely a bad person wouldn’t feel guilty?
Richard walked into the room in a housecoat, slightly flushed, with a huge smile on his face. He leaned over and gave her a peck on the forehead. “Thanks, Darling, I needed that.” He sat down in a chair across from her and put his feet up on a table worth more than the annual salary of some.
She smiled at him. It was a genuine smile. She did actually like him. She did actually care for him. She felt sorry for him in some ways, and realized she was not only filling a sexual need that went unanswered at home, but also one of companionship. He needed a friend that wasn’t involved in his work. And she was happy to be it. “Tough day?”
“Tough week.”
“Drink?”
He nodded. “Scotch on the rocks, please.”
She got up and went to the fully stocked liquor cabinet. She tossed a few ice cubes in the crystal glass and poured him an eighteen year old Dalmore scotch, the lush liquid surging over the ice, turning them into a golden kaleidoscope of relief. She poured herself a vodka on ice and brought the two drinks over to where Richard sat, his head leaned back, his eyes closed. She shook the glass slightly, the ice chiming against the sides. He opened his eyes and smiled, taking the proffered glass. She sat down beside him and crossed her legs under her as he took a long drink followed by a satisfied sigh.
She drained half her own glass, put it down on the table, and stretched. “I’m going to get out of these clothes and into something more comfortable.”
He nodded as she grabbed her bag and headed into the bathroom. She quickly stripped, then put on a simple Victoria’s Secret pushup bra and high-cut lace panties. Lifting one of the bathrobes from the hook behind the door, she pulled it on and wrapped it around her, the rich, soft terrycloth enveloping her near naked body.
This is what I should ask for.
It was small, but it would be wonderful. A nice little luxury for the evenings alone in her apartment. She tied up the robe then thought better of it. Better to leave it open so he could get a glimpse of what he was paying for. She untied the belt, and let the robe slip open, revealing her taught, tanned body.
I may be a tramp, but he’s one lucky bastard.
She flicked off the light and returned to the living area where she found Richard struggling to keep his eyes open, his nearly empty glass perched on the arm of this chair, gripped lightly by his hand. She smiled and sat down beside him, curling her legs up. Yawning, she picked up her glass and took a sip as Richard’s head lolled over to the side, looking at her.
“Tired, dear?”
“Something’s wrong,” he whispered, as the glass fell from his hand, bouncing lightly on the carpeted floor.
Shakespeare pulled into a vacant spot in the lab parking lot and spun his legs out the door, then pushed-pulled himself upright. Slamming the door shut behind him, he pressed the fob to activate the alarm, the only aftermarket piece of equipment he dared add to the vehicle. And one he never told his dad about, his naïve argument that no one would dare steal a work of art like a 1959 Cadillac perhaps applying to days gone by, but definitely not m
odern New York City.
He took the elevator down to the basement where Vinny’s crew lurked, and made his way to the morgue. He found MJ at the autopsy table, hosing what looked like their victim from earlier. He looked up when Shakespeare stepped through the double swinging doors. “Hey, Shakes, what’s shakin’?”
“Two cheeks too many. You heard about the ID?”
“Yup. She doesn’t look seventy-two to me.”
Shakespeare nodded as he approached the table. Clearly a young woman, maybe mid-twenties, slightly overweight, blonde. “Anything yet from your end?
MJ shook his head. “I’ve got her prints running now. I’ll get dental x-rays and a photo once I’ve cleaned her up.” He pointed at her fingernails. “This is no drug addict. She’s clean, well groomed, manicure, pedicure, good teeth. Someone will notice her missing.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Cause of death?”
MJ pointed at her skull, deformed at the back from some sort of impact. “Looks like a blow to the head, or more likely, repeated blows to the head from behind, incapacitated her, then”—he motioned for Shakespeare to help him flip her over onto her back—“they slit her throat from ear to ear.”
“Jesus. TOD?”
“The bathtub didn’t help—no way of knowing how hot or cold the water was. I give it anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours before my initial examination.”
“Okay, keep me posted.”
MJ nodded and started spraying the body again. “Will do.”
Shakespeare headed to the door when MJ stopped the spray.
“Forgot. Vinny wants to see you.”
Shakespeare’s shoulders slumped. “Ugh, what does he want?”
MJ shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated manner and turned his palms upward. “The pleasure of your company?”
“The day that bastard enjoys my company is the day I do my first triathlon.”
“Never say never!”
Shakespeare chuckled and walked down the hall to Vinny’s lab, knocking on the door frame. Vinny looked up and waved him in, a momentary frown replaced by a slight smile.
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 5
