Richards poked his head out.
“No one home, Detective.”
Shakespeare shook his head then yelped as Trace flicked the hose up at his crotch.
“Sorry, Shakes, thought I saw something there.”
“Yeah, something that’s supposed to be there. It’s called my”—he stopped as the cameras all leaned in with their sound booms—“inseam.”
Several disappointed groans from the news crews.
Trace shut off the hose, tossing it to the ground, a huge smile etched across her face.
“Chilly, Boss?”
Shakespeare resisted shivering with every fiber of his being, but lost.
He shivered.
“Damned drunks,” he muttered as he stepped inside the much warmer house.
His shoes squished.
“Lovely.”
Trace pointed at the soaked loafers. “Umm, boss, you might want to take those off and let me hose ’em out. Just in case some chunks got in there.”
Shakespeare looked at her, then his shoes. And he knew she was right. He pulled them off then tossed them on the floor at her feet. “Knock yourself out.”
Trace grinned and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. Picking them up, she stepped outside, holding them up in the air. “Excuse me people,” she shouted at the camera crews. “Key piece of evidence coming through!”
Shakespeare shook his head then looked deeper into the apartment.
A roar of laughter rose outside as Trace apparently turned the hose on the key piece of evidence.
Definitely going to like working with her.
He stepped into the kitchen and flicked on the light. Sitting on the table was a pizza box.
His stomach rumbled.
He stepped toward it and flipped the box to face him. A menu was stapled to the cardboard, along with a receipt. He took a photo of it as Trace walked back inside from her standup routine. He gestured at the box.
“Call them, find out who delivered the pizza. We need to interview the delivery guy, see who answered the door.”
Trace nodded, snapping a photo then dialing the number. She hung up. “Closed.”
“Of course.” Shakespeare looked at his watch. “Christ, it’s after three!” He looked around the kitchen, then stepped back into the hallway, finding the stairs for the basement. The door was open, several locks on the inside evidence that Wayne Cooper liked his privacy, even from his own mother.
Trace pointed at the locks. “Either he doesn’t trust his own mother, or he doesn’t want her walking in on his ‘special time’.”
Shakespeare grunted. “Probably a little from Column A, and a little from Column B.” Trace was about to step down the stairs when Shakespeare held her back. “Warrant.”
“Huh? We’re already inside.”
Shakespeare shook his head. “No, we’re inside the house. That’s a basement apartment, clearly marked as separate. Technically we might be allowed in there, but I don’t want any damned fancy defense attorney tossing out any evidence we find because he successfully argues we entered Cooper’s apartment without a warrant.”
“What about here?”
“We’re okay, Nickel isn’t the owner and couldn’t prove he was a resident. We entered to make sure everything was okay.”
“If the judge doesn’t agree, won’t the pizza kid be ‘fruit of the poison tree’ bullshit again?”
Shakespeare shook his head. “No, watch.” He walked down the hallway and turned into the entranceway. Stepping out onto the porch, he waved for the cameras to be put down. “Off the record, guys.” The cameras and microphones lowered. “Thanks. Anybody see any deliveries here tonight?”
One of the reporters raised his hand. “Jonathan Shaw, WACX News. A pizza was delivered at”—everybody glanced at their notes—“eleven-fifteen by Jack’s Pizza Shack.”
“Is that right?” Shakespeare asked the gathered throng.
Nods accompanied by affirmations sealed the deal, and the poisonous tree question.
He turned to Trace with a smile.
“See, no problem.”
She grinned at him, her head bobbing.
Shakespeare pointed at Officer Richards. “Take Nickel to holding. Have them bring him by for interrogation when he’s sobered up tomorrow. Post somebody on this door and have them call me if anyone shows up.”
Richards nodded and got on his radio as Shakespeare, followed by Trace, walked toward his car.
“What now?”
“Now? Now we get a few hours’ sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”
Frank jumped as he felt a pair of hands gently squeeze his shoulders. His head spun around as he realized where he was, then spotting the owner of the hands, he smiled.
“Sarah!” He looked at his watch. 6:32 a.m. “Oh shit! I’m so sorry, Hon, I must have fallen asleep. He wiped some drool off his chin, then glanced at the desk and grabbed a left over napkin from La Barista and wiped the rather large puddle beside his keyboard.
She smiled and gave him a kiss. “That’s okay, honey, I figured this is what happened.” She placed a hand softly on his wound. “How are you feeling?”
As his mind cleared of the fog from an uncomfortable sleep, he felt the dull ache turn into a throb. “Okay,” he lied.
She frowned. “I call BS on that.”
He nodded, a smile spreading from half his mouth. “How is it you know me so well so quickly?”
She pulled up a chair and sat beside him, removing a coffee from a tray sitting on his desk he hadn’t noticed before.
But he definitely smelt now.
Heaven.
She handed the steaming brew to him. “Large skim milk latte with an extra shot of espresso, just the way you like it.”
He lifted the lid and took a long sniff, just the smell triggering his brain to send signals to the rest of his body. Get ready, your wake-up juice is about to arrive! He took a sip.
“Perfect.” He leaned forward and gave Sarah a peck on the lips. “Just like you.”
She blushed and looked away. Between the two of them they were probably the shyest couple in New York, and it had only taken a serial killer to get them together.
He shivered.
She looked at him and he hastily took another sip of coffee.
“Chilly in here this morning.”
One eyebrow popped up her forehead. “Right,” she said, drawing out the word, it obvious he hadn’t fooled her. “You know it’s okay to talk about what happened to us in front of me.”
He nodded. “Man, that’s almost creepy how well you know me.”
She smiled and gave his leg a squeeze. He shoved his mouse aside, killing the screen saver.
“Holy shit!”
Sarah turned toward the screen. “What?”
Frank pointed.
“Nonkoh was wrong!”
Shakespeare strode into the pit, coffee in hand and grabbed the most comfortable seat he could find at the head of the action. “So, from all the text messages I received, I’m guessing we had one hell of a night.” He motioned to Nonkoh who appeared to need to pee he was so excited.
“What is it that had you texting me five times and calling me four?”
“Well, sir—”
Shakespeare cut him off. “’Shakespeare’. ‘Shakes’. ‘Justin’. I’ll even take ‘Detective’. But never ‘sir’. I’m not the LT.”
Nonkoh seemed flustered for a moment as he tried to process what was just said, his mind probably still in the middle of a rehearsed speech.
“Detective,” he finally started. “You had me reviewing similar cases, and I got to thinking.”
“First mistake!” yelled Johnny Walker.
“Never think. At least not on an empty stomach,” added Terry Curtis.
Walker turned to Curtis, arms crossed, one finger extended at his partner. “That’s always been my mistake. I skip breakfast, then try to think all morning until lunch.” He turned back to the room. “You k
now, come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever solved a case before lunch.”
Chuckles filled the pit until they looked at Shakespeare.
“You two done?”
“Sorry, Shakes.”
“Uh huh.” Shakespeare turned back to Nonkoh. “Please continue,” he said with an eye on the Walker-Curtis comedy duo.
Nonkoh stood, staring at Walker and Curtis, not sure what to say or do.
“But I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday!” He dropped onto a nearby desk. “Maybe I’m wrong on this,” he muttered. Then he brightened, standing up and waving the file he had apparently forgotten in his hand. “I’m not wrong”—he looked at Walker and Curtis with a smile that could only be described as triumph—“I am not wrong.”
“Never said you were, Harry.” Walker spun his hand. “Let’s get on with it, the suspense is killing me.”
Nonkoh waved the file again. “As I was going through the old cases, I got to thinking. ‘Why was the seventh victim not a widow like all the rest?’”
“We figured he had some sort of personal link to her, that perhaps it was a revenge killing or something,” replied Shakespeare.
“Yes, and that works for us, but the defense kept using that against us, that the pattern didn’t match, so they were able to successfully argue that all the previous murders should be excluded, that it was clearly a copycat.”
“Fuckin’ lawyers,” muttered Curtis.
Shakespeare waved him down.
“Continue.”
“Well, my hunch was this”—he paused, looking around the room—“what if he killed the wrong woman?”
Walker chuckled.
Shakespeare cut him off.
“Keep going.”
“So I had Frank at the lab run a search on recent deaths in the neighborhood. Maybe he got the wrong apartment, and killed the wrong woman.”
Shakespeare stopped. He had to admit it had occurred to him at the time, but they never pursued it because they were so certain the gun linked all the crimes, despite the ballistics evidence never actually being run. They knew they had their man, so they didn’t bother with the discrepancy, and, further in his defense, if he needed any, he had been taken off the case after losing the gun.
It had been the beginning of his downward spiral.
The case had been given to a veteran detective, Chris McFarren, who had retired shortly after. Shakespeare knew him well enough to know that McFarren would have simply babysat the case while it was delivered into the DA’s hands. He wouldn’t have bothered with tying up the loose ends. He wasn’t that kind of guy. He was the type that would catch the killer, then move on to the next case. He was a good cop, a great detective, and now occupied a plot in Jersey since a massive coronary had taken him out of the picture six months ago.
Shakespeare grabbed his chest, feeling a particularly disconcerting twinge.
“You okay?” whispered Trace at his side.
He nodded, not removing his eyes from Nonkoh.
“And what did Frank find?”
“Nothing. I was wrong.”
“Are you kid—”
Shakespeare raised a hand, cutting off Walker.
“But…”
Nonkoh smiled. “Luckily Frank is smarter than me. He ran another search. He ran a search for—”
Shakespeare’s jaw dropped. “For other widows named ‘Gray’.”
Nonkoh tapped his nose then pointed at Shakespeare.
“You got it, boss! And he found one.” He flipped open the file. “Carl Herbert Gray. There’s an obituary notice for him, died the week before our murder, leaving a wife and one child in college. And they lived in the same borough as our victim.”
“Carl Gray?”
Nonkoh nodded. “Same as our victim’s husband.”
“And the widow’s name?” asked Shakespeare.
“Sheila.”
“Not Sandra?”
“No.”
“But the same initial.”
Nonkoh nodded. “And I looked them up in the phonebook from that year.”
“And?”
“And one Gray, Carl & Sandra is listed before Gray, Carl & Sheila.”
“Both in Queens?”
“Yes, but Carl and Sandra, our victims, lived on Queens Boulevard, where as our actual widow lived on some street I haven’t even heard of, so unless our killer—”
“Wayne Cooper,” interrupted Trace.
Nonkoh nodded. “Unless Wayne Cooper was extremely familiar with Queens—”
“Which is unlikely,” said Walker, “since he lived his entire life in Brooklyn, most of that in his Mommy’s basement.”
“—he might have just assumed that the Queens Boulevard listing was the only one in Queens,” finished Nonkoh.
Shakespeare’s mind was racing. If Sandra Gray wasn’t the intended victim, then they had not only wasted time trying to link her to Cooper, but they now had a new opportunity to try and link another intended victim.
His heart slammed against his ribcage with a sudden realization.
He looked up and snapped his fingers, pointing at Nonkoh. “If you’re right, which I think you are—”
“Thanks, boss.”
“—then we need to get Sheila Gray in here right now for her own protection. Cooper for certain knows his mistake by now, and might want to correct it since we know he’s active again.” He motioned for Nonkoh to leave. “Go now and find her, fast.”
Nonkoh almost snapped his heels before racing out of the pit and to his desk.
“Okay, we’ve all heard Nonkoh’s theory. I think it’s a pretty damned good one, so let’s adjust our thinking accordingly.” He pointed at Walker and Curtis. “Add Sheila Gray to your list, and start tracking down everything we can find out about her as soon as Nonkoh brings her in. I want to know if there was any link between her and Cooper.” Shakespeare sighed, jerking his thumb at a new whiteboard behind him. “Which brings us to our new victim. Trace, why don’t you run it down for us.”
Trace pushed herself off the desk she had been perched on and flipped open her notes. “Preliminary ID is Constance Reilly, twenty-eight years old, recently widowed”—she looked up from her notes, emphasizing the significance—“no children. It appears the suspect kicked in the door, overwhelmed her with little effort, then proceeded to rape her and stab her for several hours. MJ gave me a hypothetical as usual until his autopsy is complete”—several chuckles escaped as even Shakespeare pictured MJ not wanting to commit before knowing, but also understanding the case needed to move forward—“but we can assume she died sometime during the assault, the blood loss and trauma from the stab wounds finally killing her. He ended the assault with a gunshot to the back of the head. So far no trace was found. We’re assuming the perp wore a condom, shaves his body completely so there are no hairs to leave behind, and of course the neighbors heard nothing until the gunshot, which most thought was just a car backfiring.”
“And the bullet?” asked Walker.
“Still inside the skull we’re assuming. But, we found something else.”
Curtis leaned forward. “What?”
Trace pointed to a picture on one of the monitors. “A memory card, like they use in phones or cameras.”
“Where’d you find that?”
“Inside the head wound.”
Even Shakespeare had to shake his head at that one as groans filled the room. When he had received word of it, he had been disgusted, but also excited. This was an escalation, a change of pattern. If there was something on that memory card, like he suspected, it meant Cooper had escalated to taunting. And when they started that, they were more likely to make a mistake. So far, after what was now eight killings, they had found no pattern to link the victims together beyond all but one being a widow—and they now had a plausible theory on the outlier—but had found nothing to link those victims to any one person. They had canvassed funeral homes, emergency rooms, doctors, grief counselors, obit writers—everyone they co
uld think of, but had found nothing.
Their best theory was that he monitored the obits, and picked his victims at random. And the women didn’t seem to have any part in it. He had raped women in their twenties through their sixties, slim and obese. It didn’t seem to matter to him. This had nothing to do with physical attraction, this was power driven. For whatever reason, he had to have power over these women, and the fact he was stabbing them repeatedly, suggested it had some sort of punishment or revenge motive, most likely not against the individuals, but against someone from the suspect’s past such as an abusive female authority figure.
And with Wayne Cooper, they had found nothing in his past to suggest anybody beyond his mother, who while being a bit gruff, seemed to be a caring, loving person, who acknowledged her son was odd, but stood by him, proclaiming his innocence from day one.
As most mothers would.
“Anything on the card?” asked Walker.
“We’ve got the lab looking at it now,” replied Shakespeare.
“Who?”
“Brata.”
Walker whistled. “That kid’s back already?”
“Hey, he took a blast to the chest before and he kept working,” said Curtis.
“Yeah, but that was a vest. Barely counts.”
“For a lab tech? That’s like taking two in the ass!”
Walker leaned away from Curtis. “Hey, are we talking about the same thing?”
“What? I’m talking about taking two shots in the—”
“Exactly! What the hell are you talking about?”
Shakespeare stifled a smile. “Let’s finish up the briefing, then you two can go and discuss your love life.” He pointed at the photo of the memory card as laughter filled the pit. “Hopefully we’ll know what’s on that card before the day’s out. If Cooper’s getting cocky, he may just screw up.”
“But wasn’t he under surveillance all night?” asked Kowalski.
Shakespeare jerked his thumb at Trace, who responded.
“We thought he was, but he pulled a switch at some point. When we went to his house, there was someone else there.”
“Fuck me!” exclaimed Jenner. “Who the hell’s responsible for that?”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 5
