Depraved Difference (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery Book #1) Read online

  But today he wished his partner was here, just to be a second pair of eyes. He had gone through the photos dozens of times, and his lieutenant was close to calling in the FBI on this one. He had convinced him to hold off; he didn't feel it was a serial killer, just some crazed wacko. But if he didn’t make some progress soon, he’d lose the case to the Feds, which would piss him off as it would any detective. The first victim, discovered by a wino in an abandoned warehouse, was identified as Tammera Coverdale, 34 years of age, engaged to be married with no prior record, minimal debts, a good job and two parents, still married. Nothing in her background so far had suggested any motive for her murder. The other two victims from the second video however looked like they were in their late teens. Enhancement showed tattoos, facial piercings, unkempt hair and it looked like it had taken place in a rundown apartment. They appeared to be the complete opposite profile of the first victim, yet he had no doubt they were linked. But how?

  He leafed through the photos, the grainy shots obscuring much of the detail. He’d sent the kids' photos to missing persons but he doubted anybody had reported them yet. It may be weeks before they found the bodies if these guys lived in the type of shit hole he thought they did. One tip I'll give you, kid, is ignore what's in front of your face. Look at the background, that's where your clues'll be. Shakespeare he wasn’t, but he had kept his promise of telling him everything he knew, he just never showed him anything. Eldridge looked at the remaining photos, one at a time, ignoring the victims. On the third photo he found what he was looking for. A pizza box, the red logo of a smiling, mustached Italian staring up at him with the company's name emblazoned across the top, the first half covered by one of the victim’s arms. He snatched the Yellow Pages and flipped to Pizza. Scanning the listings, he soon found a small advertisement with the same smiling face, kissing his fingers as if he had just tasted the best pizza pie this side of Palermo. He knew if Shakespeare saw the ad he’d be calling ahead to have a pie waiting for when they arrived. He jotted down the address and phone number and trotted from the squad room.

  It took Lance a few minutes to pierce through the fog that possessed his brain, a splitting headache, far worse than most of his recent hangovers, pounded like a high school drummer. The throbbing in his head was a distant second to the excruciating pain in his arms. He looked up and saw his familiar leather handcuffs wrapped around his wrists and over the hook in his bedroom ceiling, a hook he had installed months before for this very purpose. He had obviously taken part in last night’s festivities; either that or his lover knew all his secrets. The thought of having a stalker tantalized him, but the pain in his arms from dangling for an unknown number of hours must mean his lover passed out before taking him down; he would have used his safe word before letting himself be abandoned like a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. He tried to call out when he felt the ache in his jaw from the ball gag filling his mouth. He chuckled as he tried to remember last night. He had woken in this situation a few times before, but only if he’d had too much to drink. He struggled to focus his pounding head. What had he done last night? He didn’t remember drinking that much, he usually didn’t drink very much at all, he found it affected his performance too much—brewer’s droop was not to be tolerated.

  He swung himself so he could see the rest of the room and was startled to see someone sitting on his settee, their eyes closed. Charles! Now I remember! But he didn't. He remembered the alley, taking some E, then just when the good times were about to begin, he remembered feeling drowsy and then nothing. And now here I am, bound, gagged, and I don't remember any of the fun!

  It never occurred to him to be scared as he grunted to get his lover's attention. Charles opened his eyes, picked up a laptop computer sitting beside him, and brought it over so Lance could see the screen. He pressed a key and a jerky video played, showing the awful beating he had witnessed last year, the comments of those nasty boys who had taken it still sickened him. He started to look away when the video stopped, frozen on the face of a passenger as they turned to shield their eyes from the gruesome beating. It was him.

  Charles placed the laptop on the bed and pulled out a cell phone, activating its video camera. Lance was confused, not sure if this was all part of the role playing he was used to, and how the video of what happened a year before had anything to do with it. When Charles pulled a gun out, his eyes bulged as the gag muffled his screams from the neighbors.

  As his GPS announced he had arrived, Eldridge pulled into the first spot he saw and eyed his surroundings. Man, I hate this part of town. Most buildings were in a desperate need of repair, a coat of paint the least of their worries. Litter drifted down the streets and sidewalks like tumbleweed, an abandoned lot nearby the home to the shells of several cars, one of which appeared to be the new home to a failed Wall Street broker, or a bum with a sense of humor, the “My Other Home Is On Park Ave” sign replacing the rear window eliciting a chuckle from Eldridge. He grabbed the photos and climbed from his car. He looked around and spotted his destination, a small white with red trim restaurant, the freshly painted-over brick causing it to stand out from its neighbors. A large sign stretching the building’s entire width announced Giovani’s Pizzeria had the best pizza in town. I wonder if Shakespeare knows about this place? If it weren’t for the bars on the windows, it would look almost inviting.

  He gripped the door handle and took one last look around, spotting a kid eyeing his car. Eldridge made eye contact with the kid and held open his jacket, revealing his shoulder holster. The kid ran. Eldridge opened the door and stepped inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust but not for his nose. A smile spread across his face as he took in the delicious aroma of fresh baked pizza dough and melted mozzarella cheese.

  “A little bit of normalcy in an island of insanity, eh?”

  He looked to where the voice came from, expecting an obese, hairy Italian with stained wife-beater t-shirt. Instead, he found a man, clearly willing to risk his own cuisine, but who appeared to successfully resist overindulging too often. With the exception of a very neat mustache, the man was clean shaven, a smidge of flour on one cheek highlighting their ruddy color, a near perfect match for the restaurants red and white décor. He wiped his hands on his flour covered white apron and pushed a tress of hair back under the crisp chef’s hat barely containing his dark, wiry mane. The clean, simple restaurant was a welcome respite from the depression lying on the other side of the door.

  Eldridge nodded. “Not at all what I was expecting.” He walked over to the counter and sat down on one of the several stools.

  The man laughed. “Welcome to Giovanni's, I'm Giovanni Deangelo, what can I get you?”

  “What am I smelling?”

  “That, my friend, is the world famous polo pizza, a hand tossed crust brushed with a delicious garlic pesto sauce, topped with mozzarella, onions, hot peppers, black olives and spicy roasted chicken, all baked to perfection in a wood burning pizza oven, by yours truly.”

  “Sounds great!” Eldridge's stomach demanded attention. “I'll take a slice.”

  “It'll be ready in five minutes, my friend.”

  Business first I guess. Eldridge pulled out his badge. “I'm Detective Eldridge, Homicide, I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Sure, how can I help the NYPD today?”

  Eldridge pulled out a photo of each of the three victims and lined them up on the counter. “Do you recognize any of these people?”

  Giovanni took one look at the photos and grunted. “Yeah, I know two of 'em.” He pointed to the first photo. “That no good bum is Logan, he worked here until three nights ago. This other one is his equally no good friend, but I don't know what his name is.”

  “What happened three nights ago?”

  “Nothin' three nights ago, but he didn't show for his shift last night so if you see him, tell him he's fired.”

  “Do you know where I can find this Logan?”

  “Yeah, he lives on the second floor of that cesspool across the street.” He turned around, grabbed a wood pizza paddle, opened the oven and expertly extracted two pizzas. He sliced them with a large pizza knife then slid an oversized piece on a cardboard tray. Placing it on the counter in front of Eldridge, he smiled. “On the house, Detective!”

  “Thanks, but I'll pay, don't want anyone accusing you of trying to offer a police officer a bribe!” Giovanni laughed and watched as Eldridge picked up the slice and took a tentative bite of one of his few vices. Oh my God! Eldridge savored every chew, each one releasing a new sensation, the rich taste of the garlic pesto sauce, the crunch of the sautéed onions and tang of the hot peppers as they clashed with the sweetness of the olives, all combined to produce an experience he never expected could come from a pizza. Thirty years of pepperoni, green peppers and mushrooms or the occasional Hawaiian were blown away, his appreciation for the tired staple of American cuisine turned into a fine dining experience. It pained him to end the experience, but he had to. He swallowed then leaned back from the counter, pointing at the pizza. “That is the best damned pizza I have ever had.”

  The restaurant's namesake smiled and took a slight bow, clearly pleased with the response. “Nothin' but satisfied customers for Giovanni's.”

  Eldridge scarfed down the rest of the slice and wiped his mouth with the napkin. “The boys at the precinct will definitely be hearing about this.” Eldridge paid his host and headed to the door. He pointed at a decrepit building across the street. “Is that the cesspool?”

  Giovanni walked around the counter and nodded. “Yup, feel free to make a few calls and have it knocked down.”

  Eldridge smiled and pushed open the door. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  He walked across the street to the building Giovanni had pointed out
. Most of the surrounding buildings qualified as dives, but his destination truly was a cesspool. He strode up to the door-bum sitting outside, his hat on the ground in front of him filled with the day's take of twenty-seven cents, and held out the photo of Logan. “Seen this guy?” The man leaned forward, snatched his hat and shook it without saying a word. Eldridge sighed and reached in his pocket. Pulling out two quarters, he tossed them in the hat.

  “Second floor, first door on the right.”

  “Thanks.” Eldridge pulled open the door, noting the brick propping it open was tagged with a local gang symbol, marking the territory of whoever dealt from this building. He kicked it aside and entered the lobby, the immediate smell of urine and feces assaulted his senses. He gagged as he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and held it over his mouth and nose. The dim lighting was intermittent, the lone remaining fluorescent bulb on its last legs. He looked for a means of escape. An elevator to his left looked like it had been pried open one too many times to be considered reliable. He opted for the stairs to his right. He climbed to the second floor and knocked on the door the vagrant had indicated. As he expected, nothing. He knocked again. “NYPD, open up, I need to ask you some questions!” Again no answer. Whenever you need to enter a place without a warrant, listen very carefully for the person crying for help. Eldridge had used his partner's logic a few times in the past and it hadn't bit him on the ass yet. He turned the knob and pushed. The door swung open.

  The smell of stale beer, cigarettes and marijuana were overpowered by the unmistakable stench of death, the source not immediately evident, a torn, stained acoustic divider hiding much of the bachelor apartment from view. Pizza boxes, beer cans and unopened mail covered every exposed surface, an overflowing outdoor metal garbage can, no longer able to keep up with the volume, the need to empty it on a regular basis apparently lost on the occupants, filled the entrance closet. The sink, piled high with dishes and the occasional pizza box, swarmed with cockroaches. Eldridge gagged and wondered how many he couldn’t see. He shivered, disgusted by the sty that lay before him, the filth at a level only teenaged boys could stand for any length of time. He stepped around the divider to see the rest of the apartment and found his two victims, tied back-to-back, their heads slumped over, blood and brain matter sprayed across the floor and wall behind them. Nearby lay the pizza box he had seen in the blow up.

  Aynslee sank in her chair and let her shoulders sag as she closed her eyes for a moments rest. She slowly exhaled, and even debated mimicking the meditation postures she had seen on TV. She kicked off her shoes and drew one leg up under the other. As she drew up the second leg she realized this position wasn’t meant to be performed in a chair with arms. She dropped the leg, let out a deep sigh, and spun the chair to face her computer. Opening her eyes, she saw a Post-it note stuck to her monitor. “iTunes installed and synched with your iPod! Reggie!” She prayed the strange design drawn under his name wasn’t a heart with a Cupid's arrow through it. Logging into her machine, she saw the iTunes icon on her desktop and wondered how he had managed to get on there without her password. I've got to figure out how to get rid of him.

  Her BlackBerry vibrated with a new message. She launched her email program on her computer and saw amongst the dozens of emails, a newly arrived one with no subject line. Oh no! She opened the attachment. If it weren’t for the first two emails, she would have deleted this third one after a few seconds of watching, the video of a man, an apparent sexual sadist, ball gag stuffed in his mouth, screaming out in terror or pleasure, similar to some smut-films sent her by friends as a joke. But the fear in his eyes when the gun appeared eliminated any doubt as to it being the genuine article. She closed her eyes as she saw the trigger squeezed. Not again! As with the others, the video ended with a shot of the body, then nothing. The email contained no text and the “from address” had her own email address in it. It contained nothing to indicate who it was from and why they were doing this. Or why they were sending it to her.

  She leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, and took a deep breath. How many will there be? She opened her eyes, the images she had just watched merely playing themselves out on her eyelids. She picked up her Blackberry to find Detective Eldridge’s number and hesitated. CNN! Her thumb hovered over the scroll button as a battle of wills raged in her head. You promised! She pressed the button. But what about you? You need this! And he’s already dead. She quickly cancelled the call.

  She stood up and yelled, “I got another one!”

  You’re so weak.

  Reggie heard her beautiful voice ring out across the office. Standing, he watched as she waved toward Mr. Merle's office, a huge smile on her face. And what a smile. His heart raced as he pictured her smiling at him as he gently lay her across his desk, leaning in for a kiss, one so passionate he would be the envy of all of his friends. If he had any. The beginnings of an erection shocked him into sitting down. He snatched his keyboard and covered the obvious bulge in his pants as he looked around to make sure no one had noticed.

  “What the hell happened?” The seething voice of Shaw sent his manhood racing for cover as his mouth went dry. Shaw stormed into his office and leant over his desk, his face inches from Reggie’s. “I thought we had a deal?”

  It took a moment for Reggie to regain his voice. “I-I'm sorry, sir, but I c-couldn’t do it.”

  Shaw leaned in closer. “Why the hell not?”

  Because I love her. “It wouldn't be ethical,” he squeaked. Where did that come from? Shaw turned beet red and Reggie felt himself get lightheaded as Shaw’s hot breath blew on his face like the snorts of an angry bull in Pamplona. He bit his cheek. Hard. Shaw glared at him for another moment then stormed from the office. Lifting the keyboard, Reggie looked at the rapidly expanding urine stain in his pants. Shit! He jammed the keyboard back over his crotch and whimpered, wondering if hiding under his desk until everyone had left for the day was at all possible.

  It wouldn't be ethical? Shaw couldn’t believe what he had heard. That little shit has the nerve to talk to me about ethics? He stormed into the men's room and slammed the door to one of the stalls shut. He leaned forward against the cold, metal wall, his clenched fists supporting his weight. He banged his head on the wall, his rage consuming him. Desperate for a release, he punched the metal, hard. The pleasure from the resulting dent was fleeting, the searing pain shooting through his hand caused him to gasp. He clamped his mouth shut, trying not to cry out. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths and flexed his fingers, checking to see if he had broken anything. He started at the sound of the bathroom door opening. Through the crack in the stall he saw the little shit, Reggie, standing at the mirror doing something. He threw open the door and stormed from the stall, ready to tear another strip off the kid, but before he could, Reggie spun around, yelped, slapped a keyboard over his crotch and ran into the now vacant stall, slamming the door behind him. Not knowing what to do, Shaw headed to the gym to work off some steam.

  Eldridge eyed two soiled mattresses, laying in opposite corners, probably rescued from some nearby dumpster, the ratty beach towels substituting for sheets failing to cover the urine stains from what he hoped were the previous owners. Then again… He picked them up by the finger tips, not confident the latex gloves he now wore would be enough to protect him from the filth. Each corner had a few personal items belonging to the boys, mostly porn magazines with some of the more choice pages pinned to the walls, a poor attempt to turn this disgrace into a home. One corner contained a backpack with “Logan” written in pen across the top. Unzipping it, he rooted around for any identification but turned up nothing except a folded piece of paper stuffed in the bottom. He retrieved it and carefully unfolded the torn foolscap, revealing the beginnings of a letter that read, “Dear Mom & Dad, I want to come home.” I guess life here wasn’t so good after all.