“You were here when Wayne Cooper arrived.”
“Who?”
Christ, doesn’t anybody read the news anymore?
“Limousine. Lots of press.”
“Oh yeah, Cooper, okay. Yeah, I was here. That was off the rails crazy. Like when Rihanna showed up here three weeks ago. Eff’d up!”
“What happened?”
“Well, she arrived, like totally—”
“Not Rihanna, Cooper.”
“Oh, umm, well, the limo pulled up. I opened the door, guy gets out, all covered up with a jacket or something over his head. A couple of other guys get out with him. They go inside, the paparazzi swarm. I try to hold them back, then a couple of cops arrive, and I lock the doors while they do their job. Then a couple of minutes later, the same guy and his entourage come back out, get in the limo, and drive away, along with the cameras.”
“Are you sure it was the same guy getting back in the limo?”
“Sure, I mean”—he paused, looking off into space, as if trying to picture what had happened—“well, I think so. I mean, I never saw his face, either time. Same clothes though, I think. I mean, I don’t really pay attention to that stuff.”
“What did they do inside?”
“Never saw that, I was too busy battling with the press, but they weren’t in here long, maybe five minutes.”
“Were they kicked out?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t think so. Herb over there”—he pointed toward another bellboy who had just exited the elevators—“said they went upstairs.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to Herb, thanks.” Trace stepped away then turned on her heel. “One more question.”
“Shoot.”
“Were the press here before the limo arrived, or did they arrive with the limo?”
“Oh, they were here before. More arrived with the limo, but there was definitely a crew here beforehand.”
“And they were waiting for him, or did they just get lucky?”
“Pretty sure they were waiting for him, because as soon as the limo was gone, they all left.”
“And do you normally have paparazzi here?”
“No, not unless it’s arranged, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, some of the stars like to arrive at a hotel with a large amount of paparazzi here waiting for them. They act all shocked and pissed off, but it was their own press agents who spilled the beans so that they get some free publicity. Makes them look more popular than they are, you know?”
Trace smiled her thanks, and made after Herb before he disappeared into an Employee Only area. “Herb!” she called, and the man turned to see who was calling him. She held up her badge. “Detective Trace, Homicide. Can I ask you a few questions?”
He looked at his watch, then sighed. “I’m just goin’ on my break. I only get fifteen minutes,” he protested.
“Answer my questions, and it should only take a couple of minutes.”
He sighed again, exaggerated, as if he were being asked to scrub the floors with a toothbrush. “Fine.”
“Stan said you saw the Cooper party go upstairs yesterday?”
“Who?”
Oyoyoy!
“Arrived in a limo, lots of paparazzi, yesterday afternoon?” she prompted.
“Oh yeah, yeah, I remember that.” He rubbed his thin, gray beard. “What did you want to know?”
She already knew this was going to cost her.
“I was told you saw them go upstairs. Is that right?”
“Yeah, I went up the elevator with them. I was going to collect some luggage for another guest and they got on board.”
“And what happened?”
“Got off on the seventh floor.”
“And?”
“And what? That’s it. I went to collect the luggage on the thirteenth, then when I came down, they got back on the same elevator as me, then left the hotel.”
Trace frowned then pulled out her phone. With a few flicks and taps, she showed him a picture of Wayne Cooper. “Was this him?”
“Maybe yes, maybe no.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you see, I made a promise not to, shall we say, ‘say anything’?”
Trace smiled. Bingo!
“And just who asked you not to say anything?”
“Oh, hypothetically speaking, one of the guys your Cooper guy was with.”
“And just what did this promise involve.”
“A Benjamin.”
“Mighty prosperous, Herb.”
He gave a slight bow. “And for just a Benjamin, I’m willing to break that promise, and tell you everything I saw.”
“Or, I could just take your ass downtown for the rest of the day and question you as a possible material witness in a homicide. How much do you think that would cost you?”
“More than a Benjamin,” he muttered. “Fine.”
Win! Trace held up the phone. “Was this the guy?”
“Yes and no.”
Trace narrowed her eyes. “Don’t piss me off, Herb.”
Herb raised his hands, waving her off. “I mean, yes, the first time, no, the second time.”
“What?”
“I mean that was the guy who went up the elevator, but not the guy who came down. As soon as your guy”—he pointed at the phone—“got on the elevator, he removed a jacket from his head and he was looking straight at me. No doubt, it was him. Second time, different guy gets on, same clothes, then when the doors open in the lobby, he tossed the same jacket over his head and leaves. One of the guys stuffs a Benji in my pocket, and says, ‘you saw nothing’, then leaves.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What do I care? Stars are doing that type of thing all the time, using doubles, you know. It’s just part of the business.”
Trace nodded. “Seventh floor?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Nope.”
“Who could tell me what room he might be in?”
Herb pointed at the concierge’s desk. “Steph there might help you. Her brother’s a cop.”
Trace thanked him and walked over to Steph’s workstation at the concierge’s desk, noting the stacks of luggage were now following a high-priced piece of eye candy and her two poodles dyed purple.
I think the 1% are nuts.
She showed Steph her badge. “Detective Trace, Homicide. Steph, is it?”
The woman nodded.
“I need you to do me a solid. I understand your brother’s a cop?”
She nodded. “Sixty-sixth Precinct, Brooklyn.”
“What’s his name?”
“Tony Primo.”
Trace feigned recognition. “Yeah, I think I met him once on a case I was working.” She didn’t give Steph a chance to ask for details, instead, leaning in and lowering her voice. “Listen, I’m working a multiple homicide, serial killer case. Did you see the limo yesterday with all the paparazzi?” Steph nodded. “Well, that guy murdered eight women, but got off on a technicality—”
“Damned judges.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. I think he may have pulled a switch here yesterday on the seventh floor. Can you do me a huge favor and look in your computer to see if there’s a Wayne Cooper on the seventh floor?”
Steph lowered her voice. “I’m not supposed to, but…” She began to type, then shook her head. “No, no Wayne Cooper.”
“What about any other floor?”
“No, not in the hotel.”
“Can you show me the names of those who checked in yesterday?”
“Sure.”
She hit a few more keys then the printer whirred beside her. Steph handed her the list and Trace quickly scanned it, stopping on the second page with a smile.
She pointed at the name. “Is this person still checked in?”
Steph hit a few keys and nodded.
“Great. You’ve been a big help, Steph. Say hi to your brother for me.”
She quickly turned away an
d grabbed her phone before Steph could catch her in the lie, and dialed Shakespeare.
“Shakespeare.”
“Shakes, it’s me. Guess who’s staying at the Trump International, seventh floor, since yesterday?”
“Who?”
“You.”
Carl Gray awoke with a start. Something was in his mouth. Hard, rubber. His gums ached, his jaw ached—hell, his teeth ached. He opened his eyes and had the strangest sensation, which he realized extended over his entire body. It took a moment to place it.
He was in water.
Or more accurately, he was under water.
His shoulders screamed in pain, his hands clasped behind his back. He tried to kick out but his bound feet barely moved and merely tapped something hard almost directly above him. He tried to push up with his feet, but whatever was above him was too heavy, and he couldn’t get the leverage.
He peered into the darkness but could see nothing. It was completely pitch black. Not even a hint of light marred the perfect dark. He listened, but again, nothing. Only his own, terrified heartbeat rhythmically pulsed through the water, filling his ears. His nose was pinched off with something to prevent him from breathing in, and with a little moving of the cheeks, he determined whatever was supplying him with oxygen was taped to his face so it wouldn’t fall out.
Thank God for that.
He pulled at the restraints binding his hands to no avail, frustration causing him to growl in anger. He tried to kick out as hard as he could, but instead felt himself turn, his toe hitting the edge of something solid, the sound echoing through the water, and it was sound that was oddly familiar.
I’m in a tub?
But it couldn’t be. He was almost six feet tall, and he was nearly stretched out completely. Most tubs he had to sit up in, and if he tried to submerge himself, his knees would have to bend. But if it were a tub, what was sitting on the top, covering it? He tried to sink himself, emptying his lungs. His back touched on something cool, hard, metal, and he bent his legs up as much as he could, but he couldn’t get the knees past the top so he could get his feet in place to push.
He dropped one knee to the side, to see if he could perhaps get leverage from one of the sides of whatever he was in, but felt himself slip. The tape on his face began to tear and he felt the mouthpiece begin to pull from his mouth. His heart slammed against his ribcage and he kicked out, trying to right himself as he clamped down with his teeth and lips as hard as he could, desperate not to lose his only lifeline. He could feel himself slowly slipping away, his panic forcing his breaths in and out, short and quick, the rush from the terror too much.
A new level of darkness began to surround him as he felt the dizziness take over and he began to pass out.
No!
It was a scream internalized, his mind’s last attempt to keep him in control, but it was too late. He felt his entire body going numb, his eyes sagging, his mouth slackening.
Then nothing.
Shakespeare and Trace stood at the hotel room door with a member of hotel security. The man was about to knock, when he hesitated.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something?”
Shakespeare pursed his lips. “What name is on the room?” he asked, already knowing the security guard knew the answer. They had just been through it five minutes earlier.
“Justin Shakespeare.”
“And who am I?”
“I know who you are, but you know and I know that they aren’t the same person.” He growled in frustration. “I wish I knew where the boss was.”
“Listen, why don’t you just knock on the door, and see what happens? Then we’ll decide what to do next.”
The man frowned, then knocked three times, hard.
“Mr. Shakespeare, Hotel Security. Can I have a word with you?”
They all waited, Shakespeare and Trace to the side, hands on their holstered weapons. He didn’t expect any problem; Cooper wouldn’t be that stupid to shoot a cop through a hotel room door. He was a serial killer. Deliberate. Methodical. There was nothing deliberate or methodical in spontaneously shooting people blindly.
There was a noise on the other side.
A lock being turned.
The door swung open.
“Detective Shakespeare, what a pleasant surprise.”
Trace groaned and looked away, the hotel security man did the same save the groan. Shakespeare simply kept eye contact with the completely naked man.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Shakespeare motioned with his finger at Cooper’s bits and pieces. “Why don’t you cover that thing up, you wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself now, would you?”
Cooper flushed, momentarily losing his control, but just as quickly, the smile returned. He looked at Trace, his head cocked to the side. “Say, you’re new.” He leaned in. “Like what you see, darling?”
Trace turned back to face him, exaggerating the elevator she gave him as she ran her eyes from his head down to his toes, then back up again.
“I have a ten year old nephew so I’ve seen little toys before.”
Cooper growled and spun around, leaving the door to close behind him.
Shakespeare stuck his foot in the way as he flashed Trace a grin, then pushed the door open.
“Mind if we come in? Thanks!” He pushed through, Trace following him. They found Cooper putting on a robe, then climbing in the bed with what Shakespeare assumed was a passed out hooker. Empty beer bottles, cigarette butts and pizza boxes were strewn across the room, a night of debauchery having obviously taken place.
Cooper extended his arms, taking in the entire room. “Courtesy of my fans, including this little minx.” He placed a kiss on the back of the girl’s neck and she moaned. Not in pleasure, but more of a ‘don’t touch me, I’m so hung over’ way.
I wonder how much she drank to actually stomach being with this monster.
“So, you gave us the slip yesterday,” said Shakespeare, not looking at Cooper, but taking the opportunity to slowly walk around the room, examining everything.
“Just wanted some privacy.”
“Your friend Roger Nickel is in custody right now.”
“Never met the guy.”
“And where’s your mother?”
“She’s in another room.”
“Uh huh. Nice of your lawyers to arrange this for you.”
“Thank my fans.”
Shakespeare noted a crucifix necklace lying on the floor and pointed at it.
“Religious man, are you?”
“One discovers all kinds of things in prison.”
Shakespeare turned to Trace and nodded almost imperceptibly, signaling the handoff.
“So, where were you last night?” she asked.
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“I mean where were you? It’s not that difficult a question.”
Shakespeare smiled as he entered the bathroom. She’s good.
“Nowhere!”
“Nowhere? You had to be somewhere. It’s scientifically impossible to be ‘nowhere’.”
He had to stifle a chuckle on that.
“I-I mean I was here!”
Interesting that he’s confident talking to me, but stutters with her. Female issues? Especially authority figures?
“All night?”
“Y-yes.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Ask her?”
“What, the drunk slut who passed out in your bed? You expect me to believe her?”
“Well”—he paused for a moment—“yeah. Yeah, you have to believe her.”
Shakespeare heard a click.
“Who the hell are you?”
He spun around and looked to see the door to the adjoining room open and Cooper’s mother Eileen enter, wearing nothing but the skin she was born in. He grabbed a towel and stepped out of the bathroom and back into the room.
“Mrs. Cooper, what a”—he paused, searching for a word other than ‘pleasure
’ as he took in her sagging, emaciated form—a form created by a life of hard living from what they’d been able to piece together, and a very late in life birth—“surprise to see you.”
She glared at him, then slapped the ass of the girl in the bed, waking her up.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” the girl mumbled, rubbing her eyes as she sat up, the sheet falling to her waist, revealing her store-bought breasts.
Cooper’s fans really went high end.
Then she opened her eyes and her jaw dropped. “Hey, this is gonna cost extra.” She looked at Shakespeare. “A lot extra.” Shakespeare felt a twinge of self-pity, but hid it from the room. Then she looked at the naked old woman beside her and shook her head and hand as she jumped out of the bed. “No fuckin’ way. Even I have my limits.” She grabbed her clothes from the floor and ran toward the bathroom, rubbing past Shakespeare, and slamming the door closed.
Shakespeare turned back to the room and almost gagged as he watched the naked woman climb into bed with her son, snuggling up against his own near naked form. What the hell is this? Cooper had his head turned away from his mother, his eyes hidden from Shakespeare’s view. Shakespeare glanced at Trace whose jaw was dropped in disgust, unable to hide her emotions.
Shakespeare decided he needed to get out of this room as quickly as possible. He knocked on the bathroom door.
“Miss, can you confirm if Mr. Cooper was here all night?”
The door flew open, and the woman, still barely clothed but apparently wearing everything she had brought, appeared. “Yeah, we were here all night, you know, ‘making love’”—she said it with air quotes, and a voice that couldn’t hide her disgust from the sight before her—“then we fell asleep a few hours ago.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’d swear to that in court?”
The girl nodded, still avoiding eye contact with everything in the room, finally fixating on a fur coat hanging across the back of a chair. She marched over, grabbed the coat, threw it over her shoulders then went to the door.
“Are we done here?”
Shakespeare nodded, then motioned to Trace.
“Get her details.”
Trace nodded and followed the girl out of the room.
Shakespeare walked toward the door then forced himself to turn and look at the scene before him one last time. Cooper’s face was no longer the arrogant ass he had been when talking to Shakespeare, or even the awkward boob when dealing with Trace.
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 7
