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

by J. Robert Kennedy

  “I’ve heard those roofies or whatever they’re called can cause retroactive short-term memory loss. Maybe that’s why you don’t remember being there.”

  She nodded. “Makes sense. But why? Why drug me? And if they drugged me, then they must have drugged him too.”

  “Maybe they drugged Frank too. Maybe you were both murdered.”

  Sarah looked at Patrick, momentarily forgetting she was naked, fear gripping her.

  “H-how did you know his name was Frank?”

  Patrick stood, a smile on his face that soon turned into a lip curling sneer. “Because here, I know everything!” He laughed then pushed against the door at the far end. It opened, the sounds of horror on the other side racing in like a plague of locusts. He turned to face her, his smile one of hate that sent shivers through her naked body despite the heat now pouring through the door.

  “Goodbye, Sarah Paxman, see you soon.”

  The door slammed shut, and a demonic laugh echoed through her eternal chamber as she turned away, burying her head in her huddled corner.

  FIVE

  Richard woke, his head pounding as if from a hangover he had no recollection of deserving. The lights were out, the drapes were drawn, and it took a moment for him to remember where he was. He twisted himself to reach for the lamp he knew would be on the nightstand, and his elbow slipped in something wet, sending his chin into the pillow. He grunted and slid over some more, reaching for the lamp. Finding it, he fumbled for the switch and twisted the tiny knob, the click triggering a flood of light, momentarily blinding him. He blinked several times, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stretched. He looked over his shoulder for Samantha, and gasped.

  Blood was everywhere.

  Everywhere.

  He scrambled to his feet, his head spinning as he scanned the room for someone, anyone, who, he didn’t know, his arms out behind him, searching for a corner to retreat into. Finding it, he pressed himself into the corner, the fear of getting jumped from behind slightly calmed, and listened. Nothing.

  “Samantha?”

  His call was tentative, barely a whisper.

  Nothing.

  “Samantha!”

  This time louder.

  And still nothing.

  He ventured from his corner, slowly making his way around the bed, covered, no, soaked, in blood. There’s no way anyone survived losing that much blood. He peered around the bed, at the floor, and found only a pile of sheets. And a bloody knife sitting on top. He reached for it and saw the blood on his hand. He looked at the bloody handle of the knife, and back at his hand. Did I? Could I?

  He continued forward, into the large ensuite bathroom, and flicked on the light. He gasped. Lying in the tub was Samantha, covered in blood, her matted hair covering her face, slightly turned toward the wall, the tiny butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck unmistakable.

  It was Samantha.

  He looked at his hands and took a step back, toward the door.

  What have I done?

  He looked in the mirror. He was covered in blood, and there was something else. He tentatively touched his neck and winced. He looked closer in the mirror, bending his neck, exposing the left side, revealing three long scratches.

  It was me!

  He turned on the taps and immediately began to wash the blood off his hands, arms and face. He scrubbed and scrubbed, the hot water scalding him, rubbing his skin raw with the soap, the stubborn, sticky mess proving harder to come off than he had imagined. After several minutes he was clean. Exiting to the bedroom, he grabbed his clothes neatly piled on a nearby chair and hurriedly dressed. He retrieved his briefcase, looked about the apartment for anything he might have missed, and headed for the door. He looked out the peephole, saw no one, opened the door and hurried for the elevator.

  What am I going to do?

  Frank stared at the screen as the decryption program churned away, slowly revealing the face behind the swirl. It looked like it wasn’t going to be as easy this time, it having run all night, and still not completed. The edges had revealed themselves; gray hair making an appearance he hoped wasn’t just a calculation error. One thing he was certain of, he didn’t have gray hair, although the past couple of days might certainly induce some premature graying. He glanced at his watch then at the screen, debating on whether or not to go home.

  His phone vibrated with a text message.

  TICK TOCK

  LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK

  I WILL MAKE YOU A BET

  YOU HAVEN’T FOUND IT YET

  Frank snapped his phone shut, and slammed his head against the desk. Why me? What did I ever do to deserve this? He sat back up, his tear filled eyes threatening to spill over the edges and down his cheeks. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them dry. Taking a deep breath, he slowly exhaled, then stared at the image on the screen, trying to decipher the message he had just received. What was it he hadn’t found? If he was supposed to find it, then whoever was playing this game with him must think he’d be looking for it, but that didn’t make sense—his job was not to search.

  Could it be the photo?

  He stared at the screen. That didn’t make sense. How could this person, this killer, know how fast his computers were? No, it had to be something else. Something he was meant to find. He didn’t expect it to be easy, but he expected it to at least be possible. After all, this person, this killer—he had to remember there was a killer, and it couldn’t be him—this killer had warned him in the apartment to leave, seemed to be toying with him, more in a tormenting fashion, as opposed to a “trying to get him arrested” fashion. God knows he could have had me arrested a dozen times by now. His eyes, still staring at the screen, glazed over and drooped.

  I need a coffee.

  He opened the door to the hallway and looked out as nonchalantly as he could, keeping a wary eye out for Trace. The coast clear, he made for the stairwell, and took them two at a time to the ground floor. A brisk walk past the security checkpoints and he was outside, heading for his favorite coffee shop, and a reprieve, though momentary, from the pressures of lying to his fellow officers.

  As he walked, he stared at his feet, only occasionally looking up to ensure he didn’t barrel headlong into someone, lost in his own thoughts. He rounded the corner and saw his caffeine dealer’s façade enticing him in, beckoning him for his thrice daily injection of one of the few legal substances that could get you high. Covering the final few paces to the door, he reached out to open it, and had a crystal clear vision of him opening that very door for Sarah just two days earlier.

  He hesitated.

  Would someone here remember him being with her last night?

  He took his hand off the handle, leaving his arm still outstretched, his fingers hovering over the polished metal. But maybe someone can give you some answers.

  He opened the door, and stepped inside.

  Rachel Thompson’s heart raced.

  He’s so hawt!

  “Ouch!” she yelped, hot coffee overflowing the cup she was filling and burning her fingers.

  “Si-ink!” sang Sandy, the manager and resident asshole. Okay, that was a little harsh. It was just that he seemed to notice everything she did wrong, whether it was here at work, or at drama class at NYU. And the last thing she needed was her mistakes pointed out to her in front of Frank.

  He looks depressed.

  Her burning fingers were momentarily forgotten.

  Sandy tapped her on the shoulder and motioned with his eyes at her fingers. A sheepish smile broke free, and she quickly stepped over to the sink, running cold water over her fingers for several seconds. Not wanting to be taken out of the rotation of baristas, she quickly returned to her station and served up the offending cup after a quick wipe down.

  Her heart leapt when Frank’s order was taken, and it was her turn to make it. She smiled at him as she prepared his coffee, not even bothering to look at the ticket—he always ordered the same thing, a skim milk
latte with a shot of espresso.

  “How are you today?”

  He looked at her, his eyes red, circles under them so dark it was as if someone had pitted them from his soul. But it was the sad look, the sagging outer edges of his mouth, the slack in his forehead, the paleness of his skin, that struck her. This was not the happy guy she was used to seeing.

  Don’t worry my darling, all things work themselves out eventually.

  He seemed to realize she was talking to him after a few moments and shrugged his shoulders as his eyes focused. “Okay, I guess.”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  This seemed to startle him slightly and she immediately regretted saying anything. Keep it together; do you want him to know?

  “Ummm, well, rough night at work”—he glanced at his watch—“or I guess I should say day—” He stopped. “What day is it?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Day, night and day I guess.”

  She took her time, not caring if the line got backed up.

  “Is it that murder in your building?” Shit!

  He bristled and his tone changed. “How’d you know about that?”

  Think! The truth?

  “I live across the street from you, I’ve seen you come in and out of that building for years, and when I saw all the cop cars there yesterday, I figured you may be involved.”

  This seemed to relax him again, and he nodded.

  “Yeah, messy business.” He looked at her as if he wanted to tell her something, his eyes yearning for a vessel to dump everything he was going through into.

  Tell me what you’re feeling! I’m here for you!

  “Can’t talk about it, of course.” He motioned with his eyebrows at the coffee she held in her hand. “Is that ready?”

  She was about to open her mouth when Sandy cut in, taking it from her hand and snapping a lid on it. “Of course it is. Here you go, Frank, hope your weekend improves.”

  Frank took the cup, gave a weak smile, and started to walk away.

  Sandy turned to her. “Listen, Rachel, I need you to focus, we’re shorthanded, and we’re backed up.” He pointed back and forth between her mouth and his. “Less chit chat, more”—he pointed at the tools of her barista trade—“this and that.”

  She blushed, grabbed the next ticket, and when she looked up, was surprised to see Frank standing there.

  “Sorry to bother you again.”

  You can bother me any time.

  “Problem with your order?”

  He shook his head. “No, I was just wondering—” He stopped, as if nervous.

  He’s going to ask you out!

  “Yes?”

  He took a deep breath and rapid fired his question. “I was just wondering if you saw me here Friday night.”

  How could she forget?

  “Yes, I think so. Why?”

  “Was I with someone?”

  Yeah, that fat bitch.

  “Yes, a girl.” She swallowed her bile. “You two seemed to be hitting it off.” He blushed. “Somebody from work?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.” He paused. “Did you see us leave together?”

  God, do I have to relive this?

  She nodded. “Yeah, you two left about an hour after you got here.”

  “Anything weird?”

  Besides the fact you broke my fucking heart?

  “Problem?”

  The stern voice of Sandy startled both of them. Frank recovered first, shaking his head. “No, I was just leaving, thanks.” He turned and left without saying anything else as she turned to face Sandy, who was pointing behind him at the line.

  “Take ticket, make ticket, hand over result of ticket, take next ticket. Got it?”

  Her chin sunk into her chest. “Yes.”

  I hate this life.

  Richard sat in his car, staring straight ahead at nothing. He had pulled through the security gate and into the long drive ending in a cul-de-sac in front of the house, turned off the engine, and stared, his brain still not comprehending what he had seen. What he had done.

  How could I have done such a thing? How could I not remember?

  He shouldn’t have left. He should have tried to help her.

  He shook his head and slammed his palms into the steering wheel.

  No, she was dead.

  Or was she?

  He hadn’t actually checked. Maybe she was still alive.

  I have to be sure.

  He pushed the button to start the car and was startled when he heard his name called. He looked toward the front door of his sixteen bedroom abode, one he thought grossly oversized for their needs, but something his wife had insisted was necessary to match their “station in life”, as she put it. She would have fit well in Victorian England. Her ideas on class made him cringe. Which was one of the reasons he enjoyed spending time with Samantha. She was down to earth, normal, not pretentious and fake like most of the people he was forced to associate with.

  And none were worse than his wife, who now walked toward the car.

  He hit the express-down button for the passenger side window.

  “Yes?”

  “I thought you had business to do?” The accusatory tone revealed none of the joy he felt a wife should feel at her husband unexpectedly coming home early from work.

  “I finished early, but I just realized I forgot something at the office.”

  “Can’t you get it Monday?”

  He shook his head. “No, I need it today. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  She crossed her arms. “Don’t think for a moment I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Richard gulped, a twinge of fear racing through him. How the hell— Then he realized it wasn’t the murder she was talking about. “What do you mean?”

  “You thought I was away this weekend, and now that you know I’m not, you’re leaving again.”

  His mind reeled. He had forgotten she was supposed to be away at a friend’s for some charity event. His eyebrows scrunched. “I forgot you were supposed to be away. Why aren’t you?”

  “How dare you turn this around on me?”

  The screech made him cringe, another tweak of fear rushing through him, leaving a trail of goose bumps. I hate her when she’s like this. “Can I go now?”

  She nodded.

  He slammed the car in gear. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  He hit the gas, leaving her, and her bile, behind.

  Frank sat on a bench, eyes closed, shoulders slouched, chin pressed into his chest. Somebody took the now lukewarm coffee cup from his hand. He tried to open his mouth to protest, but found he couldn’t. Two hands were shoved under his armpits and he felt himself deadlifted to his feet, his own body unable to provide any assistance. It felt cool, almost like a ride at Disney, his body a puppet, his Good Samaritan the marionette. The puppet master swung his arm over their shoulder, and began to half drag, half carry him. He fought to wake up, but couldn’t, his efforts using up the last of his energy as he felt himself drift away.

  He woke, slightly, his only real indicator of anything beyond the fog filling his head was movement. The up and down sway as steps were taken. Steps not taken by him, but by the stranger who now controlled him. He struggled against their arms, but was too weak, and they were too strong, for him to break free. But then again, he could barely walk, so why was he struggling? This person was, after all, helping him. Weren’t they? His head was porridge, the world a blur around him. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, were impossible to lift to get a look at where he was. Sounds were distant echoes, as if he were at the bottom of a pool, listening to the delighted squeals of children playing on the surface and elevators chiming their arrival.

  Elevators? In a pool? What am I doing in a pool? What am I doing in a pool with elevators?

  He forced his eyes open for a moment as he felt himself dragged a few more steps. His back and side hit something hard, and a hand pressed on his chest, pushing him against whatever it was he had h
it. And he saw a bright numeral 2 lit momentarily, then a 3. I’m on an elevator! His mind at ease, he began to drift again when he heard his benefactor mutter.

  “Tick tock, elevator, tick tock. I’m on a schedule here.”

  Frank felt a momentary surge of panic, then blacked out.

  Shakespeare nearly bowled Trace over as they both rounded the corner in opposite directions. He stopped with little difficulty, his pace never quick, but she appeared to have been almost running, and had to put a hand out, pushing against his chest. She took a step back and smiled.

  “Sorry, Shakes.”

  Shakespeare shrugged his shoulders. “No worries. You woulda lost that one, though.”

  “Huh?”

  “Physics.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Shakespeare had the distinct impression she didn’t get his joke, and decided against explaining it.

  “Were you able to save your shirt?”

  Shakespeare shook his head. “Nope, lost cause. I don’t know what that girl ate, but yoikes, it was nasty. I even tried spraying it with some Shout, but no go.

  “Shakespeare the domestic?” Trace gave him an exaggerated, cockeyed look. “I can’t picture it.”

  “I even pick out my own clothes in the morning.” Uh oh.

  She gave him the elevator from top to bottom. “I’d believe that.”

  Aaand there we go. The cop banter, back and forth insults, all in good fun; the only insults he’d experienced over the past few years hurtful, and one way. He had felt he deserved them, and rarely had fought back. But now it seemed his fellow cops were beginning to accept him again. And it felt good.

  “How was our witness?”

  “Oh, she’s a drama queen that one. After spewing on you she fainted when identifying the body. Got her a coffee and sent her on her way before going home myself. I was just coming up to let you know I’m going to pull Angela Henwood’s file, see if we can get a DMV photo, address, next of kin, some background before I start canvassing.”