Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Read online

  Shakespeare watched her climb in, her stunning beauty not lost on him. You’re old enough to be her father. He hit the fob for his car, the alarm giving a double chirp in recognition. He opened the door then fished his cellphone from his pocket.

  Where the hell is Trace?

  Frank had made a decision—an easy one. He wasn’t going to prison. Which meant he wasn’t going to turn himself in. But his decision had consequences. If he rid the crime scene of any evidence that may incriminate him, any evidence that may clear him and lead to the real killer would be destroyed as well. He stood up and paced back and forth, from the kitchen to the bedroom, but never the bathroom, trying to decide what to do. He knew he was in the system. Everyone who worked for the NYPD was in the system so their prints and DNA could be excluded from crime scenes they accidentally contaminated. His problem was there was no good reason for him to be on the call. When the murder was discovered, the scene would be locked down and there would be no reason for him to be there. There was a computer, but they’d just bag it, tag it, and bring it to him. He could think of no possible reason for him to gain access so his DNA, his fingerprints, could be chalked up to accidental contamination.

  Could he process the scene himself?

  Yes, he knew enough to do it since he had taken some basic training to be a Crime Scene Tech before returning to his original love, computers. But he didn’t have the equipment with him to dust for prints, or take samples.

  Think!

  He stopped and looked about. There were no signs of a struggle. The killing must have happened in the bathroom, and from what he remembered of the few moments he spent in there, in the bathtub. If he wasn’t the killer, which is an assumption he had to make otherwise he deserved anything that happened to him, the killer had gone to a lot of trouble to frame him. Gloves! Anybody who went to this amount of trouble, would surely use gloves. That meant there would be no prints from the killer. He could confidently wipe the place down to make sure his prints wouldn’t be found.

  One hurdle down.

  DNA. What are the sources of DNA? Blood, saliva, hair, skin. And semen. Oh my God! How do I deal with that? He pulled at his hair then let go, removing his hands slowly and looking for any he might have just yanked free. Idiot! He looked about. He had to stop spreading even more of himself about the scene. He returned to the kitchen and looked under the sink, finding a pair of rubber gloves. He slipped them on.

  Okay, no more fingerprints.

  He headed toward the bathroom and nearly jumped out of his skin when his phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the call display. Fantino, Vincent. It rang again, his trembling hand almost dropping it. He knew there would be no way to control his voice. It rang a third time, then went to voicemail. You’re off duty. He knew there was no reason for them to expect to reach him today; it was Saturday.

  His heart suddenly thumped in his chest as he realized he had missed the one event scheduled for his entire weekend. The one event scheduled where cops would be. The one event he didn’t have a reasonable excuse for missing.

  The funeral!

  Vinny flipped his cellphone closed without leaving a message. The kid probably just couldn’t face it. He had lost enough friends over the years to know funerals were hard, especially this one. He and Eldridge had been close, he considered him one of his best friends, and now he was gone, and in such a shocking manner. Give him the weekend.

  He left the funeral heading in no particular direction and soon found himself at the Detective Bureau. He parked and sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, staring at nothing, his mind filled with images from that night, the night his friend had died. Hayden, why?

  He pulled the keys from the ignition and headed inside. Work will help take my mind off of it. He bounded up the stairs to the fifth floor where the detectives were and strode into the squad room, for what reason, he had no idea. There was a full complement on duty, no rest for the NYPD on a weekend, but as he walked in, the entire squad room went quiet and turned to look at him.

  And no one made eye contact.

  Lieutenant Gene Phillips looked up from his desk behind the glass separating him from his squad, and motioned for Vinny to join him. Vinny stepped through the maze of desks and poked his head in the LT’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

  Phillips beckoned him with two fingers. “Close the door.”

  Vinny closed the door behind him and took a seat in front of the desk.

  “So, how was it?”

  Vinny shrugged his shoulders. “About what you’d expect.”

  Phillips nodded. “Turnout?”

  “Not many. Me, Shakes, the reporter Aynslee Kai, a few of the guys he went through the academy with, a couple of army buddies.”

  “Nobody else from here?”

  “Brata and Trace said they’d be there, but were no shows.”

  Phillips leaned back in his chair, the ancient contraption squeaking in protest. “Frank doesn’t surprise me, he’s young. Trace was on her way but I had to call her back in. You probably passed her on your way up, she just left on a possible homicide.”

  “Possible?”

  “Anonymous tip.”

  “You should’ve called me.”

  Phillips shook his head. “No, not today. You needed to be there and your team can handle it themselves.”

  He’s right. I needed to be there.

  “Well, I’m here now. Idle hands, you know.”

  Phillips frowned for a moment, then sighed. “It’s your crew, so knock yourself out. I’m sure they’ll love having their boss hanging over their shoulders on a weekend.” He smiled and Vinny chuckled. “Dispatch has the address.”

  A commotion on the other side of the glass caused them both to spin in their chairs. A perp was being led in, screaming at the top of his lungs, “It ain’t no stealin’ if the keys is in the ignishun!”

  Detective John “Johnny” Walker pushed the teenager into a seat and handcuffed him to the desk as Vinny and Phillips joined the gathering throng, Walker’s hand beckoning them. “Okay, gents, here’s one for the record books. Anyone got the number for Guinness?”

  “What’ve you got, Detective?” asked Phillips.

  “Hey, LT, get this, genius boy here”—Walker jerked his thumb at the perp—“decides he’s gonna steal a car.”

  “I di’int steal it!”

  “In front of a cop no less.”

  “I di’int knows you wuz no cop!”

  Walker smacked him on the back of the head. “Shut up! So, I’m walking out with my coffee from Eddie’s, and I see this Jag sitting there with the door open, engine lights flashing, you know, typical Jag.”

  “Broken down?” offered Vinny.

  “Of course.”

  “How’s I supposed tuh know?”

  “Because you’re a freakin’ car thief!” Walker raised the back of his hand at the perp but didn’t strike him, instead turning back to the squad.

  “So, bold as brass, this punk walks up to the car as if it were his own, climbs in, and pulls away.”

  “How’d you end up with the collar?” asked Phillips

  “I chased him.”

  “In your car?”

  “Nope, foot pursuit.”

  Vinny’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

  “Yup, car engine was so fucked it was in safety mode and would only do about five miles per hour. I just trotted up alongside, put my coffee”—he held up his cup—“on the roof, held up my badge, and after a couple of blocks he finally gave up.”

  “So you’re telling me—”

  “That you are looking at the first ever successful foot pursuit of a high performance sports car.”

  Walker bowed several times as the squad room erupted in laughter and clapping.

  “Next time I won’t steal no damned Jag!”

  Walker looked at him. “Next time? You aren’t too bright, are you?”

  Vinny shook his head, smiling, and headed to his office to grab his gear
.

  Never try to make a getaway in a Jag.

  Frank, now sporting a shower cap duct taped to his head, his shoes bagged and taped to socks his pant legs were stuffed into, sprayed and wiped every surface outside of the bathroom he may have touched with a bleach solution to destroy any DNA he might miss. And he was dripping in sweat. He had his shirt collar buttoned up tight, anything that might let a stray hair free was taped, his poor man’s crime scene bunny suit crude, but effective. He knew enough from his forensics training to get the areas people didn’t think to wipe down, like door jambs, cutlery, coffee machines (inside and out), entranceway walls where one might put their hand to balance when putting on a shoe, light switches, bulbs, anything.

  He cleaned like he had never cleaned before, and with each wipe, his shame grew. But he had no choice. He couldn’t go to prison. Not for something he was sure he hadn’t done. At least he was pretty sure. He wiped the door frame to the bathroom, and turned to survey the living room and kitchen with a satisfied nod. Done. Wiped down from top to bottom, the floor and every seating surface vacuumed twice, spotless. If there was any DNA left that was his, he’d be stunned.

  And now for the gruesome part.

  He turned to face the bathroom and stepped toward the vanity, starting at the topmost surface he may have touched, and began to work his way down.

  He saw a hair.

  Too long to be his, and the wrong color. Sarah was a blonde, and this was brown or black. Could it be a friend of hers? Could he take that risk, to actually destroy a real piece of evidence? He knew the killer had to have worn gloves, so his cleaning up the living area had most likely not destroyed anything. But here he was, at the scene of the crime. If anything unexpected had happened, it would be here. Here would be where the mistakes were made.

  He put down the cloth and headed to the kitchen. Opening the drawers, he soon found what he was looking for—a box of Ziploc bags. He returned to the bathroom, bagged the hair, and looked about for any others, but found none. He resumed wiping down the vanity and spotted a drop of blood on the top of the faucet. One lone drop. Could it be his? No, he was sure it wasn’t. Before putting on his homemade bunny suit, he had stripped and checked himself for any cuts, anything that might have left blood evidence, and found none. This meant if he found any he could leave it as is with confidence.

  But it could be Sarah’s. He looked at it. I have to know! It was the only drop. Every other spot of blood in the bathroom was in the bathtub enclosure. There appeared to be nothing else anywhere, except this one lone drop. If he took a sample, perhaps with a cotton swab, he might be able to sneak in a test of his own at the lab, and…

  And prove what? He stopped. He knew it wasn’t his. It was Sarah’s or the killer’s. Leave it; it might be the only thing that leads them to the real killer.

  He looked at the bag with the hair. What are you doing? He unzipped the bag and returned the hair to where he had found it. It wasn’t his. The blood drop wasn’t his. He had to give the CSU guys every chance he could to let them solve the case and find the real murderer.

  Turning to the tub, he knew there was one piece of evidence he couldn’t leave.

  He leaned over Sarah’s body and sprayed the wall where she had written his name, silently apologizing to her. As he scrubbed at the dried blood, he began to think about this vital connection to him. Did she think I did it? Or am I the killer? He shuddered. Or did the real killer write this? He paused. Should he leave it? Could the handwriting experts tell whose handwriting it was?

  They wouldn’t need to! It’s your name! You might have been seen leaving with her! Case closed!

  He sprayed some more and wiped, this time with a little more vigor.

  Vinny pulled up in front of the apartment building Trace’s crime scene was supposed to be at, and was surprised to find his team milling about outside. He parked behind a squad car and climbed out. Constance “CC” Cruz, one of his senior investigators, walked up to him.

  “Hey, boss, wasn’t expecting you here today.”

  “Felt like keeping busy.”

  She nodded, a slight smile showing she understood why. They all did. All week he knew they had been walking on eggshells, not sure what to say around him, and when he’d enter a room, conversations would suddenly stop and people would busy themselves without making eye contact. Hopefully now with the funeral over, things could start to get back to normal.

  “What’ve we got? Why are you all out here?”

  “Haven’t got a scene to process.”

  “Tip didn’t pan out?”

  “No, they just haven’t found it yet.”

  “Huh?”

  “Tip was this building. No apartment was specified.”

  Vinny rolled his eyes as he looked up at the towering apartment complex. “How many units?”

  “Almost five hundred.”

  “When did they start?”

  “Not even an hour ago. Trace is in there with some uniforms going door to door. More are on the way, but it could take a while.”

  Vinny sighed, then raised his voice so they could all hear. “Okay, let’s put everything away, then get in there and help find this scene.”

  Frank stood back and surveyed his handiwork, not with a feeling of pride in a job well done, but with a sickness in his stomach, and an overwhelming shame at what he had just finished. He stepped toward the bathtub, held out the bottle of bleach, and poured what was left, almost half a bottle, into the water, unable to look at Sarah’s body. This was a long shot. If he did have sex with her, then his semen would almost definitely be found. This was more of a Hail Mary pass, a last ditch effort he hoped would work if he was right about yet another assumption of his. He had found no evidence of a condom anywhere, and in his inspection of himself, he had found no evidence he had had sex, with a condom or otherwise. He was sure he hadn’t had a shower, he could tell from his hair and just his general feeling of grunginess. And if he hadn’t had a shower, and hadn’t had sex, then the worst he had to worry about was saliva, which would be on the surface, and which the bleach should destroy. He looked down at Sarah, her hair and blood matted together, the rest of her head submerged under the water, and poured the last of the bleach directly on her head.

  I’m so sorry.

  He stepped back and out of the bathroom, turning off the light and closing the door. He put the now empty bottle of bleach in a large garbage bag, and backed himself toward the apartment door, all the while scanning the room for anything he may have missed, but found nothing. The vacuum cleaner was in a suitcase he had discovered under the bed, along with his blood stained shirt. He wore a sweater he had found on the top shelf of her closet, an oversized sweater with I Love New York emblazoned across it, a one-size fits all that fortunately for him, didn’t look too ridiculous with his casual-Friday pants.

  He picked up the suitcase and garbage bag. All that remained was for him to toss the garbage bag down the garbage chute, go down the stairs a couple of floors, then take the elevator the rest of the way out. With luck he’d make it off the floor unseen, and with even greater luck, he’d make it out of the building. He stepped toward the door and spotted a baseball cap. He grabbed it and pulled it low over his eyes.

  He reached for the lock when he heard three rapid knocks on the door.

  “NYPD, open up!”

  Detective Amber Trace knocked on the umpteenth door of the day. In fact it was the seventy-third according to her list. Luckily it was a Saturday morning, and most people were still home. This had made it easier to strike units off the list. Those who wouldn’t let them in were threatened with a possible warrant, and the door always opened. A quick search of each apartment had turned up nothing.

  And none probably will.

  She hated these calls. They were almost always pranks, but they couldn’t be ignored. If someone had been murdered, then they had to find out. And the tip was rather specific according to the 9-1-1 call she had listened to. A young, twenty-something fem
ale had been raped and murdered in her apartment at this address. The voice had been disguised electronically, which was why this call was taken seriously. Usually the punks pranking the system didn’t go to that much trouble.

  She was on the fourth floor, working up with two uniforms in case there was trouble, and more were on the way to start from the top. They could hit the jackpot on this very door, or it could be the 484th door. And what particularly pissed her off about this call was she had missed Eldridge’s funeral. She wasn’t sure she had wanted to go until she wasn’t able to. It was closure to a horrible night she would now never get. Somebody better have died! She mentally kicked herself for that one and knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  She put her ear to the door and listened for a moment. She stepped back and marked a star on the list of apartments.

  “We’ll come back to this one.”

  Frank hadn’t moved in inch, had barely breathed, for what felt like hours, but had only been minutes. The voice was unmistakable, he had heard it enough over the years to know it was Detective Trace. He heard her say something after the second knock, then moments later, heard more knocking, but this time further down the hall. He slowly let out a sigh of relief, and put the suitcase and garbage bag down.

  What now?

  He walked over to the window and opened the drapes for the first time and gasped. The view was one he had seen a thousand times before, probably ten thousand times before. It was the same view he enjoyed from his own apartment, only lower. He looked down at the street below. There was no doubt; he was in his own apartment building, just on a lower floor.

  His phone vibrated in his pocket with a text message. He flipped open the display and his eyes shot open then looked out the window, searching, but finding nothing. He looked back down at the message.