Her cellphone had rung the moment she entered, and what was required was explained. Some of it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of tasks, but it was nothing she hadn’t done before, and she knew it was nothing she wouldn’t do again. She did wonder however why they didn’t get an experienced nurse, but then perhaps they were concerned in case something went wrong.
“But why is no one here?” she had asked.
“Because we can’t risk the patient being exposed to the staff conducting the experiments while this type of discomfort is being inflicted. We do not want our voices, our smells, our touches to be associated with this.”
It’s a psyche thing. It did all make sense, in a macabre sense. If the patient were awake, which they weren’t, but she assumed the hypothesis here was that they were aware, then having tubes shoved down your throat and up your orifices would definitely not be a pleasant experience.
It all made sense.
Then why did she feel something was wrong?
She waited for the medicine to kick in, and completed her gruesome tasks of evacuating the bowels, and cleaned up, her job done. She hadn’t heard from her employer for almost an hour, and curiosity had gnawed at her the entire time she had worked.
What is in the containers?
Finished, she checked the patient’s vitals one last time, looked about, and finding no one, walked toward the closest container. She found the opening blocked by some type of wood structure. She circled around to the farthest container, and opened the latch then pulled open the door, surprised at how quietly it slid out. Inside she found a small room, perhaps four feet deep, with an ordinary door you might find in any house the only thing of any significance, the walls, floor and ceiling all covered in what she assumed was painted drywall. But black? It was odd, why would they paint such a small room black. She reached for the door and found it locked.
Disappointed, she stepped from the container, closed the outer door, and slid the latch in place. She stepped quietly toward the second container and was about to open it when she began to have second thoughts. Where were the staff monitoring the experiment? They had to be in here, hadn’t they? If she opened the door, did that mean she’d lose her payment? But I have to know. With ‘curiosity killed the cat’ playing through her mind, she unlatched the door to the second container, and pulled it open.
This was a raw container with no small room at the front, instead the complete interior was exposed, the floors and ceiling merely metal. As her eyes adjusted, the only light coming through the door, she saw something at the far end. As she stepped inside to investigate, the shapes began to take form. She pulled out her cellphone and activated her flashlight app, and gasped. In one corner lay a man in a golf outfit, in the other a nun.
What the hell is going on here?
The door behind her slammed shut, the clunk of metal on metal as the latch was closed barely heard over her blood curdling scream.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet a guest?”
He frowned, confused but excited. “Come in.” He held the door open and bowed slightly, his hand arcing into his small apartment.
“My, I love what you’ve done with the place.”
He surveyed the mess and shrugged. “If I had known I was going to have company, I would have cleaned up.” He watched her walk into the place as if she owned it. And shivered. This woman scared him. She was so cold, almost emotionless, and the things he had done for her were unforgiveable. But she somehow had a control over him he couldn’t explain. She was irresistible. An unstoppable force of sheer will, sheer dominance.
When he had met her several months before, he was quickly smitten. She was way out of his league, but for some reason she had paid him particular attention. Concerned with his performance in the production, constantly asking him questions, personal questions, questions he had never been asked before, questions he couldn’t believe he answered. Then she had invited him to a “session” as she called it. These became more and more frequent over the coming weeks, these sessions almost like something he’d see on television. They were always at fancy hotels. She’d have him lie down on the bed. She’d sit on a chair, and begin asking him questions in a quiet, calm voice. After a few minutes he would feel himself drifting off to sleep.
Then he’d wake up, and she’d be riding him, naked, and he couldn’t resist. He began looking forward to the sessions, and had quickly fallen in love, a love that went unrequited, it clear to him she had no interest in him beyond the sessions and the sex. But he could live with that. He would do anything for her, anything to have her.
Which was why when she began asking him to do strange things, “favors” as she called them, he didn’t think twice. He didn’t care if he broke into someone’s apartment, planted cameras, sent text messages, or helped her move bodies. She had complete control. She had his heart, and his mind.
But today she was here, in his world. This had never happened before.
And it excited him.
He felt a stirring in his loins as she patted the couch she now sat perched on, inviting him to join her. He felt himself drawn forward, as if she had lassoed him and were pulling him in like a steer. He sat down beside her and she smiled.
“Turn around for me.”
It was a command, not a request. And he followed it. He turned, his back to her, and immediately felt her hands on his shoulders, gently squeezing, kneading the knots from a hard day’s work.
“You did well today.”
“Thank you.”
“Close your eyes.”
He closed his eyes, sighing as she pulled him back into her, her hands now over his shoulders, massaging his chest. He felt completely relaxed. And aroused. He knew what was coming, and he couldn’t wait. She made gentle cooing sounds as her hands explored his body, and he felt his breathing get more ragged. He wanted to turn around and take her, right there, right now, but that wasn’t how it worked. She was always in control, she was always on top, and he was always unaware of how it started.
In fact, this was the first time he could ever recall this part of their lovemaking. He always woke up with her on top of him, as if waking from some sort of trance. He often wondered if she were hypnotizing him, and if she were, he could care less. But today it was different, the anticipation of what was going to happen was incredible, his heart raced and he forced himself to keep his hands at his sides, his eyes closed as she explored.
“You did very well today.”
“Thank you.”
“In fact, that was the last task I had for you.”
He felt a pit form in his stomach. Does this mean it’s over? “What do you mean?”
“Shhh,” she said, her hands travelling up his body, her left hand resting on his face gently, her cool skin soothing his uneasiness. He felt her other hand leave his body for a moment, but the fingers of her other hand caressed his lips, and he couldn’t resist opening his mouth slightly and licking a finger that strayed inside. “Everything is going to be okay.”
He relaxed again as he felt her other arm return to massaging his chest, then his neck. She gently pulled back on his chin, his head now in her lap.
“Open your eyes.”
He opened his eyes and looked at her. She smiled down at him, something she had never done before. He returned the smile.
“I love you,” he sighed.
“I know.”
He felt something cold and hard slide across his throat, followed by a sharp pain.
“Shhhh, it’s okay, I will take care of you.”
He smiled, all his fears gone, the warm pulse of blood now flowing from his neck no concern. She leaned down and kissed him, her tongue intertwining with his as he felt his world slowly turn black.
And he would have it no other way.
“Anything unusual?”
Trace shook her head as Shakespeare climbed into the passenger seat, the entire car rocking with the effort. “Not really, just a low-mi
ddle income high-rise. Somebody’s got money though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Saw a high priced piece of snapper go in there about an hour ago, then come back out fifteen minutes later.”
“Just fifteen minutes? She must be good.”
“Or he’s the one minute wonder.”
“No time for the bam, just the wham?”
“So inconsiderate, no ‘thank you ma’am’?”
“Rome is burning, my dear, no time for pleasantries.”
“If men stop thanking their whores, I shudder to think what’s next.” A mounted officer slowly sauntered by on his horse, eyeing them through the windshield. Trace flashed her shield and he gave them the two finger salute, moving on. Trace looked up at the building. “So, do we wait for backup?”
“Nope, there’s no time to waste.”
“Suits me.”
They both exited the vehicle and casually strolled toward the building, just in case their suspect happened to be looking out the window. Once inside, Trace made a beeline for the stairs, Shakespeare headed for the elevator.
“This way’s quicker,” said Trace, stopping when she saw Shakespeare heading in a different direction.
“Sure I could make it up the stairs”—he jabbed the button for the elevator—“but once I got there—” He paused, his eyes looking up in thought. He looked at Trace. “Picture a whale, on a beach, gasping for air. It isn’t much use to its buddies, now is it?”
Trace walked over to join him as one of the elevators chimed its arrival. “So, we’re buddies now, whaleboy?”
Shakespeare chuckled, regretting his analogy. “Repeat that one at the precinct, and they just might not find the body.”
This time Trace laughed as the doors opened and they stepped aboard. “Careful, after what happened two weeks ago, you might just get sent for a psyche eval.”
Shakespeare felt as if all happiness had been sucked out of him, and Trace clearly picked up on it, her hand darting to squeeze his arm.
“Hey, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Gallows humor, you now.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Yeah, just a little too fresh.” He took a deep breath and watched the numbers climb toward their destination.
“You going to be okay?” Her voice was soft, gentle, caring. He thought of Louise and how he wished she were here right now, just for one of her silent, no questions asked hugs she gave him when she knew he was down. He nodded as the elevator chimed and the doors opened.
Exiting, they both drew their weapons and approached the door, taking up positions on either side. Shakespeare rapped on the door, three quick, hard sets of knuckles. “NYPD, open up, we have a search warrant!”
Nothing. This time he pounded on the door with the bottom of his fist. “NYPD, open up!”
This time they heard the clicking of locks. From other doors on the floor. The first one opened ten feet to their left. Trace glared at the woman as she poked her too curious head into the hallway. “What are you, stupid? Get your ass back inside!” yelled Trace, shaking her head. The woman’s head disappeared, and her door slammed shut.
“Okay, I’ll go get the super.”
Shakespeare put a hand out to stop her. “Hear that?”
“What?”
“Somebody calling for help, very weak. Must be in trouble.”
Trace smiled. “Yeah, I think I hear it too.”
Shakespeare stepped back and turned his shoulder to the side, preparing to be a human battering ram, when Trace reached out and tried the knob. The door opened. Trace looked at Shakespeare and smiled. “Little trick I learned, around when I was five.”
Shakespeare pushed the door open and stepped inside. “No respect for her elders,” he muttered. He had to admit, he was enjoying working with Trace, and he just might ask the LT to make it permanent. He’d have to propose to her first, after all, he’d be asking her to spend the next several years at his side, and that was a lot to ask of somebody almost twenty years his junior, and of the opposite sex. And then there was his reputation.
He rounded the corner and saw pretty much what he expected. A filthy, single, mid-twenties male apartment, clothes, pizza boxes and beer bottles everywhere, with a body adorning the couch. They quickly cleared the apartment then turned their attention to the bloody corpse.
“Is he smiling?”
Shakespeare nodded. “Seems like he died happy.” He pointed at the deep slice across his neck. “Just like the other two vics.”
Trace nodded and checked his pulse. “This guy’s still warm!”
Shakespeare felt the man’s wrist. “Very warm. As in ‘I just died in the last hour’ warm.”
Trace looked about the apartment and paused, swatting Shakespeare’s arm with the back of her hand. “Look.” She pointed with her chin toward the tiny kitchenette. Shakespeare followed her gaze and saw a vent in the ceiling exposed, its grate sitting on the counter.
“Another camera?”
Trace stepped over and hopped bum first on the counter, swinging her legs up and then turning around so she was on her knees. She pushed herself up so she was now standing. Shakespeare immediately stepped over, nervous she might lose her balance. “Careful.”
She leaned over and looked in the hole, then reached inside, pulling out a piece of paper. She rebalanced herself on the counter and read the paper, frowning. She handed it to Shakespeare who took it then extended his hand which she accepted and jumped down. “Take a look.”
Shakespeare opened the paper and felt his heart pound a little harder.
TICK TOCK
LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK
IT IS TIME TO TEND
TO THE LAST LOOSE ENDS
“Well, now we know Sandy was involved, but as an accessory, not a primary.” He shook his head. “Call it in, I’m going to start the search.” He snapped on his latex gloves as Trace called in the murder. Soon the place would be crawling with techs, but not soon enough.
Are Frank and Sarah loose ends too?
John “Johnny” Walker took the key from the super and unlocked the door, motioning him back, as he and his partner, Terry Curtis, drew their weapons. No one had answered the door, not that they expected anything different, what with the resident, Samantha Alders, dead. Trace had pulled the plates off the security footage from when Alders had arrived at the hotel, and a quick DMV check had found her address. According to the super there were no roommates, and she had only moved in less than a year ago. Walker pushed the door open.
“NYPD executing a search warrant!” he yelled as he stepped inside, Curtis quickly following. No response. He stepped deeper into the impressive apartment, scanning for any movement that might give someone away, finding none. As he cleared the kitchen and living area, Curtis cleared the bathroom and bedroom.
“Clear!” he heard Curtis call from the bedroom, reappearing moments later. “Quite the spread.”
“Yeah, I guess if you spread ’em for the right people, you too can have a place like this.”
“Hey, I’d let Tate do me if it meant living in a place like this. Have you seen my shithole?”
“Yeah, but that shithole has a wife and two kids waiting at it.”
“So? She wouldn’t be jealous. Tate isn’t competition. Now, if I had to bump uglies with Mrs. Tate, then she might get jealous.”
Walker looked at Curtis. “I think you’ve thought this through entirely too far.”
Curtis shrugged. “Gotta explore all my options.”
“Stay away from me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m way too expensive for you.”
“I’ll start in the bedroom, you start here.”
Curtis nodded and headed for the kitchen as Walker entered the bedroom. Always start in the nightstands. There was a large king sized, four poster bed, bookended with two nightstands that looked like they cost more than he made in two weeks. He opened the nightstand that had the alarm clock on it, it most likely to be her regular side of the bed. He foun
d an assortment of sexual accoutrements he hoped would make the women in his life blush. Sex with the old man wasn’t that hot? Shoving the tools of the trade aside, he found a small pink book tucked in the back of the drawer. Pulling it out, he knew immediately what it was.
A diary.
But, how many times had he seen diaries with one or two entries? He yanked the simple lock open, breaking the mechanism, and flipped through the pages, discovering hundreds of days’ worth of entries. He flipped to the back, and began to read the mostly short entries, it more of a calendar of what she had done that day, rather than her deep, personal thoughts. Boring!
“Find anything?”
Walker looked up at Curtis. “A diary.” He tossed it to Curtis who snatched the slightly wide throw from the air.
“Anything juicy?”
“Nope. But go through it anyway, see if there’s anything interesting.”
Curtis looked at the first few pages. “Damn, I was hoping for some dirty stuff to keep me awake.” He shook the diary at Walker. “This is liable to put me to sleep.”
“Better you than me. Find anything?”
“Nope. It’s like this girl had almost no personal life. The place is decked out, top to bottom, but no personal items, no photos, no letters. I did find one thing odd.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s a docking station for a laptop out there, but no laptop. Did Shakes mention one being at the scene?”
Walker shook his head. “No, apparently it was wiped clean, so perhaps whoever cleaned up the scene took the laptop.”
Curtis thumbed through a few more pages of the diary. “Hey, look at this!”
“What?”
Curtis flipped the diary around. “The last entry says she was returning home for a while.”
“So?”
“So, isn’t this”—he waved his hand around—“home?”
“That’s odd. Parents maybe? Did you see an address book?”
“Nope. Probably keeps everything on her phone or computer. I’ll check again though.”
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 16
