“Okay, everybody else, hit the obits list, let’s see if we can save a widow. Go back I guess six months. When you’ve done that, keep digging on the original six’s backgrounds. I’m willing to bet our K car guy is linked to one of these victims. Something set him off. Now that we know how the victims are linked, dig into the pasts of the husbands and the people they saved. When you get names, feed them to Frank so he can check them against the list.”
He clapped his hands together.
“Let’s go!”
The room broke and the monitor went black as he pushed himself out of the seat.
“How ’bout we get some breakfast first,” suggested Trace.
Shakespeare smiled at her as his stomach rumbled in agreement.
“What an absolutely fabulous idea.”
“Are you okay?”
Fiona moaned slightly then turned her head toward the voice. It was the other guy. Her partner in all this. Partner. She was about to answer when their captor’s voice interrupted.
“Fiona Lipton. Meet Carl Gray. Ask Carl about his wife. Carl Gray, meet Fiona Lipton. Ask Fiona about her job. Ask these questions of each other, then use the answers to decide your fate. Should you decide to sacrifice yourself and save the other, therefore redeeming yourself in the eyes of the Lord, simply press the button to your right.”
Fiona turned her head and saw a red button, screwed into the side of her prison, a wire running up and out a tiny hole at the top, silicone caulking neatly plugging any gaps, and stopping any air that might get in.
“You have one hour of oxygen remaining. Use it wisely.”
“You can’t do this to us!” yelled Fiona, tears burning down her still wet cheeks. “You can’t do this to me,” she whispered. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
But there was no reply.
She lay there in silence, her head turned to the side so she wouldn’t have to look at the other person, and wept, her chest heaving.
“Can you please stop crying?”
Her head spun toward the mirror.
“Why? What’s it to you?”
The man’s face was staring down at her, his hair soaked and face still damp.
“You’re wasting oxygen.”
“What does it matter?”
His eyebrows shot up.
“The more oxygen we waste, the less time we have to survive.”
Fiona laughed. “In the end we die anyway. What difference does it make whether it’s in one hour, or one hour and five minutes?”
“Maybe we’ll get rescued.”
“Somehow I doubt five minutes will matter.”
“You never know.”
She looked at him.
“If you’re so convinced that getting rescued is an option, why not press the button and save me? I’m younger, I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“What’s the job he was talking about?”
Fiona felt her cheeks flush. “It’s nothing.”
“Well, it must be something. He wouldn’t have mentioned it if it weren’t. And you’re here. He must have picked you for a reason.”
“Well, you’re here too. Why don’t you tell me about your wife?”
He remained silent.
“What, did you cheat on her?”
Like almost all of my clients.
He turned red.
“I never cheated on her! That bitch cheated on me!”
How’s that a sin for him?
“Then why are you here?”
Silence again. In the narrow view she had of him, he appeared to shrug his shoulders.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, obviously you know why, you’re here!”
“Then obviously you know why you’re here,” he retorted, glaring at her through the mirror.
She sighed.
What the hell? How does it matter now?
“I’m an escort.”
His eyebrows shot up and she recognized that look, as if he were trying to picture how to have one last throw before dying.
“Don’t get any ideas,” she said.
He chuckled.
“Honey—” He stopped. “Fiona was it?”
She nodded.
“Fiona, I’m still in love with my wife, so squeezing through this hole and getting over to you is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“If you love your wife, then why are you here? Why isn’t she? She’s the one who cheated.”
“Because she’s dead.”
Fiona felt her chest tighten slightly.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “How’d she die?”
“She was murdered, five years ago.”
Suddenly things clicked in Fiona’s mind. The names. Wayne Cooper. Carl Gray.
“Oh my God! Your wife was murdered by Wayne Cooper!”
She saw the features of his face tighten up and his eyes narrow as anger took over.
“Wayne Cooper deserves to die, not me,” he growled.
“Then why are you here?”
His eyes suddenly flooded with tears.
“Because I’m happy she’s dead,” he whispered.
Fiona gulped.
“Why?”
He glared at her.
“I had my reasons.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’re completely justified in being happy your wife was murdered.”
“The bitch cheated on me. That’s reason enough.”
Fiona blasted air from her nose.
“Most of my customers are men cheating on their wives. If everyone who cheated on their spouse deserved to be murdered, half the country would be dead.” She paused. “Or does this little justification of yours only work for men?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, I’ve met plenty of guys like you. You claim to love your wives, but secretly you hate them, you hate all women. You’re just an emasculated little prick who can’t stand it when a woman asserts herself. You probably beat her, didn’t you?”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, great comeback. I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I loved my wife.”
“All wife beaters say that. And in their own sick, twisted little way it’s probably true. Still makes you a wife beater.”
“I gave her everything I could. Was it my fault that we drifted apart? That she got bored with me? That she cheated on me?”
“Did it ever occur to you that she wanted to get away because you were beating her?”
He gasped, a sob erupting from him that even touched her.
“I never laid a hand on her,” he whispered. “I gave her everything I had. I worked my ass off to make her life nicer, I bought her flowers every week, I kissed her every day, and told her I loved her every day. And yet she cheated on me.” He turned his head and she could see his chest heave as he sobbed. “I still love her.”
Fiona eyed the button.
There’s no way he’ll sacrifice himself to save me.
Shakespeare dipped his whole wheat toast into the egg yolk then bit off the soggy concoction, savoring every chew. He took a sip of coffee to wash it down, then eyed Trace’s plate.
Vegetarian egg white omelet.
“Does that actually taste any good?” he asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “You get used to it. If there’s nice fresh peppers in it, then yes.” She added a dash of salt and pepper, then a large glob of Heinz 57 on the side. “Drowning it in this helps too.”
“You on a diet or something?”
Another shrug. “Sort of.”
He motioned at the ring with his eyebrows, his hands occupied with moving the contents of the plate into his mouth as quickly as possible.
“Anything to do with that?”
She looked down at her hand and blushed. Shakespeare couldn’t recall ever seeing her do that.
“Maybe.”
She separated a chunk of omelet with her fork then pushed it through the Ketchup.
“Fiancé?”
&nbs
p; “Wrong finger.”
“Sorry, anything other than the finger, I haven’t got a clue.”
“Promise ring.”
Shakespeare’s head bobbed as bacon was emulsified with hash browns in his mouth. He swallowed.
“What’s his name?”
She pushed a piece of green pepper around her plate, chasing a mushroom. “Mark.”
“How’d you meet?”
“Vegas.”
“When?”
“Last year.”
Shakespeare looked up and put his knife down to free up a hand for coffee. “Sorry, Trace, I’m interrogating you and I hate interrogating friends.”
“Is that what we are?”
He paused. “Well, partners. In time I hope we can be friends.”
She laughed and leaned back in her chair.
“I’m sorry, Shakes. I’m acting like a little girl trying to keep her boyfriend a secret from her dad.”
Shakespeare covered his heart in feigned hurt. “Ugh, I’m getting too old for this shit. Dad?”
Trace leaned back in. “Sorry, Shakes, what I meant was I haven’t told anybody about this, not even my parents.”
Shakespeare waved his knife over his plate. “Okay, I get it. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Trace smiled and took another bite of her omelet. “No, it’s okay. His name’s Mark, we met in Vegas last year. He’s a Marine and just shipped back to Afghanistan for another tour. We might”—she paused, holding up her fork and stabbing the air with it—“might get engaged when he gets back.”
Shakespeare smiled. “Congratulations.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“You don’t seem too excited about it.”
Trace frowned. “No, I am, but…” She drifted off, looking across the diner. Shakespeare followed her gaze and saw a couple eating with two kids, the mother battling both of them as they fought over the syrup for their mini-stacks of pancakes.
“Let me guess, you don’t want kids?”
She looked at him, lips pursed.
“You should be a detective or something.”
“How’s he feel about that?”
“Oh, he wants them all right. A whole mess of them.”
“Really? That’s rare nowadays.”
“Well, two of them anyway. To me that’s a whole lot of mess I’ll be cleaning up for twenty years.”
Shakespeare snorted.
“I’ll be honest, I can’t picture you the domestic, but then I’m sure a lot of women are like that. Then when they hold that baby in their arms, everything changes.”
“Yeah, probably, but what about my job? If I’ve got a kid at home, should I be off chasing murderers all day? I could get shot, killed, then what would happen to the kid?”
“True, but your job makes the streets safer for your kids.”
“I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” She sighed. “I don’t know. But I’m getting up there now, the proverbial clock is ticking, so if I’m going to have kids, the next few years are as good a time as any.”
She jabbed her fork at him.
“Now what about you?”
“Huh?” Shakespeare stopped, a strip of bacon suspended in the air. “What about me?”
“This was supposed to be a ‘you show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ conversation.”
“Something tells me I’d get the better half of that deal.”
Trace chuckled.
“Ha ha. Don’t think humor will get you out of our deal.”
“I seem to remember a ‘maybe’ in there or something,” he said, shoving the bacon in his mouth, his plate empty. He pushed back from the table slightly and propped his arm over the chair beside him as he sipped from his cup. “What do you want to know?”
“What really happened five years ago?”
Shakespeare felt his chest tighten.
“What do you mean?” he asked, sotto voce.
“You know damned well what I mean. I’ve always known there was no way a cop as good as you would have left that gun unsecured.”
“I didn’t, we saw the video.”
“Bullshit. You were just as surprised to discover the truth as the rest of us. You had no clue what really happened that day, and for five years you took shit for it. I want to know why.”
Shakespeare shifted in his seat.
“Now I think I know how a perp feels.”
Trace leaned back in her chair, putting her fork down. In a lower, almost soothing voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Shakes. It’s just that I’ve been working with you for a couple of months now, and I don’t see you as that man. You’re too good a detective for that. And after seeing that video, well, frankly, you looked like shit.” She leaned forward. “You said you were sick. But if you were, why would you hide that for five years? What do you have to hide from your friends, your squad. You know they would understand, especially back then. You were the man, everyone respected you.”
Shakespeare’s chest was so tight it hurt. His heart rammed into his ribcage and he bit on his cheek hard, trying to keep control. He felt the emotions smashing against his wall of self-control, slowly eroding it away. He wanted to tell, he wanted to tell somebody he worked with. But he continued to resist. Why? Why not just tell her? He felt ashamed of his condition, but nearly one in nine Americans were diabetic. Why should he feel shame? Yes, it was his fault. He was overweight, didn’t lead a very active lifestyle since becoming a detective, and had the eating habits of a freshman at college.
He had a disease for which there was no cure. He could lose the weight, and it may take away his symptoms, but he’d always be a diabetic, and eventually, it would catch up to him.
Hell, his doctor said he might have a heart condition, and it most likely was caused by his lifestyle. The number one killer of diabetics was heart disease.
I’m going to die.
He looked away.
“I’m a diabetic.”
“Is that all? So’s my mother.” He felt a hand on his, squeezing.
He turned to her and gave her a weak smile.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m sure if you just told everybody, they’d understand.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m not ready for that.” He sighed, the pressure slowly easing in his chest now that the secret was out. “If I were slim and a diabetic, sure, but this type of diabetes is my own fault.”
“You’re Type Two, right?”
He nodded.
“Well, sorry, Shakes, but Type Two can be caused by lots of things. My mom’s a rake and she’s got it. You may have got it even if you looked like Vinny.”
“Ugh, you had to compare me to him?”
She laughed. “Good to see you still have your sense of humor. Listen, you want to keep your secret, fine by me. But if there ever was a time to come clean with the squad, this is it. You’ve earned their respect back, they now know you didn’t fuck up five years ago, and they’re just looking to know why you were sick that day.” She sipped her coffee. “Low blood sugar?”
He nodded.
“Yeah, my mom’s had that a few times. She says it’s terrifying. I remember one night coming home and she was just sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, but I could see the fear in her eyes.” Trace’s voice cracked and tears threatened to flow. “I didn’t know what to do, then I realized what was going on. I got her some crackers and a glass of orange juice. Within minutes she was fine again. She said—”
“She said she knew what she needed to do, but couldn’t make herself move,” whispered Shakespeare as his own eyes flooded with the memories. The first time it had happened to him he swore it would be the last. It was terrifying. Your mind was working, it knew what was happening, it knew what needed to be done, but it was powerless to move your body, to move your mouth and speak the words that would save your life. I need sugar.
“Exactly,” said Trace, dabbing her eyes dry with her napkin.
Shak
espeare did the same and took a deep breath, looking out the window. It had happened at the office, about six months before the gun was stolen. And it was Vinny of all people who had found him like that, and it was his partner at the time, a slightly younger Walker, who had shoved a box of donuts in front of him and said, “Eat something, you look like shit.” And his brain had obeyed.
“It’s a terrifying feeling. And when I felt it coming on again, I knew I had to take care of it right away, while I could. So I stopped and got something to eat before it was too late.”
“Has it happened since?”
He shook his head. “No, the medicine that can cause that was tossed as soon as I got home. Never had it since. Never had my blood sugar entirely under control since, but I’d rather die early than worry every waking moment about going hypoglycemic.”
“Funny, my mom said the same thing.”
Shakespeare’s phone vibrated with a text message.
Lawyers have agreed to bring Cooper for meeting at ADA Turnbull’s office. She wants to meet with you ASAP.
“It’s Kowalski, we need to go meet with the ADA. Cooper’s coming in.” He motioned for the bill.
“I can’t wait to see her face when you tell her Cooper’s innocent.”
Shakespeare grinned.
“Me neither.”
“ADA Turnbull,” said Shakespeare, nodding, not bothering to extend a hand as hers appeared to be glued to the chair she didn’t bother getting up from.
“Detectives.”
Shakespeare didn’t wait to be offered a seat, he simply took it.
“I understand you wanted to see us?”
She nodded, her knuckles white with her death grip on her chair. She appeared flushed.
“What are you doing to my case?”
Shakespeare’s eyes shot up.
“Excuse me?”
“Are you trying to destroy any hope we have of getting the original conviction restored?”
Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed. “Haven’t you been reading the updates I’ve been sending you?”
“I’ve been away at a funeral for two days and I come back to this stack of BS.” She waved at several feet of files. “I don’t have time to read it all. Normally my detectives come to me with their updates.”
Shakespeare was starting to get a little pissed.
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 16
