Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 4

  Vinny looked over his shoulder at him. “What’s wrong with you, you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

  Frank wasn’t sure what to say.

  “Hey, give the kid a break, last time he was at a crime scene he got shot.”

  Vinny grinned at him and jerked a thumb at Sarah. “Don’t worry, kid, she’s unarmed.”

  CC shook her head. “You’ve got no couth, boss.”

  Frank stayed quiet, wondering why they needed a computer tech at a crime scene. “Ummm, you, ah, wanted me for something?”

  CC pointed at the vanity counter. “Check out that photo.”

  Frank’s eyes darted to the counter and he gasped. That wasn’t there when I left! He stared at the photo, the two bodies entwined, their faces obscured with a Photoshop Swirl he instantly recognized. He felt the world start to close in on him. His heart hammered in his chest, his ears filled with the rush of panic, his vision began to lose focus, and go dark. He felt himself collapse to his knees, and Vinny’s concerned voice, as if thousands of miles away, too faint to understand. Something gripped his arm, and he tried to pull away, but it wouldn’t let go.

  Then everything went black.

  Shakespeare spun toward the commotion in the bathroom and covered the distance in three quick steps. What he found shocked him. The kid was lying on the floor, blood coming from a small gash in his forehead, Vinny was holding him by the wrist, and CC had one hand over her mouth, another hand stuck in the water with the victim.

  “What the hell is going on in here?”

  “The kid fainted!” Vinny let go of Frank’s wrist and glared at Shakespeare. “What’s he doing here anyway?”

  Shakespeare returned the glare. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t call him. He’s a computer geek, not Crime Scene.”

  “I’m amazed you know the difference.”

  “Blow it out your—”

  “I called him.”

  They both turned to look at CC.

  “You told me to call him to process the photo.”

  Vinny sighed. “In the lab, not here.”

  “But he lives in the building, so—”

  “He lives in the building?” interrupted Shakespeare.

  Trace poked her head in the crowded bathroom. “Yeah, I ran into him today. We chased someone earlier that refused to stop in the stairwell. Could’ve sworn he went into the kid’s apartment, but obviously not.”

  Shakespeare looked down at the kid who began to stir. “Obviously.” He looked around. “So, where’s this photo?”

  “On the—” Vinny stopped as he looked at the counter. “It was on the counter here a minute ago.”

  Shakespeare bent over and pulled the kid’s other hand out from under him.

  In its tight grip was the evidence bag containing the now crumpled photograph.

  At first he heard murmured voices, then light followed by blurred images. What happened? As things slowly came into focus, he realized he was lying down, and his head was killing him. He reached up to touch the source of the pain.

  “He’s coming around.”

  He saw a shadow fill his vision, and someone touch his shoulder.

  “You okay, kid?”

  It was Vinny. The bathroom! The photo! Reality rushed back, and the room snapped into focus. Vinny was leaning over him, CC was perched on the side of the tub, and Shakespeare’s huge frame filled the doorway.

  And he was holding the photograph in his hand.

  “Are you okay to stand?”

  Frank looked at Vinny and nodded. “Yeah, I think so.”

  Vinny hauled him to his feet then held him by both arms. “You sure?”

  Frank took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. What happened?”

  “You fainted,” said CC.

  Frank felt himself flush.

  “Don’t worry about it, kid,” said Vinny. “First time you’ve seen a body up close?”

  They don’t know why I fainted! Run with it!

  He nodded, making sure to avoid looking at the tub.

  “How about you give me that?” said Shakespeare, pointing at the photo. Frank nodded and handed it over. “Now, get yourself a drink of water in the kitchen,” said Shakespeare, stepping from the doorframe.

  Frank stepped out and headed to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and removed a glass, filling it with water from the tap. He took a few sips, then turned to face the room. All eyes were on him. Do they know?

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, Detective, I’m okay now.”

  Shakespeare nodded, then held up the photograph. “Any reason why you grabbed this?”

  Frank’s heart pounded and he screamed inside his head. Keep it together! He shook his head. “No, I guess I just reached out for something to grab onto, and it was on the counter, so, you know…”

  “Hmmm.”

  If Frank didn’t know better, he almost had the impression Shakespeare wasn’t buying it.

  “What do you make of it?” Shakespeare held the photo out for Frank. He took it, and looked at the two people, obviously in the heat of passion, the computer generated swirl obscuring their faces. “Do you think you can do anything with it?”

  Should I lie? He knew he could reverse the swirl. It had been done before, and with the right algorithms, and some trial and error, he’d be able to show the faces of the two lovers. The face of Sarah. And himself. He would be the investigator to prove he committed the crime. You deserve it.

  “Listen, kid, if you don’t think you’re up to it, I can assign it to someone else.”

  “No!” Frank yelped. “Sorry, I’m okay, I can do it. It’ll just take a few days.”

  Shakespeare frowned. “Okay, make sure you sign your name to it. I don’t want some damned lawyer claiming a chain of evidence violation. This just might be our only clue.”

  Yeah, to my guilt.

  “Work on the guy first; we’re pretty sure we know who the girl is.”

  Frank gulped. “Wh-who’s the girl?”

  “We think it’s the occupant, Larissa Channing.”

  “What?” exclaimed Frank. “Who?”

  Shakespeare’s eyes narrowed. “Larissa Channing. Did you know her?”

  “N-no. No I didn’t.” He took a deep breath. “I guess I’m just still messed up from earlier.” He held up the photo. “I’ll go get to work.”

  “You do that.”

  Frank went to find Vinny to update the evidence log, his mind racing.

  If that’s not Sarah, then how the hell did I get here last night?

  And where’s Sarah?

  Shakespeare watched the kid as he walked toward the bathroom. Seems awfully excitable. He knew they were all upset over Eldridge’s death, but this was something else. There’s something he’s not telling us. Could he have known the girl? Perhaps. Even likely since they lived in the same building. Then again, he lived in an apartment building for years and never knew any of his neighbors. This was modern day New York. Who wanted to know their neighbors? If you did, they’re liable to start coming over and visit. And he valued his privacy. Too much at times. It had kept him mostly single for decades, until he had met Louise several years ago. Her and her son Tommy had filled a void inside him he hadn’t realized was there. It had restored his will to live, to be the man he once was, rather than the pathetic excuse he had allowed himself to become.

  It had taken years, but he now realized he had used his diabetes as an excuse, rather than a crutch. At least a crutch was used to get somewhere—an excuse used to get out of going to that same place. He had spent many nights feeling sorry for himself, even crying in his pillow, asking a God he had long stopped believing in why it had to happen to him. His form of acceptance finally came, but in the ugly veil of self-loathing, of a desire to commit suicide through neglect, to give the finger to the world, and to die on his own terms, with nothing to live for, and nothing to leave behind. No family. No legacy. No pride. No self-respect.

  But Louise changed that. Why she
had ever taken an interest in him he’d never know. She was a waitress at a thirties style diner he frequented, one of those retro style ones with more chrome and glass block on the outside and stainless steel with checkered tiles on the inside, than the genuine article. The Chrome Worx Diner. He went for breakfast every Sunday and ordered the same thing. Three eggs over easy, brown toast buttered, sausage and bacon, side of home fries, coffee and orange juice. Heart attack special. She’d been his regular waitress, and loved to chit-chat to whoever would listen. And he would listen. Especially over the past couple of years when he had really withdrawn from the world. He had no one to talk to at work, he didn’t want to worry his folks as they were getting up there in years, and he had no friends—his loner lifestyle and living the job had taken care of that. Once he was disgraced, he had lost the few work friends he had had.

  So he listened.

  And she fell in love with him for it.

  She would talk about her son, and the problems she was having raising him as a single mother. He would listen, and occasionally venture some advice. Over the months the conversations became more and more two way, and she had asked him out. She said she wasn’t going to wait for him to ask her, because she knew he never would. He was stunned to hear the answer come out of his mouth.

  Yes.

  One word, to save a life. His own.

  The next week it was two eggs, poached, ham and brown toast, with a side of sliced tomatoes.

  She had smiled at him. And he knew she understood what he was trying to tell her.

  I care.

  They were inseparable ever since.

  He watched Frank scramble out of the apartment, seeming to avoid eye contact with everyone.

  Definitely something up there.

  “Hey, Shakes, whadaya got for me?”

  Shakespeare smiled at Miles Jenkins, one of the city’s Medical Examiners, and one of the few who had never given him a hard time over the stolen evidence. He would almost consider him a friend, but for the fact they did nothing together beyond work. He sometimes caught Jenkins eyeing him, as if assessing him medically, and wondered if he had figured out the truth he was hiding, that he was an out of control diabetic. If he had, then he would have seen right through the “I was hungry” explanation to the stolen evidence, and cut him the very slack he had shown.

  “DB in the bathroom. See if you can give us an approximate TOD and preliminary COD as well.”

  Jenkins nodded and headed to the bathroom Shakespeare was pointing to. “I’ll see what I can do.” Stepping inside, Shakespeare heard him yell, “Okay, everybody out! I need some room to move.”

  CC and Vinny appeared a moment later.

  “Anything?”

  Vinny shook his head. “Not much. The whole place has been wiped down and bleached. We’re not finding prints on anything. We found one strand of hair, doesn’t look like the vic’s, and one drop of blood we’re hoping to get some DNA off of, but other than that photo and the body itself, we’ve got nothing. Once MJ is finished with the body, we can take a look in the tub, see if we find anything, then of course we’ll go over the body with a fine-toothed comb back at the lab, so maybe we’ll find something.”

  Shakespeare held up his hand. Vinny was rambling, most likely because he was uncomfortable not spitting insults at him. “Okay, I’m going to try and run down the background on the tenant. You get back to me if you find anything, and if you get a positive ID.”

  Vinny and CC nodded as Shakespeare leaned into the bathroom. “Hey, MJ, call me with time and cause as soon as you have it.”

  Jenkins was leaning over the victim and didn’t turn. “Will do!”

  Shakespeare strode from the apartment, nodded to the scene officer who logged him out, and pressed the button to call an elevator. He leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath and wiping his dripping hairline with a handkerchief. He knew his blood sugar was acting up again. And he was so out of shape just standing for the past hour had exhausted him.

  His stomach growled.

  He patted it.

  Time to feed the beast.

  Frank stared at the crumpled photograph. He hadn’t grabbed it on purpose; he had genuinely passed out and was just reaching for something to hold onto. Unfortunately, if anything, this made him look more guilty. Because guilty was exactly how he was going to look once the photo was enhanced and the swirl reversed. He knew he could do it; it would just take some time, but not enough time. This time tomorrow his face would be there for all to see.

  Unless he stalled.

  Or…

  No, he couldn’t do that. Or could he? Could he live with lying? No one would know if he said the swirls couldn’t be reversed. But then they might just send it to the FBI, and it would all be over.

  What if…?

  He could reverse one of the swirls, and then blur the one of him, saying the image was too degraded. That, they would buy, that they would be—

  No!

  No, he wasn’t that type of person. He would have to face up to what he had done. Or hadn’t done. And that was what was driving him crazy. He was sure he hadn’t committed the murder, especially now that he knew the victim might not even be Sarah. He looked up, as if through the many floors of concrete and steel, through the clouds and into Heaven, and prayed Sarah would show up for work Monday as if nothing had happened.

  Maybe she knows what happened last night?

  He was tempted to look up her number and call.

  But what if something did happen to her? What if I did it?

  “Aaargh!”

  He slammed his fists against the elevator wall.

  What if she’s in trouble?

  He looked at the photo. It was clearly two people, in bed, covered to their necks by a white sheet that clung tightly to their intertwined bodies. But other than that, he couldn’t even be sure it was him or Sarah under the sheets. It could be a photo of anyone for all he knew.

  He had to know.

  The elevator doors opened to a lobby filled with police.

  Soon they’ll be coming here to arrest me.

  His cell phone vibrated with a text message.

  TICK TOCK

  LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK

  WHAT WILL YOUR FRIENDS SAY

  WHEN IT’S YOUR TIME TO PAY?

  He stood frozen in the elevator, staring at the message, as the doors closed.

  Shakespeare descended on the elevator and exited into the bustling lobby. To his right was a door with “Tenant Services” written on the brass nameplate. He strode over and opened the door. Inside were two women, sitting behind their desks, their chairs turned toward each other, speaking in hushed but excited tones. They both turned their heads to look at him as he entered.

  “NYPD, Detective Shakespeare”—he held up his badge—“I have a few questions about the tenant of apartment four-oh-four.”

  One of the women nodded and pushed her tiny frame up from her chair. “What do you need to know, Detective?”

  “And you are?”

  “Marlene Morrison. I work for Bridlewood Property Management.”

  “I need anything you’ve got on her, previous addresses, next of kin, anything.”

  Morrison nodded and held her hand out to the other woman who passed her a folder. “We pulled the file, figuring somebody would eventually come down here. This is everything we’ve got on her.” She handed the file to Shakespeare who flipped it open.

  He frowned and pointed at the folder. “This is the tenant in four-oh-four?”

  Morrison nodded. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Does she live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  Shakespeare flipped open his phone and dialed.

  “Yes,” answered a shaky voice.

  “Frank? This is Shakespeare. Forget what I said before. Concentrate on the woman in the photo.”

  “Wh-why?”

  “Our ID just went to shit. Unless the woman
in the bathtub was drowned in Botox, there’s no way she’s seventy-two years old.”

  THREE

  Samantha Alders checked her makeup in the vanity mirror then flipped it back up. Stepping out of her Mercedes SL350, a gift from her sugar daddy, she nodded to the valet and strode into the Waldorf Astoria, the doorman rushing to hold his charge open lest it interrupt her glide down the runway. She didn’t head to the front desk—there was no need. Richard would already be here, he would already have the champagne chilling, and he’d have already popped his little blue pill.

  They think I’m a tramp.

  Her large sunglasses and the high collar of her Versace jacket hid the shame she felt from those gawking at her model good looks. Or maybe a gold digger. Was that any better? She didn’t care, she had her own reasons. It was an arrangement, made over the Internet on one of the many sites designed to hook up young girls with older, rich men. Someone she trusted convinced her to register herself on one of the sites, and she had figured, why not? A real relationship wasn’t possible at this time, and she didn’t know when she might have another chance at taking advantage of her current situation. Richard’s profile had arrived in her inbox within hours of registering. He sounded intriguing, so she forwarded it to her confidant, and was urged to go for it. She had heard of these sugar daddy websites, and knew most of the men turned out not to be rich, just wannabes who rented a hot car, blew their week’s pay on a fancy restaurant, then expected sex in a cheap hotel room.

  But not Richard.

  Definitely not Richard.

  He was the real deal. Real estate mogul, worth tens if not hundreds of millions, and married to a shrew of a woman (if he was to be believed), who withheld sex every time he did something wrong, which, again according to him, he’d done nothing but for many years. They had lost interest in each other, and she refused a divorce since she knew she’d lose the glamour and lifestyle she had become accustomed to. Yes, she’d probably milk him for half, but she would no longer be the wife of Richard Tate, wealthy developer, patron of the arts, philanthropist extraordinaire. She wanted the limelight.