Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2)

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “Hi, Detective, I see you got my message.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “What’ve you got for me?”

  “Not much.” He held up an evidence bag. “One hair, not belonging to the victim”—he held up a vial with a swab inside—“and one drop of blood, not belonging to the victim.”

  “So they could belong to our killer.”

  “Or the old lady who’s supposed to actually be living there.”

  Shakespeare nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Beside the photo, which is obviously a plant, there’s nothing. That apartment was wiped down clean from top to bottom. I swabbed all the usual places, plus our secret”—he signaled the significance with air quotes—“places, and still nothing. Even door jambs were wiped down. This guy knew all our tricks.”

  “A cop?”

  Vinny’s jaw dropped slightly. “God, I hope not. Not after—”

  Shakespeare held up his hand. “Any chance at DNA?”

  “I’m working on it, should have results tomorrow.”

  “Okay, keep me posted.”

  “Will do.”

  Shakespeare left the lab, never having fully entered, one foot the entire time in the hall. He took the elevator to see the kid. As he stepped out, he saw a vending machine beckoning him like a desert oasis. Don’t. His stomach rumbled. Are you kidding me? You just ate. He stopped, hesitating. Something small, but you have to take the stairs for the rest of the day.

  Rationalized, he headed to the machine, fishing out his wallet.

  He punched B3 into the machine and frowned as his reward for a future effort yet to be completed dropped to the bottom, and the sense of guilt momentarily filled him.

  You’re pathetic.

  He opened the Snickers bar and took a bite, finding momentary solace in the carbohydrate laden treat.

  Completely pathetic.

  Frank stared in stunned silence at the nearly perfect image before him. The descrambling process on the swirl hadn’t taken long. Whoever had created the swirl had taken the generic settings of the program and used them with no variations. This was always used as the starting point when unswirling an image, but it never worked—most criminals disguising their faces like this were smart enough to randomize the settings, causing law enforcement to use brute force techniques to descramble the image, and that assumed they hadn’t done something else to the image—one swirl could be undone. Two or more, with some other alternation, and there was no hope. Unfortunately many times law enforcement had to rely on the overconfidence of the offender, usually a pedophile. The cockier they were, the less effort they seemed to go to hide their identity.

  But not today.

  Today it was as if whoever had altered the photograph had wanted it to be unscrambled with ease, and alacrity. It had only taken a few hours, almost unheard of, but there it was. A woman’s face. Beautiful, young, blonde.

  And not Sarah.

  Frank continued to stare, not sure what to make of it. If it wasn’t Sarah, then who was with this unidentified woman in the photo? And if this wasn’t Sarah, was the victim in the tub Sarah, or this woman? And if it wasn’t Sarah, then why the hell was he in the apartment?

  If only I could remember!

  He smacked his palm against his forehead.

  “Something wrong, kid?”

  Frank nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the voice, his head twisting rapidly toward the entrance of his lab.

  Shakespeare stood in the entrance, chomping on a chocolate bar, frowning.

  “Ah, no, I mean—”

  Get it together!

  He took a deep breath and pointed at the screen. “Look.”

  Shakespeare walked over to his workstation and looked at the blown up image displayed there. “Is this the woman in the photograph?”

  Frank nodded. “Yes. “

  “I thought you said it would take a few days?”

  Frank bobbed his head up and down, a little too quickly. He stopped. “Well, you see, it was too easy!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, whoever did this, didn’t try very hard. They left everything at the defaults, like either they didn’t know what they were doing, or—”

  “Or they wanted it to be easy so you’d be guaranteed to identify her.”

  Frank nodded.

  “What about the man?” asked Shakespeare.

  “I’ve got him running now, but preliminaries look like he might be harder to identify, the default swirl pattern didn’t work.”

  “Okay, print me off that photo, and run it through facial recognition, see if you can find a match. Make sure you hit missing persons.”

  Frank nodded and hit a few keys. A color laser printer nearby powered up, spitting out a perfect copy within seconds.

  Shakespeare grabbed the photo and left the lab, leaving Frank trembling at his keyboard.

  He had just lied to a cop, to one of his fellow co-workers who were supposed to uphold the law, just as he was. He had just lied for the first time in his career, and he was nearly sick over it.

  He clicked a few keys, starting the analysis of the man for the first time, not, as he had told Shakespeare, for additional analysis. He had yet to try the “out of the box” reversal. Instead, he had told Shakespeare what he needed him to hear, just in case the photo did turn out to be him. He would know in a couple of hours if the analysis proved as easy as the first.

  And if it was him, it would give him a day or two to decide what to do.

  Shakespeare made a bold decision; he took the stairs. It was only six flights, down, not up, but it was the first time he had voluntarily taken the stairs in years.

  Baby steps.

  It still winded him slightly, and he stood in the stairwell catching his breath for a few moments. His racing heart calmed, he opened the door to the CSU labs and stepped into the hallway, nearly mowing Vinny down.

  “Jesus!” exclaimed Vinny, his jaw dropping slightly when he realized who it was. “You took the stairs?”

  Shakespeare frowned. “What’s it to you?”

  Vinny shrugged. “Nothin’.” He made a show of looking down both ends of the hallway. “But if I see four horsemen, I’m outta here.”

  Shakespeare chuckled as Vinny walked toward his lab.

  Me taking the stairs is one of the signs of the apocalypse. Now that’s funny.

  He pushed the double swinging doors open to the autopsy room and saw MJ sewing closed the chest of their victim.

  “Shakes, you still here?”

  Shakespeare had to admit he always felt good when dealing with MJ. He always seemed happy to see him, unlike most of the others. Shakespeare held up the photo, a smile on his face.

  “Hey, MJ. Our young computer whiz has the first face from the photo. Thought I’d see if we have a match, now that you’ve got her cleaned up.”

  Jenkins reached up and focused the overhead light on the young woman’s face, now cleaned of any blood, her hair neatly combed back from his search for trace evidence. “Let’s have a look.”

  Shakespeare held the photo beside her face and raised his eyebrows.

  “That’s definitely not her,” said Jenkins, echoing Shakespeare’s thoughts.

  “Well, if this isn’t her”—Shakespeare shook the photo—“then who the hell is she, and why the hell was her photo left at this one’s murder scene?”

  Jenkins shook his head. “You’re the detective, Detective. That’s above my pay grade.”

  Shakespeare grunted. “If I had your money, I’d burn mine.”

  Jenkins stretched. “Hah! I think you have this poor public servant confused with a brain surgeon.”

  “Gotta have a brain to be—”

  “Get your ass outta here before I open you up to see what’s inside!”

  Shakespeare laughed and headed to the door.

  “Have you sent her to facial yet?”

  Jenkins nodded.

  “Yup, a few minutes ago. Hopefully they can find her in mi
ssing persons.”

  Shakespeare nodded.

  “Once the kid figures out who the other person is in the photo, that might help.”

  “You never know.” Jenkins held up a curved needle, examined it under the light, then leaned over, plunging it through the skin on one side of the chest cavity, then pulling it up and through the other side, yanking it tight, closing the wound a bit more.

  Shakespeare grimaced.

  I sure hope he gets paid more than me.

  Trace stood in the center of the apartment, her trained eye going over every square inch, finding nothing. The body was gone, the CSU team had finished, the canvassing of the neighbors had proved fruitless, and Shakespeare had the lead. She couldn’t believe it. Case after case over the past few weeks had gone to Eldridge, and now that he was gone, they were going to Shakespeare. So much for getting my shot. She knew it was a shitty way to get ahead, over the body of a fallen comrade, but sometimes that’s the way things had to be. It wasn’t like she killed him.

  There was a knock on the door.

  She spun on her heel and quickly walked toward the entrance, opening the door.

  A young woman on the other side jumped back, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

  “I-I’m sorry, I must have the wrong apartment.”

  Trace pulled her badge off her hip and showed it to the woman. “Detective Trace, Homicide.” She noted the woman’s face turn a shade paler. “And you are?”

  “Jackie, Jackie St. Jean.” Her eyes darted to the apartment number on the door. “Did you say Homicide?”

  Trace nodded. Uh oh, this won’t be pretty.

  “Is, is Angela okay?”

  Trace pulled out her pad and noted down the woman’s name. “Did Angela live in this apartment?”

  “Yes. Is she okay?”

  “What was her last name?”

  “Henwood. Would you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Can you describe her for me please?”

  “I don’t know. Blonde, your height, I guess.”

  “White?”

  “Yes.”

  “A little, shall we say, plump?”

  Jackie frowned. “A little.”

  “Did she live here alone?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Who’s Larissa Channing?”

  “Who?”

  Don’t play dumb with me kid. “Larissa Channing.”

  “Oh, that was her Grandmother.”

  “Was?”

  “She passed away about six months ago.”

  “And why was her name still on the lease?”

  Jackie looked at the floor.

  “Look, you’re not going to get your friend in trouble.”

  Jackie looked up. “Well, you know, its rent controlled, so, when her Grandmother died, she just didn’t tell the landlord.”

  Trace nodded, having heard it dozens of times before. If you could get a rent controlled apartment in New York City, it was something you held onto for dear life. She pulled out her cellphone and flipped to the picture of their victim, sent over by Jenkins earlier.

  “Is this your friend?” She held the phone up so Jackie could see.

  She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, nodding. “Oh my God. What happened to her?”

  “Is this your friend?”

  Her head bobbed rapidly. “Yes!”

  “And this is Angela Henwood?”

  Again, her head bobbed. “Yes.”

  Trace waved Jackie into the apartment, motioning to a nearby chair. “Have a seat, I’ll need to take a statement from you.” She dialed Shakespeare’s number and waited. His gruff voice answered on the second ring.

  “Shakespeare.”

  “Hey, Shakes, it’s Amber. I’ve got an ID on our vic.”

  “Excellent! Who is it?”

  “Angela Henwood. She lived here with her Grandmother, Larissa Channing, who passed away a few months ago.”

  “Let me guess, rent controlled?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, I’ll run her name through the system and see what we’ve got.”

  “Okay, I’m gonna get a formal statement from the vic’s friend who just showed up here, and then I’ll see you at the station.”

  “10-4.”

  She hung up and sat down beside a now visibly shaken Jackie. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

  Jackie nodded. “Can I get a drink?”

  Trace gave a by-your-leave wave.

  Jackie rose from her chair and opened several cupboards before finding the glasses. Removing one, she filled it with tap water, then sat back down when Trace suddenly twigged on something.

  “You didn’t know where the glasses were.”

  “Huh?” Jackie shrugged her shoulders. “I guess Angela always got the drinks.”

  But Trace wasn’t listening to the explanation, her mind fixated on one burning question.

  How did Frank know where to get the glass from?

  FOUR

  Sarah woke, her head pounding, her mouth dry, but not dry enough for a hangover. She opened her eyes, and closed them again, not sure what she had just seen. She rubbed the corners of her eyes with her knuckles and opened them again. She was in a dimly lit—what? It looked like a featureless rectangle, about ten feet wide, maybe twenty feet long, with the ceiling also about ten feet high. The walls were featureless save for a door at the other end with no handle. The dim, reddish light came from above, but the actual source was hidden somehow. She stared at the ceiling and noticed the light seemed to pulse, with the occasional flicker of yellow and orange.

  Then she heard the sounds.

  And her heart stopped, then shoved against her chest in absolute terror.

  Screams of horror.

  Cries of pain.

  Crackling of fire.

  She sniffed.

  It smelled like rotten eggs. Sulfur?

  She noticed she was warm. She felt the floor with her hands. Warm to the touch. She felt the walls. The same. Then she noticed she was naked. She closed her legs and covered her breasts with her arms, trying to make herself as small as possible, embarrassment momentarily taking over from fear.

  Where am I?

  She began to sob, covering her ears, trying to block the sounds of horror on the other side of the walls, trying to remember what had happened. She remembered going for coffee with Frank, but nothing else. Something must have happened. Something sudden.

  And there could be only one explanation.

  She was dead.

  And she knew where she was.

  Hell.

  What other explanation could there be? But what did I do that was so bad to deserve this? I’ve led a good life. I’ve never hurt anyone, I’ve never stolen, or cheated, or killed. She made a quick mental tally of the Ten Commandments, unable to remember them all, but certain she hadn’t broken any of them, at least not in a way worthy of eternal damnation.

  Why, God, why?

  The sound changed.

  She uncovered her ears.

  A voice. Deep, growling, bestial, terrifying. Demonic.

  “Sarah Paxman.”

  Her heart pounded harder, she felt the world start to spin.

  “Sarah Paxman. Can you hear me?”

  She said nothing.

  “Answer me!” The room shook and she yelped.

  “Yes! Yes! I can hear you!” she cried.

  “Sarah Paxman, do you know where you are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sarah Paxman, do you know why you are here?”

  “N-no.”

  “Liar!” Again the room shook. “Search your soul, you know the reasons, you know the sins you have committed.”

  She trembled as she pushed herself into the nearest corner, but there was no escaping the voice. It filled the room; it filled everything, as if it were actually in her mind. “I-I don’t know!”

  “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. You
shall have no other gods before Me.”

  The first commandment? “I d-don’t understand.”

  “Have you not prayed to other gods, practiced blasphemous superstitions? Have you not knocked on wood, tossed salt over your shoulder, shivered at the sight of a black cat, gambled and prayed for success?” The voice dripped with sarcasm, with scorn at each of the things it mentioned, and with a hint of delight as she nodded her head, knowing she had indeed done all of these things. “You shall not take the name of the Lord your God in vain, for the Lord will not hold him guiltless who takes His name in vain.”

  She cried out, “God forgive me!” She knew all were guilty of this commandment. How can anyone escape?

  “There is no forgiveness here. Forgiveness is unknown. Here there is only pain. Here there is only suffering.”

  Her head throbbed, her rushing blood pounded in her ears.

  “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work, but the seventh day is the Sabbath of the Lord your God. In it you shall do no work.”

  Her heart sank. How many Sundays had she worked, trying to get ahead in her career? How many Sundays had she made excuses to not go to church, then, when out of her parents’ house, had she even gone once?

  “Honor your father and your mother, that your days may be long upon the land which the Lord your God is giving you.”

  How many times had she fought with her parents? How many times had she had ill thoughts toward them when she was younger?

  “You shall not covet your neighbor's house.”

  How many times had she wished she had a bigger apartment, more money, a nicer car? How many times had she been jealous of others around her?

  “These are your sins. Are you prepared to pay the price for your sacrilegious life?”

  She wailed in terror, in heartbreak, in regret.

  “Are you prepared?” the voice thundered.

  She nodded. “Y-yes, y-yes I-I’m prepared.”

  “Then so it shall be. For eternity.”

  A deafening roar like nothing she had ever heard filled the space around her, so loud she felt the floor and walls vibrate. After a few moments it died away, leaving her with the comparably peaceful wails and screams of those who were sharing her experience.