“You found him?”
“Under my name at the Trump International.”
“That’s ballsy.”
“With a hooker in his bed, and his mother in the next room.”
“That’s—”
“Who joined us, completely naked, and climbed into bed with him after kicking the hooker out.”
“—disgusting.” MJ dropped his hands onto the table. “And illegal, isn’t it?”
“They both claim it’s not sexual, so I couldn’t make an arrest. But this guy looked pretty effed up after she got in bed with him.”
“Could explain his hatred of women.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
MJ looked at the victim from last night’s murder. “So, is he good for it?”
“I think so. His alibi, the hooker, admitted to us in the hallway that she lied for him because she was terrified. Trace was supposed to meet her at her apartment to bring her in for a statement but she gave us the slip. Trace is retracing her steps now.”
“So, no alibi, but we’ve got nothing to link him to the scene.”
“No. We’ll get a warrant and review the hotel tapes, taxi records, the usual. But my guess is he’s too careful for us to pick up anything except him leaving and coming back.”
“At least that will kill his alibi.”
“True.” Shakespeare shivered and headed for the door.
“Let me know if you find anything else.”
“Will do, but I think this is a dead end.”
Shakespeare groaned.
MJ threw his hands up. “Sorry, that was a slip of the tongue. Completely unintentional.”
“Sure it was,” said Shakespeare as he pushed open the doors and stepped into the hall. He made his way to Vinny’s lab and poked his head in. Though they had essentially patched things up, he still felt uncomfortable around him. Hateful things had been said on both sides, but his were more of a defense mechanism; Vinny’s were personal.
And that was hard to forget.
He might have been almost fifty years old, but personal attacks still hurt, especially when he had no one to turn to. The past few years had reminded him of when he was a boy at school. Though not fat, the extra few he did have were enough to make him insecure, and to bring out the taunts from the bullies. He remembered going home many days crying, begging his parents to not send him back to school, then cursing them for letting him get fat.
Then he’d promptly console himself with the bowl of chips or ice cream, or both, offered by those same parents, to cheer him up.
Vinny looked up from his desk and waved him in. Shakespeare stepped inside, but kept one foot in the hall, letting his body language imply a short, quick conversation. Eventually they would move past the hurt, but it would take time.
“Got anything for me?” he asked.
“Funny enough, I have one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but—” Vinny stopped, as if unsure of what to say next.
Shakespeare rolled his hand, urging him to continue. “Out with it.”
Vinny sat down. “Okay, remember when the gun was stolen from your car?”
Shakespeare felt himself flush. “Yes,” he replied, his voice monotone.
“Well, we dusted the shit out of your car, vacuumed it for any forensics we could find.”
“Yeah, the car never looked better after you were done with it.”
Vinny cracked half a smile. “Well, beyond your hair and skin and various food stuffs, we didn’t find anything out of the ordinary except for one thing, which we just chalked up to having been on your shoe or something at some point.”
Shakespeare remembered the report, but couldn’t recall anything standing out. “Nothing’s ringing a bell.”
“Well that’s just it. It isn’t that out of the ordinary.”
“What was it?”
“Granite dust.”
“Granite dust?”
“Yeah, like in counter tops, sculptures, commercial construction.”
“Okay, I can see how that can be written off.”
“Well, it was. But last night’s case changes things. Perhaps.” Vinny threw his hands up in the air. “Shit, Shakes, I could be just grasping at straws here. But we found a shoe scrape on the porch, almost as if he had wiped his feet, and there were traces of granite dust.”
“Could be just a coincidence.”
“Could be, but it’s the only thing we’ve got.”
Shakespeare stepped into the office and sat down, wiping the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. “So we may be looking for someone who is regularly exposed to granite dust at his day job.”
Vinny shook his head. “Forget that. Don’t you realize what I’m saying here?”
Shakespeare leaned back and thought about it for a minute. What am I missing? Two crimes, granite dust at both scenes. It connects the crimes. Perhaps. It was a stretch. But if they were to assume that it was the same perp at both scenes, then they were connected. So that meant—
“Holy shit!”
Vinny smiled, his head bobbing.
“I see you got it.”
Shakespeare stared at the floor, then at the ceiling, then at Vinny.
“Holy shit!”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and before he could, there was a knock at the door. He turned to find Frank, excitement evident in his wide eyes.
“You guys have gotta come see this!”
“What?”
He shook his head. “You have to see it.” He beckoned them with his hand, and sprinted down the hall to the elevators. Shakespeare pushed himself out of the seat and followed with Vinny, his mind not on whatever mystery Frank had uncovered. It was on what Vinny had just told him.
If it were true, it changed everything.
His life, reevaluated.
History, rewritten.
The doors opened and Frank raced to his office, urging them forward. Vinny closed the door behind them as Frank rushed to his chair, jumping in it and skidding across the linoleum floor to one of the many workstations. He hit a few keys and pointed at a huge plasma as Shakespeare took a seat, Vinny electing to perch on a desk.
“What are we looking at?” asked Shakespeare as the shaky image of a car dash bounced through traffic.
“The memory card MJ found in the gunshot wound on the last vic. It was encrypted, but I broke it. It contained a video. This video.”
“Have you watched it?” asked Vinny.
Frank’s head bobbed. “Oh yeah, and you’re not going to believe what you’re about to see.”
The car changed lanes, and Shakespeare’s heart slammed into his chest in excitement as he pointed at the screen. “That’s my old car!”
“What?” Vinny leaned forward. “Holy shit, that’s right. I remember that beast.”
“Hey, she was a beaut!” replied Shakespeare, defending his old Lincoln Town Car. He had driven that puppy for almost twenty years before putting it down at Tony’s Auto Body and Rip-off Bazaar. That’s when his dad had given him his pre-inheritance—the red with white top Caddy he now drove.
“Yeah, in nineteen-ninety. And even then those things weren’t much more than boxes on wheels.”
“Hey, you don’t hear me making fun of your wheels.”
“What’s to make fun of?”
“What, aren’t you driving the last Pontiac Fiero in the tri-state area?”
“Don’t be dissin’ my ride. That baby is still cherry. Even the pop-up lights still work.”
“Cherry? Aren’t you always looking for parts?”
“Sure, it’s a labor of love.”
“Are you two finished?”
Shakespeare’s eyebrows shot up as he exchanged a glance with Vinny who grinned.
“Here’s the important piece.”
They watched as Shakespeare’s Lincoln parked, the car with the camera driving by and parking a couple of hundred feet f
urther down the road. The camera jerked and then was pulled out of whatever cradle had been holding it. The image was a jumble as the person now carrying it climbed out of the car. The view bounced around as they walked quickly back toward where Shakespeare had parked, the image slightly below waist level, as if the camera were being held in the person’s hand.
“Hey, is that you?” asked Vinny, pointing at the screen.
“Yup,” said Frank, pausing the video and backing it up several frames. Shakespeare’s jaw dropped as he saw himself walking toward the man.
Frank resumed the video and Shakespeare continued to near the camera, then the person bumped into him, the view another jumble of confused imagery, then things leveled out again as the holder of the camera turned it to catch Shakespeare stumble inside a sandwich shop.
Shakespeare pointed. “Oh my God! This is the day!”
“You don’t look so good there, Shakes. What was wrong?”
Shakespeare shifted in his seat and merely grunted, keeping his eyes on the screen. The angle turned and they were looking at his car. A hand was held out.
“Hey, those are my keys.”
“What?” Vinny motioned for Frank to stop the video. “Are you sure?”
Shakespeare leaned forward, looking at the fob and the keychain attached. “Absolutely.”
“We found them in the ignition when we checked out your car.”
Shakespeare’s mind raced. Whoever was recording this had picked his pocket, taking his keys. Whoever it was had followed him from the crime scene. Cooper must have been there, waiting. But why? Why would he risk getting caught? He had to know it was standard procedure to videotape crowds at crime scenes.
And then he saw it.
The scar.
“Look at that,” he said, nearly jumping out of his chair. He stepped up to the screen and pointed at a deep, fresh, ragged scar stretching from the base of the thumb, across the top of the hand to the wrist.
“That’s one hell of a scar,” said Vinny. “Looks like he almost cut his hand off at some point. Like with a table saw or something.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” said Shakespeare as he sat down. “And you know who has two perfectly soft, supple, unblemished hands?”
Vinny blew air out from between his lips.
“Wayne Cooper.”
Shakespeare nodded. “Uh huh.” He motioned for Frank to continue the video. The image jerked forward, and they saw the trunk pop. The lid was opened by the scarred hand, and the camera pointed inside.
“Shit, that’s the evidence bag with the gun!” exclaimed Vinny.
The hand reached out, grabbed the bag, then the lid was shut. The view switched around to the driver’s side and the door was opened. The keys were inserted in the ignition, the central lock hit to unlock all the doors, then the power window buttons were all pressed to lower the windows. The door was closed, and the perp walked back past the sandwich shop, the view flipping to show a pale Shakespeare sucking back on a tall glass of Coke.
The image blanked, then a message popped up.
Welcome back to the game, Detective Shakespeare.
It’s time to redeem yourself.
Vinny turned to Shakespeare. “It looks like I owe you an apology.”
Shakespeare avoided looking at him, instead leaning forward, his head drooping between his shoulders, as he tried to process this new information. He hadn’t screwed up! He hadn’t been the cause of the case going south! It was almost too much to ask for.
He was redeemed.
But it also meant their entire case was bullshit.
Wayne Cooper wasn’t their killer.
SIX
Shakespeare turned the key and the engine roared to life. He had left Frank’s lab with a quick, “I’ve gotta go for a drive”.
Everything had changed.
Was he elated that he had finally, after five long years, been cleared of being incompetent?
Absolutely.
But that was him. That was personal. What was more important was the case. There were eight dead women. There would probably be more.
Especially now that their entire case had blown up in their face.
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed blindly into traffic with no specific destination. It didn’t matter. This was his method. This was his way of processing information. Go for a drive, talk it out.
Literally.
“Okay, we now know that the gun was stolen from my car by the killer,” he said to the steering wheel as he changed lanes. He shook his head. “No, don’t make assumptions. We know the gun was stolen by someone. We don’t know they were the killer.”
Again he changed lanes.
“But if they weren’t the killer, then why would they steal the gun?” His mind raced. None of it made sense.
First, how did they know the gun was in the trunk?
“Easy, they saw me put it in there when I came out.”
Second, how would they know I would stop?
“They couldn’t. There’s no way they could know.” Shakespeare frowned. “Lucky break?” Again he shook his head. “Let’s back this up a second. We know Sandra Gray was murdered. The husband says he walked in on the killer. The killer fled out the window and down the fire escape, leaving the gun. Almost eight hours later I leave with the gun. By this time either the killer has had time to clean up and come back, hasn’t left at all and was sitting there the entire time, or this isn’t the killer of Sandra Gray.” He paused, repeating the last part in his head.
Or this isn’t the killer…
“Maybe the case isn’t bullshit.” He pursed his lips as he came to a stop at a red light. “We need to know if he was there the entire time.” He pulled out his phone and dialed Frank.
“Brata.”
“Frank, it’s Shakespeare. Can you tell from that video what kind of car the guy was driving?”
“Might be able to. Why?”
“I need you to figure out what make, model and ballpark year, then review any footage we took of the crowds from that night. See if you can spot that car parked, arriving, whatever.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.”
He hung up the phone and tossed it on the passenger seat as traffic began to move again.
“Okay, if I was the killer, and this was my seventh kill, why would I come back? We’ve reviewed all the footage, case by case, and never saw the same person or car at two scenes. That’s standard practice. Any guy this good would know that.”
He turned right and found himself behind a delivery vehicle blocking the lane. He threw his hands up then put his signal light on, waving his arm out the window as he tried to change lanes. A few false starts, and he was moving again, giving a wave to the driver who had been forced to let him in.
“So why come back this time? The gun? What did he think, he’d be able to steal it? The only reason it was stolen is because I had to stop. Ninety-nine other times out of a hundred, it would have gone straight to ballistics—there never would have been a chance.”
He chewed on his cheeks for a few moments.
“We found the granite dust at the new scene, and in my car. That could link the two. But, the video, on the SD card at the new scene absolutely links the two crimes. So we know whoever killed our new vic Constance Reilly, also stole the gun. And if he wasn’t the killer at the Sandra Gray scene, then…”
His jaw dropped.
“Then who was?”
He snapped his fingers. “Sandra Gray’s killing was the one outlier! DNA left, a gun left, and she wasn’t a widow. We assumed they were the same because the way she was raped and stabbed to death matched the others. We made the assumption the gun would have matched up with the ballistic reports from the other scenes, and because of that gun, assumed Cooper was our guy.
“But what if this was all bullshit? He could get all the info he needed from the news on the rapes, the repeated stabbings, the gunshot to the back of the head. What if Cooper wa
s a copycat?”
Shakespeare’s hands were shaking so he pulled into a spot as a taxi pulled out. He put the car in park and stared blankly ahead. “Last night’s killer steals the gun five years ago. Why? Crime of opportunity. That’s the only explanation. But why take the chance? And why was he there? If I were him, why would I be there?” His thumbs rapped on the steering wheel. “I’d be there because someone was taking credit for my handiwork. I’d have heard on the news or a police scanner that there was another murder, and they were claiming I did it. I would be angry, curious, whatever, so I’d jump in my car, head on over, and see what the fuss was about. Maybe I walk about, ask some questions, then I see my nemesis, me, leaving the scene with what looks like a gun. This piques my curiosity. I know there’s nothing more I can do here, so I leave, this being my first chance to find out more about Detective Shakespeare. I activate my camera so I can get the license plate and car, determined to follow him to see where he goes, where he works, where he lives.
“But I get my lucky break. He stops, leaving the gun in the car. I get out, lift his keys, perhaps a little easier than I had expected, since I don’t realize he’s heading into a diabetic coma. I steal the gun, set him up as a patsy so he looks incompetent to his colleagues, then leave, successfully adding confusion to the case, thus saving me from being caught.”
Shakespeare put the car back in gear and pulled into traffic. “Boy, did you ever succeed. You fuck.” Air burst from his nose as five years of frustration, pain, indignity, tried to escape. “I was set up by a punk, who nearly destroyed my career. Who made me give up on life.” He gripped the steering wheel, his fingers splayed as they one by one tightened on the leather.
“You’re mine this time, asshole.”
Trace leaned forward, spinning the control, backing up the footage a few seconds. She let go. “There she is. Can you follow her?”
“Yes, mum,” said the young man at the controls.
“Mum?”
“Sorry, ma’am. I’m still trying to lose the accent.”
Trace looked at the young man. “Graham, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, mum. Allman-Talbot.”
“That’s a mouthful. Where’re you from?”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 9
