She nodded and unholstered her weapon. Removing the clip, she cleared the chamber, then handed it to him. He took the gun and clip without saying anything, just placing them in an evidence bag he retrieved from his pocket. Her phone vibrated on her hip. She looked at the call display then at the LT. “I better take this.” He nodded as she answered.
“Hey, Walker, you’re up early.”
“And you’re up late, if I’m not mistaken.”
Lieutenant Phillips gave her another pat on the shoulder and strode toward an unmarked unit that had just arrived. Trace recognized the IAD assholes climbing out. First things first. “What can I do for you?”
“Our warrants and the first of the footage have arrived for that phone call St. Jean made.”
Trace’s pulse raced at the mention of the name. “Shit, I’m sorry, Walker, I guess no one’s told you, we found her.”
“Really? When?”
“Just about an hour or so ago.”
“And she’s not here for questioning yet?”
Trace sat back down in the passenger seat. “No, and she won’t be.” She took a deep breath. “Jesus Christ, Walker, I had to shoot her.”
There was silence on the other end, then Walker spoke, his voice gentle. “Are you okay?”
Trace shook her head, tears welling up again as guilt gripped her heart like a fist. “I-I don’t know.”
“How did it go down?”
Get a grip! Trace took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “She shot a uniform, then tried to shoot me. I put two in her chest, just like we’re trained to do.”
“Listen to what you just said. ‘Just like we’re trained to do’. Remember that. This sounds like a clean shoot, you’ve got nothing to worry about, and nothing to feel guilty about.”
“Yeah, that’s what the LT said.”
“And he’s right.” He paused. “Did I ever tell you about my first shooting?”
“No.”
“Bronx, fifteen year old kid, robbing a liquor store, firing his gun at anything that moved as he came out, including me and my partner as we pulled up. My partner got it in the neck. I emptied my gun into the kid, then watched my partner die in my arms as the kid lay twenty feet away, dead, his eyes staring at me the entire time.”
“How’d you handle it?”
“I hit the bottle for three months, almost got kicked off the force. It wasn’t until a detective investigating another case that I had been witness to came looking for me that I smartened up. He smacked me across the face and told me to stop feeling sorry for myself. He said he had read the case file and talked to the witnesses, and it was clear there was nothing else I could have done. The kid shot and killed a cop, and had a long history of doing bad. The gun had been linked to three other shootings including a homicide, and I had done the world a favor by removing him from it. He hauled me out of my apartment and to a diner, filled me with coffee and pie, and I reported back for duty the next day, sober. It took somebody else to tell me I had done nothing wrong. Somebody I could trust. Not a buddy, not a family member, but someone I respected.”
“Who was it?”
Walker laughed. “Detective Justin Shakespeare.”
Trace smiled. She could picture it in her head. Shakes’ solution to everything—pie. “He’s full of surprises.”
“Yup. That was ten years ago. He’s never mentioned it since, and neither have I, but that man saved my career, and probably my life, by hauling me out of a bottle, and back into the world.”
Trace pushed her shoulders back and took in a lungful of air. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It will take some getting used to.” She suddenly stood up, determined to move forward. “So, I guess there’s not much point in you going through that footage now.”
“Not sure if you’ll want to stick to that statement after I tell you what we found.”
Trace stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean?”
“We have a clear shot of her making the phone call to her parents, then ten minutes later being picked up by someone driving a black Escalade.”
“Black Escalade!” Trace’s heart slammed against her ribcage in excitement. “Please tell me you got a plate.”
Walker chuckled. “Not only do I have a plate, I have a name.”
“Who?”
“You’re never going to guess.”
Trace twirled her hand to urge him on, despite him being on the other side of the city. “Who?” she pleaded.
“Richard Tate.”
Aynslee, driving one of the station’s floater vehicles, made the final turn according to the GPS. She came to a stop several hundred feet short, and looked about. There were a few people in sight at various warehouses, mostly arriving for their morning shifts. Her warehouse however appeared deserted. She looked at her watch. Where are those guys?
Her phone rang, startling her.
She grabbed it and saw it was Mike. “Where are you?”
“We’re going to be late. Reggie gave us the wrong address.”
“What?”
“Yeah, I guess he dropped the files and mixed them up. We were on our way to the address I guess you thought you were going to when he called. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Okay, I’m going to take a look around and I’ll meet you out front.”
“Don’t do anything stupid, Aynslee.”
“Moi? Stupid? You know me better than that!”
“Riiight, you know I know you.”
She laughed. “Just get your butts here pronto.”
She hung up the phone and climbed out of the car. She walked nonchalantly toward the warehouse, holding her phone to her ear, pretending to be listening intently. Instead, her eyes scanned every inch of the building and its surroundings. She could see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the entrance door being blacked out, which, if she thought about it, might be completely normal around here.
A gust of wind carried a candy bar wrapper across the street and past her, directly toward the warehouse. Reaching into her purse, she tore off a piece of paper from her note pad, then pretended to read it. Loosening her fingers, the page blew from her hand, toward the large warehouse doors. She made a production of having dropped it, and walked briskly after it. The wind had done its job, and she was now bending over directly in front of the large doors, retrieving her paper. She stood by the door, phone to her ear, staring at the paper.
In truth, she was desperately trying to prevent her jaw from dropping. On the other side of the large doors, she was certain she was hearing people screaming in agony, crying for mercy. She slowly walked away from the door, toward her car. She dialed Shakespeare’s number, praying he would pick up. As she walked by the smaller entrance, she jumped as the door swung open, the morning light, still low on the horizon, revealing nothing but the barrel of a gun, pointed directly at her. She dropped her phone and turned to run when two shots rang out.
Shakespeare rubbed the sleep out of his eyes as he held the phone to his ear. A quick glance at his watch showed him it was a little after six in the morning. “Hello?” he repeated. “Aynslee, are you there?” He knew who it was from the call display, but she had yet to answer. Had she pocket dialed? Two unmistakable cracks followed by a scream came over the earpiece and he shot straight up in his seat, adrenaline surging through his veins forcing him wide awake. “Aynslee!” He held the phone tight to his ear as he adjusted his seat back into a driving position and started the car. He could hear footsteps, their crisp double tap sounding like woman’s heels as they rapidly got louder then stopped. A burst of static filled his ear as apparently the phone was crushed under someone’s shoe.
Shakespeare immediately dialed the studio. “Good morning, WACX, how may I direct your call?”
“This is Detective Shakespeare, NYPD Homicide. I need to get a location on one of your reporters, an Aynslee Kai.”
“I don’t think we can do that, sir, it’s called Freedom of the Press. I can forward you to our legal department if you�
��d like?”
Shakespeare sensed another battle with the arrogant voice on the other end, but calmed himself, his last annoyed response not having worked out. “Listen, I’m a friend of hers. Perhaps you heard what happened to her a couple of weeks ago? Well I’m the cop that saved her life.”
“Oh, you’re the one! I just have to say that all of us—”
Shakespeare cut her off. “Listen carefully, time is critical here. She just called me, and I heard gunshots. She’s in trouble. I need to know where she is so I can send police.”
The momentary silence at the other end suggested he had gotten through to the girl. “I’ll put you through to the news director.”
A few clicks and beeps and a man picked up the phone. “Jeffrey Merle.”
“Hi, this is Detective Shakespeare, NYPD Homicide—”
“Detective, how are you! What can I do—”
“Listen carefully. I just got a call from Aynslee. There were gunshots. I need to know where she was going.”
“Gunshots?” Muffled orders were yelled, the phone evidently pressed against his shoulder. “Detective? Just hold on. She’s not supposed to be on a story. In fact, I haven’t seen her since the broadcast last night. She should have just gone home. I’m trying to find out now.”
“Talk to your lab geek. She was helping me with something late last night. He might know something.”
“Just a second.” This time the orders weren’t as muffled. “Get me Reggie, now!” Moments later Merle returned to the phone. “Let me put you on speaker.” A click was followed by the hiss of a speakerphone. “Can you hear me, Detective?”
“Yes.”
“Reggie is here.”
“Reggie, this is Detective Shakespeare.”
“Hi, Detective.”
“Do you know where Aynslee went?”
“Yes, I have the address in my office. I sent her to the wrong location, she was supposed to go to Sarah’s, but instead she’s gone to some other one. Her camera crew should be there any minute.”
“Shit! Call them off, they could be heading straight into a trap.”
“Is it Mike and Steve?” asked Merle.
“Yes.”
Shakespeare heard a chair creak and footsteps fade from the speaker, then Merle’s voice yelling, “Tracy, get in touch with Mike and Steve and tell them to pull over. Tell them not to go to their location, it’s a trap!”
There was a pause.
“Don’t just stare at me, pick up that phone and dial. They could be about to get shot!” The voice started to get louder as he approached the speaker again. “Reggie, get me that address!”
“Yes, sir!” Shakespeare heard a crash and a grunt, then another impact, this time against glass, followed by another grunt, then silence.
“You still there, Detective?”
“Yes.”
He heard a knocking sound. “I just reached them, sir, and they’ve stopped. They said they’re just around the corner from their destination.”
“Okay, thanks.”
The woman who had just spoken yelped and there was another banging sound. “Christ, Reggie, you’ve got to learn to coordinate those feet!”
“Sorry.” There was a pause and Shakespeare readied his pad and pen. “Here’s the address.”
Merle read it off to Shakespeare who jotted it down then punched it in his phone’s GPS. “Shit, I’m only five minutes from there.”
“Good luck, Detective.”
“Thanks.” Shakespeare put the car in gear and roared out of the parking lot as he called dispatch for backup. His chest was tight as he pictured Aynslee. After what the poor woman had gone through over the past two weeks, he couldn’t imagine how much more she could take.
At what point does even the strongest of us break?
MJ cracked his knuckles as he began to go through the pile of emails and paperwork that had arrived since the night before. He quickly scanned each email, deleting the standard announcements and the odd spam that creeped through the filters, forwarded the jokes and personal email to his home account, then started through the much reduced list. The third email caught his attention.
He took a bite of his BLT bagel and opened the attachment. His chewing slowed, then stopped, as he read the file. He grabbed the phone and dialed the sender to confirm the findings, his bagel forgotten.
“Carl, MJ. Are these results you sent me correct?”
“Hey, MJ, which ones are you talking about? I’ve sent out a dozen already.”
“Alders, Samantha.” MJ stared at the screen, his mind racing with the implications of what he was reading.
“Oh yeah, thought you’d get a kick out of that one.”
“Is it correct?”
Carl chuckled. “Absolutely, I double checked it. I knew as soon as I saw the results, you’d be asking. Definitely not what we were expecting.”
“Okay, thanks.” MJ hung up the phone and quickly dialed Shakespeare.
If this is true, it changes everything!
Trace sat in her car, sipping water, waiting for IAD to finally ask to question her when she heard something over Richard’s radio that caught her attention. She jumped out of the car and motioned with her hand for him to give her his radio. He handed her the mike.
“Dispatch, this is Detective Trace. Who’s the primary on that last call?”
“The request for backup came from Detective Shakespeare, Homicide.”
Any fatigue she may have had was wiped away in one moment. “Give me that address.”
She wrote it down as did Richards. She handed the mike back and rushed to her car. She started it up, the powerful engine roaring to life. As she peeled away from the curb, everyone, including IAD and the LT, turned. In her rear view mirror she saw Richards and Scaramell jump in their squad car and pull out as well.
She was only minutes away, and right now, as far as she knew, her partner was heading into a ‘shots fired’ situation alone, without any backup. And from what she had learned about him over the past few days, she knew he wouldn’t wait.
Hang on, Shakes, we’re coming!
Shakespeare raced around the corner, past the parked news van, and eased off as he approached the warehouse. He parked behind a car with a WACX sticker on the rear bumper that he assumed must be Aynslee’s. He looked about and saw no one in the vicinity.
Including backup.
He climbed out of the car and approached the blacked out entrance. He held his ear to the door, listening for any hints of what he may face on the other side, and what he heard shocked him. It sounded like dozens, perhaps hundreds, of people screaming and crying. He turned the handle, and the door pushed open. He couldn’t say he was surprised. This had ‘trap’ written all over it. The faint cries became louder as he stepped inside.
He was greeted by darkness and a faint orange glow deeper in the warehouse. Other than that and the light pouring in from outside, he could hear nothing. He pulled a pocket flashlight out and played it around, finding no one. He went to the left, shining the flashlight along the wall, looking for a lighting panel. What he found a few feet in wasn’t what he had been looking for, but it would do. He pressed the three buttons and the roar of three motors kicking in drowned out the cries from deeper within.
Three slivers of light appeared, then rapidly expanded as the automatic garage door openers he had activated hauled the huge doors up, flooding the warehouse with light. A black Escalade was parked at the second door, the tread marks on the dusty floor indicating it had entered through the closest door and circled to face the next door for what he presumed would be a quick getaway. One set of fresh footprints led from the driver side door deeper into the warehouse where three large shipping containers stood. One had a large stage rig above it holding what appeared to be speakers and heating elements. The cries were much louder now, and clearly coming from the speakers.
Just a recording.
He looked back to the door he had entered through, and found a jumble of footpri
nts leading toward the closest container. With nothing else obvious in sight, he followed the prints deeper into the warehouse, toward a door in a long black structure attached to the nearest container. He opened it, and stepped inside. To his right was what looked like a door to the outside. He opened it, and left it that way, flooding the corridor with light. To his left, about fifty feet in was what he assumed to be the container entrance. He quickly walked toward the container, his gun drawn. The hallway widened to the width and height of the container, and he found a simple, plain door, and nothing else.
His phone vibrated on his hip, causing him to jump. He reached down and sent the call to voice mail. He gripped the handle when the phone vibrated with a text message. The debate raged in his head for a moment. It might be important. He grabbed the phone and read the message from MJ.
URGENT YOU CALL ME IMMEDIATELY!!!!
The phone vibrated again. He stepped back from the door and turned his back, taking the call. “What the hell is it?” he asked in a harsh whisper.
“It’s about our second victim. I just got the results back—”
A scream rang out from the other side of the door, a scream he recognized as Aynslee’s. The phone still in his hand, he tore open the door and rushed through, his gun leading the way.
And gasped.
Aynslee stood at the far end, a gun held to her head by the last person he expected to have ever seen. He raised the phone to his ear.
“Let me guess,” he said, his gun trained at the head of the person standing in front of him. “It’s not Samantha Alders.”
THIRTEEN
Aynslee could barely focus. Her mind was shutting down from the shock of yet another situation where she could die. Maybe I’m not cut out for this business. Her thoughts angered her, and she began to focus. She knew she was meant to be a reporter. Tough as nails. And she was in the middle of a great story. And if she didn’t get her wits about her, she’d miss it.
Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 24
