Frank’s phone vibrated. Shakespeare, still holding it from earlier, raised it and pressed the button to view the message that had just arrived.
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
TO THE DETECTIVES ON THE CASE
I WELCOME YOU ALL TO THE RACE
Shakespeare frowned.
This isn’t good.
SEVEN
Vinny glanced up from his customary walkthrough to see Shakespeare and the kid enter the apartment. He noticed Shakespeare had a hand on Frank’s shoulder, apparently trying to comfort him. I know I wouldn’t want to see this coming home. There were half a dozen techs working the scene along with several uniforms outside providing security. And Trace, sitting on a couch near the window. All she had said since he arrived were “body’s in the bathroom” and “ignore the chair”. He eyed the office chair with bits of duct tape still stuck to it. Why the hell am I ignoring a key piece of evidence?
Shakespeare walked toward the bedroom with Frank in tow, and motioned to Trace and Vinny to join him. Vinny was about to tell him he was busy when he decided against it. Something was going on here, and he wanted to know what. For example, why wasn’t the kid in handcuffs? This was his apartment, so he’d be the most likely suspect. And he’d been acting a little strange lately, so he was at least a person of interest.
“Close the door.”
Vinny closed the bedroom door and walked over to the dresser, half sitting on it. “Okay, is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on?”
Shakespeare looked around, frowned, and sat on the bed. Trace leaned against an armoire occupying one corner, and Frank merely sank down on his haunches, leaning against the wall, the lone window above his head.
“Okay, what we’re about to tell you doesn’t leave this room until I say so, got it?”
Vinny frowned at Shakespeare. “What is this, national security? Let’s get serious; what the hell are you talking about?”
“Promise it.” This time it was Trace asking. Her arms were crossed; there was no humor in her eyes. She was serious.
“Jesus,” muttered Vinny. Then, raising his hands in defeat, “Okay, I swear, not a word.”
The room seemed to let out a collective sigh, and Shakespeare began. “Our friend over here has gotten himself into some trouble.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“I’m not a murderer!” yelped Frank.
“Shhh!” admonished Trace. “Do you want everyone out there to hear you?”
Frank’s head dropped between his knees.
“Here’s the skinny. Friday night he meets Sarah Paxman from HR in the elevator. He asks her out for coffee and they go to his regular haunt, La Barista, two blocks from here. He wakes up the next day, remembering almost nothing, evidently dosed the night before.”
Vinny let out a slow whistle. “Where’s Sarah?”
Shakespeare ignored the question. “He woke up in the apartment downstairs, our crime scene from yesterday”—Vinny’s eyes shot open—“with the body in the tub, no photo in sight. He then proceeded to scrub the scene clean—”
“You did what?”
“—then was about to leave when he received two text messages.” Shakespeare handed a cellphone to Vinny. He read the first message, then the second, his eyes now even wider. He glanced at the kid, starting to understand why he wasn’t handcuffed. “He then made it back to his apartment, flushed the evidence of his cleanup, and cleaned himself up when he was called to come and look at the photo.”
“So that’s why you missed the funeral.”
Frank’s head popped up from between his knees, his eyes red with tears. “I really wanted to go, I swear it, but—” He shrugged and splayed his hands.
“I understand, kid, don’t worry about it.”
Shakespeare continued. “He then went about doing what we asked him to do, analyzing the photo, and during this time, received additional text messages. Earlier today he went to the same coffee shop, and woke up here, with no memory of how he got here. He remembers a man’s voice saying the same first line from the text messages, but nothing else. That’s when he found the body in the tub, and Trace arrived. He knocked her out”—Vinny shot a glance, mouthing ‘are you okay?’ to which she replied with a nod—“and taped her to the chair. He then received another text message suggesting whoever was behind this knew what he had just done”—Vinny scrolled through the messages finding the one in question—“and proceeded to search his apartment, finding a camera hidden in the duct work in the kitchen. He was then about to free Trace when I arrived. He gave us a full statement, and we then proceeded to check out the original crime scene, and found another camera. That’s when we received the last text message.”
Vinny read it and let out a slow breath. “Man, this is heavy. How’re we going to handle this? The kid tampered with a crime scene, withheld evidence, attacked a cop, hell, he broke nearly every damned rule in the book.”
“He was being framed. Would you have done any different?” asked Trace, pushing herself off the armoire with her hips.
Vinny shrugged. “I have no idea.” It was an honest answer. He really did have no idea. He looked at Frank. The poor kid must have been going crazy. “Looks to me like we need to think about this logically.”
“We’re open to suggestions,” said Shakespeare. “Shoot.”
“First, where is Sarah?”
“APB out on her now.”
Vinny nodded. “Second, there’s no evidence of Frank being at the first crime scene. Does anybody need to know he was there?”
Shakespeare nodded. “I see where you’re going with this. No, there’s no need, since there’s no evidence, however, if evidence is discovered placing him there, and he hasn’t come clean, then he’s up shit creek.”
“Agreed.” Vinny looked at Frank. “That camera you found, do you think you’ll be able to trace where the signal was going?”
Frank nodded. “Sure, I just need to get it and my equipment together, and I’ll be able to pull the IP address—”
Vinny help up his hand. “No details needed, the ‘Yes’ is good enough for me.”
“So we’re agreed he has to come clean on everything about the first crime scene?” asked Shakespeare.
Everyone in the room nodded, including Frank who pushed himself up the wall and now stood in front of the window.
“Okay, so then now the only question that remains is the second crime scene. Nothing to really hide here, except what he did to Trace.”
“I don’t see why anyone needs to know about that,” said Trace.
“Agreed. Is there any way to hide that the chair exists? Not to mention the knife on the floor and the wads of duct tape?” asked Shakespeare.
“Most of that isn’t a problem,” said Trace, patting her jacket. “I’ve got the knife in here, and pulled all the duct tape I could off the chair. “Unless someone else thinks to check the chair, we should be okay.”
Vinny shook his head. “The residue from the tape’s already been noticed by me so someone else most likely noticed it as well.”
“Yeah, but with no other evidence surrounding the chair, it could be explained away somehow.” Trace paused, tapping her chin. “But how?”
Shakespeare snapped his fingers. “We don’t know what happened to Frank while he was out. He could have been taped to the chair by the killer, then freed, and the killer cleaned up the evidence. We have no way of knowing. Let’s just leave it as an unexplained.”
“That works,” said Vinny as Trace nodded her consent.
“Guys, you’re forgetting one thing.”
The room turned to Frank.
“What’s that?” asked Shakespeare.
“The camera. Anything I did was caught by that camera. If that video gets out, then we’re all in deep shit and I don’t want anyone getting in trouble for what I did.”
“Dammit, forgot about that!” muttered Shakespeare. He took a deep breath. “Okay, so basically,
what we’re saying here, is that he has to come clean about everything, including Trace.”
“Yes, but I won’t be pressing charges, so hopefully he won’t get in trouble for that, we should be able to keep that fairly quiet. And if we can convince the LT and the DA that he’s been manipulated by the killer through those text messages, he might be okay.”
“It’s a stretch, but I don’t see that we have any other choice,” said Vinny.
“Agreed.” Shakespeare struggled up from the bed. Vinny was about to extend him a hand when Shakespeare at last stood up. “Okay, kid, whaddaya think? How about you and me go down to the Bureau and talk to the LT, get this all out in the open?”
Frank nodded. Vinny’s heart went out to the kid. He was clearly trembling. He walked over and gave the kid’s shoulder a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Frank, we’ll get you through this. Everyone knows you’re a good guy, and there’s no way any jury would convict you of anything, so now let’s just save your career.”
Frank took a deep breath and looked at Vinny with a weak smile, nodding. “Yeah, thanks, I guess you’re right.” He looked at Trace and Shakespeare. “You’re all right. I’ve got to come completely clean, and see where the chips fall.”
The cellphone vibrated in Vinny’s hand. The whole room turned, staring at the phone. Vinny pressed the button and read aloud the text:
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
IF YOU TURN YOUR FRIEND IN
SARAH DIES FOR HER SINS
Vinny looked up at the room. “It looks like your friend just solved our problem.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Agreed. Now we can’t tell anyone.”
“LT, got a few minutes?”
Phillips looked up from his laptop and nodded, his eyes shooting up a little when he saw Frank follow Shakespeare into the office. Shakespeare closed the door and drew the shades, blocking anyone outside from seeing their conversation. “Okay, what have you got yourself into this time?” He pointed at Frank. “And how did you involve him in it?”
Shakespeare pointed at one of the two chairs in front of the LT’s desk and Frank sat in it, saying nothing. Shakespeare sat in the other chair and looked around to make sure they were alone. “We’ve got a problem.”
“Obviously.”
“No, I’m serious. We’ve got a big problem.”
“Okay, what is it?”
Shakespeare shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “I can’t tell you.”
“What the hell do you mean, you can’t tell me?”
Shakespeare sighed. I knew this was a bad idea. They had agreed they couldn’t turn Frank in, but there was no hiding that a body had been found in his apartment. He needed to convince the LT to let Frank continue to work on the case, otherwise the other techs might trace the Internet video first, and Frank, and the rest of them, would be in it up to their eyeballs.
“Do you trust me?” He cringed inside as he asked the question.
Phillips leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. His head tilted to the right, his eyebrows scrunched inward. “What’s going on?”
“Do you trust me?” repeated Shakespeare. “You’ve known me for over twenty years, worked with me most of that time, and been my boss for the past five years. Do you trust me?”
Phillips sighed. “Shakes, do I trust you? Ask me that five years ago, and I’d have answered ‘yes’ in a heartbeat. But you haven’t exactly been a spectacular example of the hard working detective for the past few years.”
Shakespeare felt his chest tighten. It hurt hearing that from a man he considered his friend. But he was right. And now this poor kid sitting next to him might be screwed because of him. He was about to open his mouth when Phillips raised one finger to stop him.
“But, no matter how much of a slacker you’ve been the past few years, I’ve always trusted you to do the right thing, and that hasn’t changed.”
Shakespeare could have sworn he heard Frank expel a lungful of air. Shakespeare smiled at Phillips. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take it.” He leaned forward. “You know we found a body in Frank’s apartment today.”
Phillips nodded.
“Well, there’s more to this story, much more, but I can’t tell you anything yet. When I can, you’ll understand why. The key here is I need you to let Frank continue to work on this case.”
“Out of the question. He’s involved!”
Shakespeare nodded. “I know, I know. It goes against protocol. But we need him to be the tech on this. Again, you’ll understand why when we solve this thing. For now, believe me when I say, lives depend on it.”
Phillips frowned, his fingers now interlaced, his thumbs beating against each other as he processed what he was being told. He looked at the kid sitting quietly then back at Shakespeare. “If this blows up, how much shit am I in?”
“Ankles. As for us, necks. But I can live with that. There’s too much at stake here not to continue forward.”
Phillips frowned even more. “How are you going to keep this from Trace and Vinny? Weren’t they there?”
“They know what’s going on, and are in complete agreement with what I’m doing.”
“So essentially what you’re telling me is that I’m the only goddamned person in my squad who has no clue what’s going on.”
Shakespeare chuckled. “As it should be?”
Phillips shook his head. “Get out. Just try to keep it below my knees.”
“Thanks, boss,” said Shakespeare as he rose, motioning to the kid to follow.
“Thanks,” whispered Frank.
Phillips said nothing, staring only at his computer screen as Shakespeare spun the rod, opening the blinds.
Trace looked up from her desk when the LT’s office door open. When Shakes and the kid came out, she stood up and walked out the door of the squad to the elevators. All three boarded an elevator, along with several others, and rode in silence. Out of the building, they all piled into Shakespeare’s Caddy, her in the back, Frank in the passenger seat.
“What happened?” she asked, dying in anticipation.
“It worked,” said Shakespeare. “He’s agreed to let Frank stay on the case. He knows something’s going on, but he’s agreed to let me run with it for now.”
“Thank God.” She thought Shakespeare crazy for suggesting he go to the LT, especially after they had all just agreed to saying nothing to no one, but when he pointed out they needed Frank working the tech end, and protocol would dictate he be taken off the case, they all realized they had no choice. They needed to bring the LT in, albeit only slightly. How had Shakes put it? “We only need him to dip a toe into the pool of shit we’re swimming in.” The man has a way with words. “Now what?”
Shakespeare looked at Frank. “I’ll drop you off at your lab. You confirm the photo is Richard Tate and then turn off that damned screen, or whatever it is so it’s not there for the world to see, then try and track down where those cameras were sending their signals.”
Frank nodded. “Will do.”
Shakespeare turned to Trace. “You and I are going to the coffee shop. That’s clearly the center of this thing. Take your car, because after that I want to go to the hospital and interview Tate, and I want you to go to NYU to follow up on our first vic, Angela Henwood.”
“What should I do while I’m waiting for you?”
Shakespeare smiled. “Have a coffee.” Frank climbed out of the car to let Trace out, and as she stepped onto the pavement, Shakespeare added, “And try not to get dosed.”
“You’re all heart, Shakes; don’t let anyone tell you different.”
The door slammed shut and she heard Shakespeare laugh as he started the car. She watched the car pull away, Frank giving a shy wave. She gave him a million dollar smile to make him feel good, and noticed his spread a little further across his face. You’ve still got it.
If someone had told her a few weeks ago she’d start to lik
e Shakespeare she’d have told them to call their village, because she had found their missing idiot, but she had to admit, working this case with him was unlike anything she had expected. First off, he was actually working. That was almost unheard of, with Eldridge having carried him for most of the past three years, and the LT having protected him out of some sense of loyalty and homage to a phenomenal career prior to “the fuck up” as it was referred to in whispers around the precinct. I wonder what really happened. Whatever it was wasn’t anywhere near the rumor mill version, she was sure. There’s no way a cop with that kind of experience leaves critical evidence in a murder investigation, a gun no less, on the front seat of his car just because he’s hungry. She knew enough about Shakespeare’s previous reputation, and just in the way he was handling himself on this case, to know he would have at least locked it in his trunk. She could believe him stopping to eat, there was no doubt about that, but not the part about the evidence.
But if it wasn’t true, why didn’t he come clean about it? There’s no effin’ way I’d let anybody say the shit that’s been said about him, about me. Not if I were innocent. She unlocked her Mustang and climbed in, pressing the button on the dash to start it. She gave the gas a gentle push, the roar from the tailpipes sending vibrations through her body, leaving a tingling sensation in her core. She sighed. I love this car. She put it in gear, and soon found herself searching for a spot near the coffee shop in question, her Guilty Pleasures playlist on her iPod having pumped up her adrenaline to the point where a coffee wasn’t needed except to keep the high going.
Minutes later she walked into the shop, her trained eye taking everything in. There were a couple of dozen seats of varying types, from straight back to couches, mostly lining the windows surrounding small, circular tables. About half were filled with patrons either chatting with each other, or solos reading papers or their Kindles. There was one staff member making the rounds, cleaning tables, straightening chairs, tidying up. She seemed to avoid tables with patrons at them, and Trace put her near the bottom of the dosing ‘possibles’ list. Behind the counter were half a dozen workers, two working the cash, alternating with each order, two in the back making sandwiches from what she could see, and two baristas who were making the specialty coffees. If this were the typical setup, there were no less than four, and possibly five stations, that could dose a coffee.
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 13
