He was a little boy, scared and ashamed, his eyes filled with tears. Shakespeare felt a twinge of sympathy. He pointed at Eileen Cooper. “Ma’am, if I ever find out that there has been sexual relations between the two of you, I’ll have you arrested and charged. Incest is illegal in this state, even between two consenting adults.”
“I’m just comforting my boy, you pig!” she spat at him. “Mind your own damned business!”
Shakespeare looked at Cooper. “Sir, do you want to file a formal complaint?”
Cooper looked at him, his eyes pleading, filled with tears, but he shook his head.
“N-no, I’m okay, it’s like she said.”
“So there’s been no sexual relations between the two of you?”
Cooper shook his head.
“Ever?”
Again a head shake.
“Very well. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Shakespeare opened the door and stepped into the hall. Closing the door behind him, he sighed, trying to shake the image from his head. He was sure there was an incestual relationship going on there, but without a complainant, there was nothing he could do. He hated to admit it, but he actually felt sorry for Cooper. If this was the life he grew up with, then it would certainly explain his problems with women, and his loner status most of his life.
But it didn’t excuse murder.
And that’s what he had to remember. No matter what they just witnessed, no matter how much sympathy he might have felt for the man, this man was an animal. He had raped and murdered eight women. So far.
“Shakes!”
He looked to where the harsh whisper had come from, and saw Trace’s head poking out from a hallway. She beckoned him over. Rounding the corner, he found their fur clad escort standing there, her tear stained face revealing a little bit of the normal human being that hid behind the bravado displayed earlier.
“What’s going on?”
Trace motioned toward the still shaking woman.
“Fiona here wants to change her statement.”
“Oh?”
She motioned to Fiona. “Spill.”
Fiona looked up at Shakespeare, then back down at the carpet. “It’s like this. He was in and out of that room all night, sometimes for hours.”
“Why’d you lie?”
She looked up at Shakespeare, her eyes pleading. “Because I was scared, okay! As soon as I walked in the room I knew he looked familiar. But when you guys arrived I realized I recognized him from the news. He’s Wayne Cooper, a fuckin’ serial killer. There’s no way I was going to say anything against his story in that room.”
“But now?”
She looked at Trace.
“She said you could protect me.”
“We can. If you need it.”
“I need it.”
“We’ll see.”
He pointed to the end of the hall. “Trace, take her down a floor, then send her down in the elevator, alone.” He turned to Fiona. “How’d you get here?”
“Cab.”
“Okay, where would you normally have gone after this?”
“Subway.”
“Huh?”
“I change into street clothes then take a cab home. I don’t need anybody where I live seeing what I do. This is just temporary, to put me through college.”
Shakespeare frowned.
“McDonald’s is hiring.”
“Yeah, but unless they’re paying me three hundred an hour, they can’t compete.”
“Half price food? Dignity?” offered Trace.
Shakespeare chuckled. “Write down your address for Detective Trace. She’ll meet you at your apartment, then bring you in to give your statement.”
“Why not just take me in now?”
“For your own protection, we don’t want anybody knowing you talked to us. If anybody sees you leaving with us, they’ll know you talked. Leave alone, go about your normal routine, you’re much more likely to get away from this clean.”
Fiona took a deep, unsteady breath, her lips shaking.
Shakespeare put a hand on her shoulder. “You need to pull yourself together. Get down a floor, fix up your face, then take the elevator and march out of here as if you owned the place. Get yourself changed and home, and the Detective will be waiting for you. Understood?”
She nodded.
He turned to Trace. “Go, take her. I’ll watch the elevator here and make sure neither of them gets on until I hear from you that she’s on her way down.”
Trace put her hand on Fiona’s back and started to push her gently toward the end of the hallway and the stairwell. Shakespeare peered around the corner toward the Cooper rooms and waited. Several minutes later his phone vibrated.
All clear.
He took one last look at Cooper’s room.
I wonder what’s going on in there.
He shuddered, not wanting to know.
Let the bastard suffer.
He walked toward the stairwell, not feeling completely comfortable with his last thought.
Fiona stepped on the elevator, thankful it was empty. She turned to face the detective who stood in the door, one hand holding it open. She seemed hard, but understanding.
“You’ll be there?”
She almost sounded like a child, almost begging this stranger to keep her word.
“Yes. Now go.” The detective reached in, pressed L for Lobby, and stepped out. The doors closed. Most cops just treated her with disdain, but she had to admit her run ins were few and far between. Escorts weren’t hookers. Not in the eyes of the law. It was a two tiered justice system. Those who could afford to pay for an escort rarely got in trouble. It was private, discrete, out of sight of the public. Street prostitution was where the attention was paid. It was visible, in your face, and disgusting to a prudish public.
But it should be legalized.
She always found it ironic. Why not just legalize it? Clean it up, tax it, get the pimps out of it, let the girls work legally out of their homes, advertise on the Internet. They’d be off the streets, criminals wouldn’t be taking the money, forcing girls into the trade. Girls like her could work for a few years, then get out, rather than being forced into drugs and beaten if they tried to leave.
She was fortunate. She was independent. Had a select, repeat clientele, and rarely took on new clients. Last night had been an exception. A regular had asked a favor. Assured her it was a one-time thing, nothing kinky, just a guy who had been down on his luck getting treated to a night of fun.
She had been reluctant at first, but five grand cash handed over with the hotel room key card had silenced her objections. When she had met Cooper at the hotel, she had actually felt kind of sorry for him. He seemed nervous, shy. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, although his face was a little weird, sagging on one side. Nothing grotesque, just different.
A chime rang and she took a deep breath, tugging the fur coat by the collar, raising it slightly and enveloping her a little tighter like a protective blanket.
The doors opened.
She stepped out into the lobby and strode with purpose toward the front entrance. Nearly every man in the place turned to stare, even those with wives. She cleared the distance in less than thirty seconds, but it felt like an eternity, her heart racing the entire time, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wished she had her sunglasses, but they were tucked in her purse and she didn’t trust herself to open it, her hands still gripping the collar, unable to let go lest they tremble too obviously to her audience.
The door opened, a grinning doorman tipping his hat as his eyes leered over her body. She gave him a slight smile and hurried down the few steps to a waiting cab below. As she opened the door she heard a horn honk. She looked up and saw her regular that had paid her for the evening waving to her.
“Sorry, looks like I have another ride,” she said to the cabby, closing the door. Rushing down to the street, she climbed in the back of the car and pulled the door shut. The car im
mediately pulled away from the curb and she breathed a sigh of relief, happy to be putting some distance between her and that murdering bastard, Wayne Cooper, and his creepy mother.
“Everything go okay?”
She nodded. “A little weird, but nothing I couldn’t handle.”
In fact, nothing much had happened. Cooper hadn’t been able to ‘perform’, remaining essentially a wet noodle all night, no matter what she tried. He had eventually left the room in frustration, returning a couple of hours later in a better mood. She had simply killed time watching pay per view movies and eating left over pizza until he had returned with some life in him. Fortunately it had lasted only a few minutes before the wind was out of the sail again, and they had instead turned to drinking. Personally she thought he began drinking heavily so he’d have an excuse for not being able to raise the flag, which was just fine by her. If a john just wanted to feed her food and alcohol while watching movies, she was okay with that.
They had eventually passed out, and she didn’t awake until that creature had smacked her and she found the cops in the room.
Oh shit!
She was about to ask her regular, Jeff, a name she was sure wasn’t real, if he’d drive her to her apartment, but she stopped herself. There was no way she wanted a john, no matter how regular, and how nice he seemed, to know where she was living.
“Can you drop me off on Seventh, near Times Square? I need to buy some tickets for Evita, my mom’s coming to town.”
Jeff remained silent.
“Jeff? Did you hear me?”
Again, nothing. She leaned forward as the car came to a stop. Reaching to shake his shoulder, she jumped back in her seat as he spun around, spraying her in the face with something.
The world closed in around her as she felt the car begin to move forward again.
FIVE
Trace saw Shakespeare round the corner and pressed the button to call an elevator. He was a little flushed, his breath slightly heavier than usual, but it was his hand on his chest that concerned her.
“You okay, Shakes?”
He nodded. “Just a little twinge, nothing to be concerned about. I get them from time to time.”
“You know, no offense, boss, but you really should try and get some exercise. If you have to chase down a perp, you’re liable to keel over and meet your maker.”
His expression changed, and if she didn’t know better, she thought tears might erupt from his eyes at any moment.
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, looking away.
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You know, if we’re going to be partners, you gotta keep me informed.”
“Like you did with that ring?”
She blushed. “Touché.”
“We’ve all got our secrets.”
Trace nodded. “Yeah, I guess. But we probably shouldn’t. Not if we’re supposed to have each other’s backs.” The door to the elevator opened and they both stepped on, Trace hitting the button for the lobby. “How about I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours? Over lunch?”
Shakespeare eyed her for a moment.
“I can’t promise anything, but it sounds like a good idea.” He raised a finger. “If we have time.” The doors opened to the lobby. “You head over to Fiona’s place and pick her up. I’m going to the lab to see what they’ve got for us.”
“Okay, I’ll see you at the office,” said Trace, nodding at the doorman as she stepped outside, Shakespeare behind her. Moments later she was inside her Ford Mustang, engine roaring, Fiona’s address programmed in the GPS, and pulling into traffic, Shakespeare’s Cadillac already having passed her parking spot. With a bit of autumn chill in the air, she had all the windows up and used the privacy as an excuse to toss a dance mix from her integrated iPod on the stereo, then seat-danced her way to the address.
It didn’t take long, and with Fiona having to find a place to change, there should be no way she was there first. So she waited, dance mix changed to a light rock mix, turned down low, her police scanner interrupting occasionally.
Half an hour passed and she knew something was wrong. Either Fiona had given them the slip with the wrong address, or something, or someone, had delayed her, or diverted her.
But something gnawed at her. Could she have arrived first? Used a different entrance? Trace tried to recall the conversation, and couldn’t remember if they had specified she go through the main entrance.
She climbed out of the car, locking it with the fob, then crossed the street and approached the doorman. Classier than my place. She held up her badge. “Can you tell me if a Fiona Lipton lives here?”
The man nodded.
“Yup, about a year now, fourteenth floor I think.”
“Has she come back yet?”
“Not through here, but there are several other entrances if you have a pass.”
“Where’s the manager?”
He held open the door and pointed through the lobby toward a hallway. “Down there, first door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
Trace followed the directions then knocked on the door marked ‘Super’.
“Just a minute!” sang someone from inside, then a few moments later the door opened. An older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, early sixties, answered, pleasantly plump, ruddy cheeks, and a huge smile revealing a set of white but crooked teeth, braces apparently outside her parents’ budget when she was younger. “Hello, dear, how can I help you?”
Trace held up her badge with a smile. “Detective Trace, Homicide. I need to find out if a Fiona Lipton lives here.”
“Certainly does, dear.” The woman beckoned her inside. Trace followed, staying in the entrance as the woman disappeared around the corner, returning seconds later with a printout. She flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Fourteen-oh-seven.” She looked up from the page. “Why, is she in some kind of trouble?”
Trace smiled, shaking her head. “No, nothing of the sort. She’s just a witness in a case I’m working on, and I was supposed to meet her here, but lost the apartment number. Can you by any chance come up with me and let me in to her apartment so I can make sure she’s okay? She’s not answering her phone and I’m a little concerned.”
The woman flushed slightly, her cheeks disguising it well.
“Well, I guess I could do that. We do want to make sure she’s okay.”
“Don’t worry. She’s expecting me. This is just a quick in and out to make sure nothing has happened to her.”
The woman nodded, then motioned toward the door.
“Let’s go see what we can find.”
They walked down the hall to the elevators, then rode to the fourteenth floor, the landlady filling it with inane chatter about the weather, and how if it was global warming, why it was cooler out. Trace simply shrugged her shoulders, not wanting to get into a debate on the new religion, instead counting the floors, urging the elevator to go faster.
The doors opened, and Fiona’s apartment was directly across. Trace stepped forward and knocked. They both listened. Nothing. Trace knocked again, then motioned for the door to be opened. The woman complied, and Trace pulled her weapon, entering silently, motioning for the woman to stay in the hall.
She pressed forward, into the living area, the open concept kitchen, the single bathroom, the lone bedroom.
Nothing.
Fiona Lipton was not here.
Shakespeare hustled down the final flight of stairs to the basement morgue. A few steady, even breaths, and he opened the door, stepping into the hallway. He walked past Vinny’s lab and headed straight for Autopsy, where MJ should be.
His phone rang, the cellphone repeaters through the subfloors providing no reprieve.
“What’s up?” he asked after noting the call display.
“Bad news. Looks like Fiona gave us the slip.”
“She didn’t show?”
“No.”
“Okay, retrace
her steps. See where she might have gone.”
“Will do.”
He ended the call after a quick goodbye, then pushed the swinging doors of the autopsy room open. And shivered. It felt close to freezing in here. MJ looked up from the table.
“Hey, Shakes, what’s shakin’?”
“Every cell in my body, and that’s a lotta cells.” He drew his sport coat tighter, and now regretted the stairs, the slight bit of sweat that had seemed like nothing a moment ago, felt like ice cold fingers running down his back.
MJ nodded. “You get used to it. And besides, they don’t complain,” he said, jabbing a scalpel at the corpse of their latest vic on the table.
“Uh huh. So, what have you got for me?”
MJ stepped back. “Just finishing up, but I can tell you I don’t have much. No foreign DNA, no semen, condom was used, or more likely condoms,” he said, emphasizing the plural. “She was cleaned with an injected bleach solution, so I’d be stunned if anything comes back. I’ve sent samples of the solution and the lubricant from the condom for testing to see if they match our previous vics.”
“Bullet?”
“Got it, sent it to ballistics. Looks like the same caliber weapon, but we’ll know for sure soon.”
“Anything else?”
“Not from me, sorry. This is just like all the others—completely clean. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“She was pregnant.”
Shakespeare shook his head, looking at the young woman laid out on the table, naked. No dignity. No shame. Just a memory of a person that was already fading.
“We’ve got to get this sonofabitch.”
MJ sighed. “Thankfully that’s your job, not mine.” He gestured at the body. “This is all I can do, and unfortunately, there’s just nothing here. Wayne Cooper is just too damned good.”
“If you saw what I saw a little while ago, you’d be wondering how he could possibly be so good.”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 8
