He breathed out.
Half an inch.
“Let’s push this toward Aynslee a little, give you some breathing room, okay, Shakey?”
“If you insist,” he said, turning slightly red. They both pushed, with Aynslee pulling, and moved the table a couple of inches. He leaned back.
“Thank you, ladies, that’s much better.”
And it was. Just that extra few inches made all the difference. It infuriated him sometimes how restaurants had booths with tables that couldn’t be moved. He realized it was his fault he was overweight, but some people seemed to design these things with nobody over 220 in mind. Whenever he would encounter one of these places, he’d never go back. It wasn’t worth the discomfort, and definitely wasn’t worth the embarrassment of asking to be moved, the reason obvious because your stomach had decided to envelop itself around the table edge as if so hungry it had to eat the nearest thing in sight.
“So, how was your day, Hon?”
“Long, tiring, frustrating.” He smiled. “You know, the usual. Yours?”
“About the same, but in heels.”
Aynslee giggled. “Why we women insist on wearing the damned things I’ll never know.”
“Tips,” said Louise.
Aynslee grinned. “Ratings. But then no one sees my feet on the air.”
“Yes they do,” said Shakespeare, perhaps a little too quickly.
Eyebrows shot up around the table.
He looked down, then up, a little sheepishly. “The long shot when they come back from commercial break. You can see your feet then.”
Louise leaned back, crossing her arms.
“Checking out other women, are we?”
Shakespeare was about to protest when he caught the wink meant for Aynslee. He squeezed Louise’s leg. “You know you’re the only one for me babe.” Then it was his turn to wink. “I don’t have the energy for two.”
She gave him a slap on the arm and leaned forward.
“So, Aynslee. Anybody in your life that you have to put up with like I do?”
Aynslee shook her head. “Nope. Chronically single for me it seems.”
“A girl as gorgeous as you? I find that hard to believe.”
She dropped her head modestly. “I’m just too busy at work to meet anyone, and those I do, never seem to get beyond a first or second date.” She sat back against the padded booth. “Maybe I just have standards that are too high.”
“Louise used to have that problem, then she dropped the bar on the floor and asked me out,” said Shakespeare.
Louise punched him. “You know I hate it when you put yourself down like that.” She grabbed his arm with both of her hands, resting her head on his shoulder. “I fell in love with a man, not what Hollywood says I should find attractive.”
Shakespeare knew his cheeks were on fire. He could feel the heat. He just gave her a kiss on the top of her head then decided to try and change the subject.
“So, working on any interesting stories?”
Aynslee nodded. “Well, same one you’re on I guess. But I suppose we can’t talk about that, can we?”
Shakespeare chuckled. “You can talk all you want, I can’t.”
“Have you had a chance to look at the menu?”
Shakespeare looked up at the waiter, then at Louise and Aynslee.
“Hey, doll, we were waiting for you.”
He gave her a bump with his shoulder. “Then you guys order.”
Aynslee ordered some sort of salad, which Shakespeare couldn’t understand for dinner, and Louise ordered a small version of something he might order. They make four ounce steaks?
“This is a steakhouse, right?” he asked the waiter needlessly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Give me a twelve”—he felt a jab in his ribs from Louise—“eight ounce prime rib with garlic mashed potatoes, gravy on the side.”
“Very good, sir.” The waiter disappeared and Shakespeare took a sip of water.
“I didn’t pour you any of our wine, Shaky, since I didn’t know if you were still on duty.”
“Technically I’m off, but the way this case is going, I could have to go back at any minute, so it’s best to not indulge. You ladies feel free. There’s plenty of room in the Caddy for drives home.”
“Maybe we’ll go park after, huh, Hon?”
Shakespeare went fire red as Aynslee snorted into her glass.
“Awww, Mom, Dad, the kids are at the table,” she said, making her voice nasally.
Shakespeare laughed, leaning back and putting his arm around Louise. “So, what have you heard on your end?” he asked.
“Just that he’s holed up at the Trump International, apparently with some hot number for the first night, then she disappeared after some cops arrived.”
“Disappeared?” It was an interesting choice of words.
“Yeah, as in, left the hotel.”
“Oh.”
“Why? Is there more to that? Has she actually, ‘disappeared’?”
Shakespeare dropped his chin and gave her a look through raised eyes.
She waved the question off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Anyway, we’re now trying to get background on the latest victim, doing backstories on The Seven, that’s about it. Nothing really juicy, that’s for sure.” She leaned forward. “Beyond your shoes, that is.”
“Ugh,” he grunted. “I don’t know if I’ll ever wear those again.”
The chit-chat continued for over an hour, interrupted only by their food arriving. He had to admit he was having a thoroughly good time, and when their plates had been cleared, found himself suggesting they do this again, soon.
“Absolutely,” said Louise. “It’s so nice to meet somebody that Shakey has worked with, and been through so much with. I feel I know you so well what with everything he’s told me, and now tonight.”
“I’d love to do it again, perhaps sometime next week or the week after?” suggested Aynslee.
“Sounds good to me,” said Shakespeare as the waiter walked up.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked.
Shakespeare shook his head. “No thanks, just the bill, please.”
The waiter nodded and walked away, nearly bumping into a man from the next booth who stood up without looking. Shakespeare eyed him for a moment, then noticed the cellphone in his hand, down by his side.
People and their damned text messaging.
He didn’t mind text messaging. In fact, he had recently embraced it himself. But at least pay attention to the world around you. Be considerate. And don’t do it while driving. Whenever someone debated with him on whether or not it was safe to text and drive, he asked them this: “What’s harder, walking down stairs, or driving?”. The answer was always driving. “Try texting and quickly walking down the stairs. See if you don’t almost break your neck a couple of times.” He had won a few converts over the years, some sheepishly admitting they had tried his test and failed miserably. Some however wouldn’t accept it.
And don’t even get started on talking on a cellphone while driving. They’d argue talking on their cellphone was no different than talking to a passenger, ignoring one incredibly important fact: the passenger has a vested interest in you not getting into a car accident. The person on the other end of the phone line doesn’t even know where you are or what the traffic around you is doing, so they continue a conversation regardless of the situation you’re driving in, and if you happen to pause to concentrate, they keep talking, even sometimes insisting on a response, asking needless questions like, “are you still there”, “can you hear me”?
But the passenger? His eyes are on the road too. If he sees something happening that you need to concentrate on, he usually stops talking (unless he’s not a driver and just doesn’t get it). Sometimes the passenger will even point out things you might have missed.
There is simply no comparison between talking to an interested passenger, and a disinterested voice on the other end of the line.
And why, oh why, do some people insist on looking at the person they’re talking to while driving? That drove him nuts. Get your goddamned eyes on the road where they belong. The person isn’t going to be offended. If anything, they’ll probably be pleased that you care enough about their safety to pay attention to your driving!
The conversation had continued, his responses automated as the wrap-up chat occurred. Louise and Aynslee had apparently settled on next Thursday evening for dinner as the waiter returned. He placed the faux leather bill holder on the table and Aynslee grabbed it with lightning speed.
“I’ll get that,” she said, reaching into her purse.
“Hey, we didn’t come here just for you to pay,” said Shakespeare.
“Please, dear, let us pay our part,” insisted Louise.
“No, you’ve saved my life twice in as many months. I think I can repay the favor with a dinner or two now and then, can’t I?”
“Actually, the bill’s been paid.”
They all stopped and stared at the waiter.
And Shakespeare’s alarms were going off.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice dead serious.
“The man at the next booth paid for your meal,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “There he goes now.”
Shakespeare looked toward where the waiter was nodding, and saw the man, still holding the cellphone at his side, just stepping out the door.
Aynslee gasped.
His head spun around to see what was wrong and she pointed at a piece of paper inside the holder that had been folded in half.
“He left a message,” stated the waiter.
“Don’t touch it.”
“I already did!”
“Don’t touch it any more then,” said Shakespeare, pulling out a set of latex gloves. He snapped them on quickly, then opened it.
Those are two lovely ladies you are with. I see redemption in their future.
Shakespeare looked at the front of the restaurant and saw the man standing at the window, his face obscured by the cellphone he was holding up in front of his face.
He’s recording us!
Shakespeare jumped up and immediately the man bolted. Shakespeare dodged in and out of tables, finally clearing the last one and plunging past the entrance area and through the doors. He ran up the street but their benefactor was nowhere to be seen.
He stopped, gasping for breath as he rested, bent over, his hands on his knees. Trace is right. I’m going to die if I don’t do something.
He walked back to the restaurant, still sucking in lungfuls of air and by the time he had reached the door, he was almost back to normal. He stepped inside and to his horror, saw a busboy clearing the suspect’s table. Pulling out his badge, he yelled, “Stop!” as he weaved his way back.
The restaurant stopped.
All conversations came to a halt, and all eyes were on Shakespeare. Including the busboy’s. Shakespeare held up the badge. “NYPD, Homicide. I need you to stop cleaning that table.” He turned to the nearest waiter. “I need to see the manager, right now.”
“Yes, sir,” said the young man, quickly disappearing into the back.
Shakespeare pulled out his phone and dialed Vinny.
“Fantino.”
“Hey, Vinny, it’s Shakespeare.”
“What’s up?”
“I need you and your team here ASAP. The suspect was here, at the next table. We might be able to get prints, trace, anything. I’ll text you the address.”
“Okay, we’ll be there shortly, bye.”
Shakespeare ended the call just as an older man, well dressed, fit, graying hair with a suit more expensive than Shakespeare’s entire wardrobe, approached.
“Jason Greene. I’m the owner, how can I help you?”
Shakespeare showed him his badge. “Detective Shakespeare, Homicide. I need this table quarantined for now, and all of your staff and customers to remain here until we’ve had a chance to interview them.”
Several groans erupted from those that had overheard his statement.
“Can I at least keep serving them?”
Shakespeare nodded. “Absolutely, but no more alcohol; I need these witnesses sober. Just keep that table as it is, that busboy where he is, along with his basket, and don’t let anybody leave, or any new people in.”
The man leaned in.
“Is this serious?”
Shakespeare nodded, lowering his voice as well. “You just may have had a man who’s killed at least seven times as a customer.”
The man nodded, and to his credit began giving orders to his staff.
I’m glad that didn’t turn into a battle.
He texted the address to Vinny, Trace, Walker and Curtis, then dialed dispatch requesting backup for crowd control. It may be quiet now, but he expected patrons to begin getting frustrated shortly.
A couple stood up and began for the door.
“Sir, ma’am, I’ll need you to remain seated.”
“You don’t have the right to hold us here,” said the man as he continued to lead his wife to the door.
Shakespeare followed and pushed the door closed before they had a chance to step through.
“I’m afraid I do have the right.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear. “All of you are potential witnesses that could help us identify a multiple-murder suspect. I just need everyone to remain seated, and once additional officers arrive, we’ll begin the questioning. Hopefully it won’t take long. In the meantime, please continue to enjoy your meals, I just ask you don’t drink any more alcohol, as it may affect your memory.”
“This is bullshit!” he heard a voice yell from the rear of the restaurant.
“I’m sure the family of the woman who was raped and murdered last night wouldn’t think so, and would appreciate the very small sacrifice you’re being asked to make.”
“Yeah, shut up and eat your steak asshole, you haven’t even finished your meal yet and you’re complaining!”
A retort of support.
“Take a long hard kiss of my ass, motherfucker.”
That had a chance of getting out of control.
“Listen up!” yelled Shakespeare. “The next person who says anything to anybody but someone at their table, or a staff member, is going to be arrested.” The man standing by his side with his wife opened his mouth but Shakespeare cut him off. “Don’t test me.” He pointed at their table. “Now sit down and order desert.”
This is going to be a long night.
Detective Trace read the text from Shakespeare and was about to send a text confirmation that she was on her way when the phone vibrated with a message from Frank.
2008 Ford Taurus four dour. Entered Columbus Circle three hours before. Plates trace to a rental agency. Agency says it was rented to Justin Shakespeare yesterday, still out. It has a low jack on it. Company won’t activate since it’s not missing. Should I get warrant?
She quickly replied back.
Get a warrant for the low jack ASAP. Let me know if any problems.
She fired a confirmation to Shakespeare then put the final touches on the warrant application for a search of Fiona Lipton’s apartment, car, locker, phone records, bank records—anything that might help track her down. All she had needed was this final piece of the puzzle.
Was she kidnapped, or just skipping town?
And with the car she was picked up in rented by the lead detective of the case, it was quite obvious it was the former.
I just hope that poor girl survives.
Shakespeare looked up as the front door opened, Trace and Vinny walking in, both loaded with equipment from the crime lab. Once the first patrol cars had arrived, he had begun interviewing witnesses, but so far, none remembered the man. His hopes rested in forensics.
His hopes rested in Vinny.
“Hey, Shakes, what’s up?”
Shakespeare pointed at the suspect’s table. “I believe our unsub was sitting right here. He left the table, walked over
there”—he pointed to the bar—“and paid his bill and our bill in cash, left me a note with the bill”—he pointed to the bill holder sitting on the table with Louise and Aynslee—“then walked out the front door, stood in the front door for a minute, then ran west. And it looks like he was videotaping the whole thing on his phone.”
Vinny nodded then stepped over to the table as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
“Are you two okay?” he asked of the women, who responded with lowered voices. Shakespeare quickly lost track of the conversation as Walker and Curtis entered. Shakespeare waved them over then repeated his description of the suspect’s movements.
“I want you two interviewing witnesses. Begin with the busboy and waiter”—he pointed them out near the bar—“then start with the tables that have finished eating.”
“How will we know that?” asked Curtis.
“They’ll have no food on their tables.” Walker elbowed Curtis. “You two don’t worry about it. Trace and I will send them back to you. The owner has agreed to let us use his office and the staff rest area. Each of you take a room, and we’ll start sending people back.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Description. Name. Anything he might have said. Just anything that can help us identify this guy.”
“Will do, Shakes,” said Walker, heading to the back, the owner with enough presence of mind to lead them.
Shakespeare pointed at the busboy and waiter and they both stood up from the stools they were perched on, then followed the detectives into the back.
Trace motioned to his table with her chin.
“They seem to be taking it well.”
Shakespeare glanced at Louise and Aynslee.
“Well, I think Louise is putting on a brave face, but this is probably nothing to Aynslee after what she’s been through.”
“True. How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. Just a little pissed that he was this close and I couldn’t get him.”
“How could you have possibly known?”
He shrugged. “Still.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Shakes.” She looked around the restaurant, dozens of eyes glaring back. “I think we better start thinning the herd.”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 12
