She pushed herself harder into the corner and hugged her knees, burying her head between them, pressing them tightly against her ears.
And cried.
Trace wasn’t sure what to think. Or do. How did Frank know where the glasses were? Of course, it could be completely innocent. Maybe everyone in that apartment complex kept their glasses in the same cupboard. Maybe there was something unique to the design that made putting the glasses in that particular cupboard an obvious choice. Or maybe he just made a lucky guess?
But she wasn’t buying it.
The kid had fainted. Who faints outside of women in old movies? This kid saw the body, dropped like a sack of potatoes, and grabbed the only piece of solid evidence they had, damaging it in the process. But there was no way she could see him as a murderer. The kid was too meek, too quiet. It’s always the quiet ones.
The elevator doors opened and she held out her hand, inviting her witness, Jackie St. Jean, to exit. She led her past the squad room and deposited her in an interrogation room. “I’ll be with you shortly.” She closed the door and walked back to the squad room. She spotted Shakespeare sitting at his desk, a frown on his face, almost looking a little green if she didn’t know better.
“Hey, Shakes, you okay?”
He looked up and gave a half-hearted smile. “I’ll live, at least for another day or two.”
She wasn’t sure if he was joking.
She thumbed over her shoulder at the interrogation room several walls away. “Witness in Interrogation Two, Jackie St. Jean, knew our vic.”
“Why’s she here?”
Trace hesitated. Should she tell him? No. Not until you’re sure.
“Something came up I needed to check on stat, so I brought her here for a proper debrief.” She started to walk toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.” Shakespeare grunted and one last look over her shoulder found him frowning again, staring at his garbage can.
Fifteen minutes later she was in Queens, bounding up the stairs to Frank’s lab. Taking a deep breath, her hand poised over the handle, she exhaled and dropped her hand, opening the door and pushing her way inside.
It was empty.
On a screen she saw an enlarged image of their victim, and on another screen, an enlarged image of a rapidly clearing picture of a man, his details still too obscured to recognize. She stared at it, fascinated, as tiny crosshairs appeared and disappeared, hundreds per second, imperceptibly changing the image.
Cool!
She sat down in a high-back chair in front of the monitors, and watched for a few minutes. She squinted slightly, in the hopes it might make the image clearer, to no avail. She leaned further back. No effect. She heard the door open as she noticed something that had become clear over the past few minutes.
The hair.
She felt her chair rock back and spin, then a yelp.
“Jesus Christ, Detective!”
She looked at Frank, one hand over his heart, the other gripping a Diet Pepsi. “Frank.” She frowned. “A little jumpy today, aren’t we?”
Frank shook his head. “No, just, well, I didn’t see you there, and well, I wasn’t exactly expecting anyone.”
She pointed at a nearby chair. “Have a seat.” She knew full well she was in his seat, but she wanted him uncomfortable. After all, this was his home, his territory, his lair. And she needed him unsettled. She could take him to an interrogation room, but that would make this formal, and if her hunch proved incorrect, she didn’t want to ruin the kid’s career.
Frank looked behind him, and sat down, clearly out of sorts.
“Now tell me how you’re mixed up in this.”
Frank’s face went white.
If Frank hadn’t been sitting, he probably would have collapsed again, but this time he kept a grip. What kind of wimp am I? He took a slow, deep breath, and focused on the Diet Pepsi bottle in his hand. Staring at it, rather than Trace, he gripped the top and slowly twisted, the satisfying hiss of greenhouse gasses escaping the pressurized container seemed loud in the silence that consumed the space between them, the hum and buzz of dozens of computers tuned out as the background noise it was.
He took a sip.
This is your lab. You’ve done nothing wrong. He knew that was bullshit, but he was sure he wasn’t a murderer. At least he hoped he wasn’t. He stole a glance at the screen. Gray hair? “Wh-what did you say?”
“I said”—Trace leaned forward—“tell me how you’re mixed up in all this.”
Frank’s heart slammed against his chest as he tried to sound as calm as possible. “What do you mean?” He took another sip.
Trace’s demeanor suddenly changed, her eyebrows narrowed, her eyes, cold and focused, glared at him. “How the hell did you know where the glasses were in that apartment!” she snapped at him.
He couldn’t help it. He pushed back in the chair, the rollers sending him gliding several inches before slamming into a table behind him. His left hand squeezed the arm of the chair, his right squeezing the bottle, its cool refreshing cola spurting out the top like a grade six science experiment.
“Because it’s where I keep my glasses!” he blurted out.
This seemed to catch her off guard. She paused in her attack for a moment, giving him time to recover. He leaned forward, dipping his head so he could hide his face, and switched the bottle to his dry hand. He shook the liquid off and wiped what remained on his pant leg.
“What do you mean, it’s where you keep your glasses?”
She sounded unsure, as if the wind had been taken out of her sails. In fact, he knew he had her, his mind proving even more brilliant than he had thought possible under this kind of pressure. The truth was he didn’t keep his glasses in the same place—their apartments were nothing alike. But somehow his brain had spit out a completely logical, reasonable response. Except it was a bald-faced lie, and if she were to check his apartment, she’d know this immediately.
But she’d need a warrant for that.
But he could never demand a warrant; they’d know for sure he was mixed up in this.
Now how do you get out of this?
“I mean, I put my glasses in the center cupboard, just like her. I guess it just seemed logical.”
Good one!
Trace smiled and stood up. “I guess that explains that.”
Frank breathed a sigh of relief, perhaps a little too loudly.
“How ’bout you show me.”
Shakespeare sat at his desk, eyeing the empty one across from him. He closed his eyes and could picture the last time he sat here with his partner, going through stacks of threats. It was good old fashioned police work, something he hadn’t done in a long time. And it had felt good.
His stomach growled.
He absentmindedly patted it. It wasn’t a good growl. That chocolate bar with extra peanuts wasn’t sitting well, probably his body’s way of saying, “Huh? Are you serious with this shit?” He eyed the balled up wrapper at the bottom of the garbage can sitting beside his beat up press wood desk. You’re evil. His stomach churned in agreement. He closed his eyes, a wave of self-pity rushing through him. Why do you do it to yourself? You’re so pathetic.
“Shakes!”
Almost nothing startled him, not even the LT’s yells across the squad room. He had always thought it was just his nerves of steel. Now however he wondered if it was just his body protecting itself from ever having to move quickly. He opened his eyes and turned his chair toward the voice.
“Yes, LT?”
“Is that your witness sitting in Interrogation Two?” Phillips stood in the doorway to the squad room, his three piece suit setting him apart from the rest of the slightly more casually dressed.
“Huh?” Shakespeare had to think for a moment. “No, Trace brought her in.” He glanced at his watch. “Why? She not there?”
Phillips shook his head. “No.”
Shakespeare threw his arms and legs forward, changing his center of gravity for the smooth, graceless moti
on required to exit his chair without a monumental struggle. “How ’bout I go do that interview, eh boss?”
“What a wonderful idea,” said Phillips as he quickly crossed the squad room floor, his long strides chewing up the distance in moments, a slight smile on his face.
By now Shakespeare was standing. He stuffed his shirt tails back into his pants, grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair and, shoving one arm in, swung the rest around his back and shrugged his other arm in, taking a quick look at his armpit as he did so. Damn! A circle of moisture had appeared, the air conditioning in the squad room leaving something to be desired. He made a mental note to use his Drysol later that night, and headed down the hall to Interrogation Two. He rapped twice on the door then opened it to find a startled, teary eyed young woman sitting at the table.
“Wh-who are you?”
Shakespeare sat down across from her and pulled his notebook and pen from his coat pocket.
“I’m Detective Shakespeare. Detective Trace asked me to finish your interview as she had a more pressing matter to attend to.” What that could have been, who knows? “Now, how about we start from the beginning, then we’ll have you identify the victim.”
She turned a special kind of pale. “Identify? Do you mean, see her? See her, you know, dead body?”
Shakespeare nodded.
Young Jackie St. Jean hurled across the table, covering his favorite shirt in her favorite lunch.
Trace eyeballed Brata for a reaction, but received the same scared, confused expression he’d sported all day. What is this kid hiding? How bad could it be that he had to lie to cops, to his friends? She simply couldn’t picture him as a murderer; he just didn’t fit the profile. And what happened to Angela Henwood did not appear to be some sort of accident he may have tried to cover up. Then what the hell is it? Her mind flashed to Eldridge. Could it be that? Could it be as simple as him still being shook up over the previous weeks’ events? They were all shaken by it. The squad room was on eggshells, people continually eying his empty desk, that up until the night, you could expect to see him occupying when you came in early, or left late. He was dedicated to his job.
When the hell did he find the time—?
She cut off the thought. Enough! She, and the others, had to stop dwelling on this, had to move on. Her eyes focused on Brata again. Maybe that is all that’s going on.
She slapped him on his shoulder as she rose from the chair. “Never mind, Frank, I’m sure you’re telling the truth.”
He seemed to blush at that.
Returning to the Bureau, she took the stairs two at a time to the squad room. Pushing open the door, she entered the hallway and saw Shakespeare closing the door to one of the interrogation rooms, his arms outstretched, holding his sport coat open, his upper back hunched over, and a look of disgust plastered on his face as he looked down at his shirt.
She looked.
Ugh!
“What the hell happened to you?”
Shakespeare looked up at her as she approached. And frowned.
“Your”—his tone did the jabbing his blazer filled fingers couldn’t—“witness just blew chunks all over the Interrogation room and me.”
Trace covered her mouth with her hand, not wanting Shakespeare to see the smile about to break out.
“Oh my”—she stifled a giggle—“I’m so sorry. Any”—another giggle, this time aloud—“anything I can do?”
Shakespeare tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “Whaddaya think?”
She looked at his shirt. “How ’bout I call maintenance and have the room cleaned?”
“That’d be a good start.” Shakespeare headed toward the men’s room. “And have Little Miss Hurler formally ID her friend.”
Trace watched Shakespeare push the bathroom door open with his back, and burst into laughter as his large frame disappeared.
“Glad someone’s enjoying this!” she heard him yell as the door closed behind him.
“Ready?” Trace looked at Jackie St. Jean, who still appeared woozy from her earlier barf and bawl. I wonder how Shakes is doing with those stains. She smiled. Inwardly. After calling maintenance and collecting St. Jean, they had immediately gone to the morgue, something St. Jean was clearly not relishing. She squeezed Jackie’s arm slightly, in an attempt to feed her some of her own strength. “It’s okay, you can do this.”
Jackie looked at her, apparently unconvinced, but nodded. MJ drew the sheet down, revealing their victim’s face, and Trace, now gripping Jackie’s arm, slowly lowered the now fainted witness to the floor.
“Well, that went well.”
Trace frowned at MJ. “Love your gallows humor.”
He shrugged. “Hey, you work down here all day, you kind of have to. Usually my audience collapses before my jokes.”
Trace cringed. “Not funny.”
“Whaddaya expect? I’m used to my audience not heckling me.” He pointed at the rows of drawers containing dozens of the latest deaths from around their borough. “Actually, I’m used to dead silence.”
Trace looked down at Jackie. “Please wake up soon, I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
MJ looked over the table containing their vic, and at Jackie. “Take your time, the audience and I aren’t going anywhere.”
Trace looked at him. “You do realize you’re not even funny?”
MJ nodded. “Like I said, whaddaya expect? I get no feedback from my audience, no critical reviews of my work.”
Trace raised her hand to stop him as she saw movement from Jackie. She knelt down beside her. “You okay?”
Jackie’s eyes fluttered, then opened. “Wh-what happened?”
“You fainted,” the ever helpful MJ offered from out of Jackie’s sight. Trace glanced over her shoulder and frowned, noticing the voice sounded as if it had come from the body occupying the slab.
Trace pulled Jackie to her feet, and dusted her off. “Let’s get this over with so you can get out of here.” She pointed at the body. “Is this Angela Henwood?”
Jackie took a quick glance and nodded, tears pouring from her eyes. “Yes.”
“Good enough for me!” MJ pulled the sheet back over Angela’s face as Trace turned Jackie away from the sight, leading her from the Morgue Comedy Club.
“Let’s get you some coffee.”
Sarah lazily opened her eyes, a restless sleep providing little in the way of comfort. She ached all over, her naked body still huddled in the corner. Her entire upper body was racked in pain from sobbing for hours before falling asleep. Now she was paying for both her self-pity, and her lack of bedding.
“Wh-where am I?”
Sarah nearly jumped up, instead her feet shoving her tighter into the corner as her head spun toward the voice. A man, perhaps in his late forties, was huddled in the corner opposite her, clearly terrified. She noted with a touch of bitterness he was fully clothed, a plaid tam-o-shanter hat covered his scalp, a patterned golf shirt, loud golf knickers, white socks and bright red shoes, the cleats knotted in freshly mowed grass, completed his ensemble.
“Where am I?” he repeated, staring at her.
She looked down at her naked body, and tried to cover herself by strategically placing hands, legs, and arms.
“Hell.”
The one word, voiced by her, sent shivers through her body, the goose bumps raising the hairs on her arms, triggering an overwhelming sense of remorse, filling her from within, then spewing forth in an uncontrollable surge of emotion, tears pouring from her eyes, sobs shaking her body.
“We’re in hell,” she cried. “We’re being punished for our sinful lives.”
She couldn’t hear what the man whispered, her own sobs too loud, the cries and moans on the other side of their prison walls seeming louder than before. The man curled up into a ball, mimicking her, and slowly slid to his side, the stunned expression on his face revealing the horror he now felt.
“What’s your name?”
He looked up at her.
“Wh-what?”
“I’m Sarah. What’s your name?”
“Patrick.”
“What do you remember?”
Patrick sat back up, his eyes glazed over, as if searching back in time to when he had been alive, to a time before this infernal damnation they both faced.
“I was golfing,” he said at last, his gaze still distant. “I missed a two foot putt. I was so angry. If that fuck Tony hadn’t insisted on no gimmies—” Patrick took a deep breath and looked at Sarah, exhaling. “I threw my putter at the golf cart. It ricocheted off the back, and hit Tony in the head. The last thing I remember is a pain in my shoulder, then I collapsed.”
“Heart attack?”
Patrick shrugged. “Probably.” He looked around. “Doesn’t explain why I’m here though.”
“Maybe Tony died?”
Patrick nodded slowly. “Murder.” He looked at Sarah. “And you?”
She tried to make herself even smaller, his gaze making her uncomfortable. He seemed to read her mind, and look away.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were, well, naked.”
Sarah didn’t say anything.
Patrick looked at his own clothes. “If I’m wearing what I was when I died, why are you naked?”
Sarah blushed. All over it felt like. “I think I was with a man.”
“Think?”
A new shade of red was discovered. “I don’t really remember.”
“Ahhhh, partying.”
She shook her head. “No, that’s just it. I remember going to a coffee shop with him, then nothing.”
Patrick looked at her. “That’s odd. Did he drug you?”
She shook her head. “No, not him. He works for the NYPD. So do I, actually. No, he wouldn’t do it, but somebody must have. If I died, you’d think I’d have some memory of it, unless I was asleep, or drugged at the time.”
“And you don’t remember leaving the coffee shop?”
“No, not at all. I remember us ordering coffees, but only vaguely.”
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 7
