Trace pursed her lips then blew them apart with a burst of air. “I know, but what the hell is it?”
The snap of gloves being removed caused them both to turn as MJ stepped from the bathroom.
“Well, he’s dead.”
Vinny grunted. “No shit.”
“But he wasn’t when he was cut in half.”
“Oh God,” was all Trace managed to say, almost gagging at the thought.
“And whoever did this started from the bottom.”
“You mean—”
“He would have felt pretty much everything right up until the end.”
TWELVE
Aynslee fished her keys from her purse and Officer Richards held out his hand.
“Let me do that, Miss.”
“That’s okay, I’ve got it.”
“Miss.”
Aynslee looked at him and realized he wasn’t just being polite, he was trying to protect her. She sighed.
“You’re right, sorry, I forgot why you’re here.”
He smiled and took the keys. “Just your friendly taxpayer funded taxi service, Miss.”
She chuckled as Scaramell, still looking a little off, used his arm to gently redirect her away from the door. Richards looked at him then nodded, pushing open the door and entering, hand on the grip of his weapon. Scaramell, stepping in but not following, instead blocked any egress an intruder might have.
She looked over his shoulder and saw Richards turn to the left toward the bedroom. She racked her brain trying to remember if she had left the apartment in a presentable state, but having not been home in almost two days, she couldn’t remember.
Hopefully it’s not too embarrassing in there.
“Clear!” came the call from within. She let go the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, and entered, Scaramell stepping aside to let her pass. She kicked off her heels and tentatively walked deeper inside, the hair on the back of her neck standing up as she imagined someone lurking in every shadow.
Richards came out of the kitchen and smiled at her reassuringly. “Miss, I’ve checked the apartment, and we’re going to go over it one more time”—he motioned toward the entrance for Scaramell to begin there—“and check every closet, cupboard, under the bed, in the shower, everything. So you just have a seat, we’ll just be a moment.”
She nodded and sat down, exhausted. She drew her left arm across her chest, and pulled on her elbow with her right, stretching out her back and shoulder muscles. In fact, she was aching all over. Tied up in a trunk, immobile, for over half a day had drained her, and it was only now, in the comfort of her own apartment that the adrenaline fueling her for the past couple of hours began to wane.
She leaned back and closed her eyes, then out of habit, pulled her Blackberry from her purse. The familiar red light flashed, indicating a message. She entered her code and scrolled through the routine messages that had come in through the day, including a bunch of “where are you?” type messages from Jeffrey Merle, her news director.
She stopped.
What’s this?
She opened a message titled ‘Urgent re Wayne Cooper Coverage’. The message appeared and as she read it her eyes opened wider and wider, her heart pounding in excitement, finally culminating with her jumping to her feet, startling Scaramell who had just entered the room.
“What is it?” he asked.
“One of The Seven isn’t who they say they are!”
Rebecca Sorenson pushed the door open with her back and stepped outside, carrying the large, steaming box of deep dish meat lover’s pizza with hot peppers. She looked for oncoming traffic then hurried across the street toward the Chevy Suburban she had arrived in fifteen minutes ago with the others.
Her stomach rumbled.
She hadn’t been hungry. Hadn’t been able to even think of food what with what they were about to do, but fifteen minutes waiting for that pizza and smelling the other pizzas being cooked while a dozen customers ate their own orders had allowed her stomach to win over her mind. They had decided against phoning the order in, since that would leave a trail that might somehow be traced back to them.
I should have ordered two.
She pulled the back door open and handed the pizza to the pair of outstretched hands that greeted her, then stepped up into the vehicle, closing the door with a satisfying thud, the exposed feeling she had had for the past quarter hour finally put to rest.
Leaning back, she sighed. “If I get the short straw again, I don’t know if my heart will be able to take it. I never thought I could be so scared ordering a pizza.”
“Luck of the draw,” said one of her rear seat companions.
She nodded. “So, who’s putting the poison on this thing?”
Silence.
“Straws again?”
A round of nods. She grabbed the bunch of straws from one of the rear cup holders and made a fist with them. Each drew a straw, and with the short straw remaining hidden after each selection, she knew it was going to be her again.
She sighed and opened her hand, displaying the last, short straw.
“I should go buy a lottery ticket.”
There was sympathetic silence.
She flipped open the box and again her stomach rumbled as the melted cheese and greasy mass of meat screamed to be eaten. She pictured a slice being lifted from the box, strings of cheese yanking at the remaining pieces, as if suggesting they come along for the journey into her stomach.
I’m definitely ordering a pizza tonight.
The vial was handed to her from the front seat and she unscrewed the top, then gently shook the powdered contents over the entire surface of the pizza. Within seconds of hitting the mass of greasy deliciousness, it disappeared, absorbed into the artery clogging but sinfully satisfying toppings.
Her stomach rumbled, this time noticeably loud.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’m just so damned hungry.”
“Me too,” said Kara Long. “You should have bought two.”
A round of assents filled the interior of the Suburban as she closed the lid once again, handing the vial back.
The phone rang.
Everybody just sat there, not saying anything, not reaching for the control, everyone realizing what this call meant. Answering it would be the signal, the flare fired into the night, indicating it was time. Time to kill. Time to join the ranks of murderers that roamed their streets.
Time for justice.
“Answer it!” she finally cried.
The button was pressed.
“I’ve confirmed he’s there,” said the voice, then the call went dead.
They all looked at each other, glances exchanged, eye contact quickly averted. She knew they were all having their doubts. So was she. But this was justice. It may be murder, but it was justified.
It was self-defense.
Self-defense of a city, a city that had already lost another of its citizens to a man who had gotten off on a technicality. A man who should have been locked up for life.
It was time for Wayne Cooper to meet his maker.
“Remember what he did to our loved ones,” she said. “We’re doing the right thing.”
Nods of assent, but no words.
The car engine turned over, and they began their journey, one that would change their lives forever, but at least put it back in motion, the past five years for all of them mere wheels spinning in the mud of a flawed justice system.
“Why don’t you have a seat there,” said Shakespeare, pointing at his desk. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
Tommy nodded and plunked down in the seat, immediately pulling out his phone, his fingers flying. Shakespeare put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Best not to tell anyone what’s going on. We don’t want the press getting hold of this, okay?”
Tommy’s shoulders slumped then he repeatedly pressed a button, apparently deleting whatever he had just typed. With a final squeeze of the distraught teenager’s shoulder, Shake
speare was about to go to the LT’s office when Nonkoh waved him over.
“This arrived for you a few minutes ago,” he said, pointing to a small shipping box. “Bike courier dropped it off. I was thinking of having it scanned. Looks kind of suspicious.”
“Why?”
“It’s from Carl Gray.”
Shakespeare’s heart raced a few extra beats as he eyed the package. It was small, something you might expect Amazon to deliver a Stephen King hardcover in, with brown packing tape all around it, and a typed mailing label affixed to the center.
And Carl Gray’s return address in the upper left corner.
He made a decision, and grabbed the package. “No time.” He fished his keys from his pocket and opened the small blade on the attached Swiss Army knife, slicing the tape. Opening the box he nearly gasped as a smile spread across his face.
“What is it?”
Shakespeare looked up to see Lt. Phillips come out of his office, and held the box at an angle so everyone could see inside. “I think we might have our missing gun.”
In fact, he was certain of it.
It was exactly as he remembered it. Exactly as it had been when he put it in the trunk. It was still sealed in the evidence bag, apparently undisturbed for five years.
“There’s a note,” said Nonkoh, pointing.
Shakespeare put the box down and snapped on a pair of latex gloves from his pocket. Lifting the gun from the box, he placed it inside another evidence bag that Nonkoh had already retrieved from his desk. Underneath was a typewritten letter, with another memory card taped to the bottom.
“What’s it say?” asked the LT.
Shakespeare held it up by the corners.
“Dear Detective Shakespeare,
“Enclosed is the evidence I relieved you of five years ago. An impetuous act, granted, however one I have no regrets over, for someone had interrupted my work, and they had to pay. It had been my belief that Wayne Cooper was the guilty party, but my own investigation, unhampered by the constraints of the legal system, led me to the conclusion Carl Gray was in fact responsible for the murder of his wife.
“With the recent release of Mr. Cooper, I knew there was little chance of justice being served, therefore I took it upon myself to mete out God’s justice. But fear not, the attached recording includes the proof even you should be able to close the case with.
“I admit to the other seven redemptions without reservation. These souls needed to be redeemed. Six were saved with me when I almost died. Seven souls, impure, were saved, and one, pure, was lost in the act. This was an imbalance that demanded correction.
“The cycle was interrupted by Mr. Gray, a cycle that I was finally able to complete, so that the world would know that seven redemptions took place, not an incorrect eight, should the Gray atrocity have been included. I couldn’t continue my work until I could prove the murder of Sandra Gray wasn’t related to my acts of redemption.
“My only regret is the toll this has placed on you. Five years wasted. Life is a gift from God, and to waste it is a sin. For that, it shall be necessary to correct the imbalance I have created.
“Fear not, Justin Shakespeare. Your soul shall be redeemed, and balance restored.
“By me, in time.
“The Redeemer.”
“Christ,” muttered the LT. “Bag that. Bag the whole thing except that memory card. Let’s see what it says.”
Shakespeare carefully cut the tape holding the card, then placed the letter back in the box. He closed the lid and placed it in another evidence bag held by Nonkoh, then walked over to the pit, the gathered crowd following.
“Anybody know how this works?” asked Shakespeare, holding up the card.
“Allow me,” said Nonkoh, taking the card with gloved hands and sticking it in the front of the flat-screen. A menu popped up and Nonkoh selected the lone file to play.
The screen went black, then a shot appeared showing Carl Gray on one half of the screen, Fiona Lipton on the other, both looking wet and scared, both staring up at the camera at times, but mostly with their heads turned to one side or the other.
But neither said anything.
“Let’s fast-forward this thing until they start talking.”
Nonkoh pressed a button on the remote and forwarded through much of the one hour recording until finally mouths were clearly moving. He backed it up a little, and the entire room listened in silence as the final minutes of Carl Gray’s life played out, and the beginning of the horrendous guilt of survival that would be Fiona Lipton’s.
Gasps filled the room when at last, as the counter neared the end, Gray turned his head to the right, and pressed something with his head.
“Lead a good life, Fiona Lipton.”
Then the screen went blank, and the menu reappeared.
“I think we have a deathbed confession,” said the LT.
Shakespeare nodded, but his mind was on the letter he had just read, and how Louise might be used in the rebalancing.
God, if you’re listening, please take me instead of her.
The hat was pulled down low, the collar turned up, and the glasses were dark and large. If she was caught on camera, there’d be no way she could be recognized.
Except as the unluckiest straw drawer in the land.
Three times in a row? Are you kidding me?
She’d have sworn it was rigged if she hadn’t held the straws all three times. But maybe that was God’s way of balancing things out. One person to shoulder the guilt, to shoulder the blame of what was to happen. One person to burn in Hell for eternity for what they were about to do.
And she had no regrets.
This was justice being delivered, God’s justice, and she felt confident, that when challenged by God upon her death, she would be found worthy, not wanting.
Today she was an instrument of God, delivering justice a flawed system couldn’t.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door of room 708, and waited.
For too long.
There was no answer.
I thought he said he was here?
She knocked again, this time a little louder.
Again, no answer.
Oh no! What if he’s left?
She would surely be noticed leaving the hotel with a pizza. Her heart slammed in her chest. Ditch the pizza somewhere, then go. But that wouldn’t work. A ditched pizza might raise questions. Why? If no one is dead, then it wouldn’t. But what if someone eats it? Then there’d definitely be questions. They’d be dead. But who would eat a random pizza? And the answer her mind came up with chilled her to the bone.
A kid would.
Suddenly there was a sound at the door, and her heart leapt into her throat.
This is it!
Part of her wanted to drop the pizza and run. What if he recognizes you? And it dawned on her. Her outfit looked ridiculously suspicious. Sunglasses indoors? She cursed whoever came up with the idea, and quickly pulled them off her face as the door open.
“Pizza delivery,” she managed, her voice cracking slightly, but apparently going unnoticed.
“I didn’t order any pizza.”
She shrugged her shoulders and spit out her rehearsed line. “I don’t know, I’ve got one large deep dish meat lover’s pizza with hot peppers here, all paid for, to be delivered to this room at the Trump International.” She tipped her head down even lower than it was. “Do you want it or not?”
“Meat lover’s?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, why not.” He took the pizza and stepped back into the room as she turned to go to the elevator, her heart demanding she run, her head screaming to go calmly.
“Wait!”
She froze and nearly peed her pants. He’s recognized me! She wanted to run, she wanted to get as far away as she could, but she couldn’t move her legs.
“Here.”
She looked at the outstretched hand.
“Your tip.”
She forced her hand out and took the bills, thei
r fingers momentarily touching, then he stepped back into his room and the door shut. For several moments she continued to stand in the hallway, frozen in fear, before something finally snapped and she ran to the elevators, jamming her finger repeatedly at the button.
As the doors opened, she pushed her nearly forgotten sunglasses back on her face, and stepped aboard, her heart pounding, her pulse racing, her hands and head shaking with adrenaline.
It’s done!
She took deep, slow breaths as the elevator counted down to freedom.
In less than an hour, Wayne Cooper will be dead.
She smiled as she stepped off the elevator.
That was for you, Maggie.
“Is that sketch artist I requested here yet?” Trace called into the empty office.
Where the hell is everybody?
She heard excited voices coming from the pit, and was about to tell Fiona to sit at her desk when she saw a teenage boy sitting in Shakespeare’s chair. She pointed at Walker’s desk.
“Just have a seat there for a minute.”
Fiona remained as silent as she had been the entire drive over. Her nervous energy seemed to have been completely bled off, and she now appeared exhausted.
“Are you Tommy?” asked Trace.
The boy nodded, not looking up from his phone.
“I’m Detective Trace, Detective Shakespeare’s partner. You can call me Amber.” She extended her hand, and he was forced to look up. His jaw dropped.
I guess he’s into older chicks.
They shook hands, her faith that she still had it restored. “Do you know where Detective Shakespeare is?”
He jerked his head toward the pit. “They all went over there to watch some movie.”
“Thanks.”
Trace strode toward the pit and found almost the entire squad, including somebody holding a sketch pad, talking excitedly. She motioned at the pad holder.
“You the sketch artist I requested?”
He nodded.
“Follow me,” she said, stepping back into the office. “Fiona, this is—”
“Randy.”
“—Randy. He’s going to ask you some questions, not about what happened, but just about what the man looked like, okay?”
Redeemer (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #3) Page 22
