Tick Tock (A Detective Shakespeare Mystery, Book #2) Page 9

  “Apartment building?”

  Trace nodded. “And campus. According to St. Jean she was studying at NYU.”

  “Good. Let me know how that pans out. I’m going to see Frank and check on the status of that photo. He’s not returning my phone calls.”

  Trace looked like she wanted to say something.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  She looked at him then away. “Oh, nothing.” She paused then shook her head. “Never mind, it’s nothing. I’ll call you if I find out anything.” With that she swept toward the elevators. “Coming?”

  Shakespeare was shocked to find himself shaking his head.

  “No, I’m gonna take the stairs.”

  Trace and a few of the arriving morning shift stopped and stared, their jaws dropped.

  “Oh piss off!”

  Laughter erupted and everyone, including him, continued on.

  And it felt good.

  Richard pulled directly into the parking lot attached to the Waldorf Astoria, parked and hurried to the elevators. Using his express key, he swiped it for access to the suite floors, and the elevator quickly brought him to his destination, ignoring all other floors. He stepped off, careful to make certain no one else was in the hallway, and walked, as calmly as possible, to his room. Swiping his pass, he entered, closed the door, and pressed his back against it, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he tried to steady his racing heart. He opened his eyes and his calmed heart slammed against his ribcage, as if trying to escape what he saw.

  A perfectly clean room.

  He tentatively stepped into the main living area, where he distinctly remembered glasses being left the night before.

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  His voice seemed to almost echo in the eerie stillness. But it wasn’t eerie at all. This was how a hotel room should sound if no one was here. Completely still. Completely quiet. He stepped toward the bedroom, toward what should be a blood soaked crime scene. He tentatively took one step inside, leaning forward to look upon the bed.

  It was made. As if no one had ever slept in it, the military precision inviting him to bounce a quarter off the center. He hurried to the bathroom, and again found nothing. Perfectly clean.

  Had he dreamt it?

  Impossible.

  He knew it had definitely happened, he just didn’t know how. But now someone had cleaned up after him.

  Maybe the police had already come and gone?

  No, he knew enough from television to know a couple of hours were not enough to process a crime scene, and it would definitely be taped off.

  Someone had cleaned this up. Deliberately.

  But why? Blackmail?

  He was worth hundreds of millions or a couple of billion, depending on which accounting standard used, so that was definitely a possibility. In fact, he wouldn’t be surprised to receive a phone call, or a brown envelope, before he made it back home.

  Or to toy with him?

  His thoughts turned to the most hateful bitch he could think of, but shook his head. He could see her doing it, and could think of a few good reasons why, but she had been at home. There was no way she could have done this.

  Maybe she had help?

  He held his breath, thinking, then in a burst, let it out. It couldn’t be.

  But there was only one question he truly cared to have answered. Did I kill Samantha?

  He shook his head. No, not her, it wasn’t in him. He peered around the bathroom, then returned to the bedroom, his eyes darting into every corner, trying to find any hint of what had transpired, and finding nothing.

  What do I do now? He stood staring at the bed, trying to process what had happened, and what to do next. You get the hell out of here!

  He walked quickly to the door when something nagged at him. He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. What am I forgetting? There was something. He turned, surveying the suite before him. He began a mental tally. What did you bring with you last night?

  Jacket? He was wearing it.

  Clothes? Ditto.

  Briefcase? In the car downstairs.

  Overnight bag?

  That’s it! He had arrived with an overnight bag, and he hadn’t left with it, nor did he see it in the bedroom where he had put it when he arrived last night. He rushed back into the bedroom, searching every closet and drawer, under the bed, and behind the chairs and even curtains. Nothing. He moved to the living area, then the entrance. He opened the closet door, and breathed a sigh of relief. His Louis Vuitton overnight bag sat tucked in the corner. He reached in for it, when he noticed an envelope sitting on top.

  He paused.

  He knew this was it, this was the shoe dropping. He reached out, hesitantly, then grabbed the envelope. It was a hotel envelope, included on the writing table in every room, the hotel crest and address embossed in gold on the back flap. Nothing was written on the outside. He flipped it over, and shoved his finger under the folded top, the glue only stuck at the center, and slid his finger forward, ripping open the flap.

  Inside was a folded sheet of paper. He pulled it out, and unfolded it. It too was Waldorf Astoria letterhead, and neatly written in the center, were words that shook him to his very core.

  TICK TOCK

  LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK

  WHEN THEY FIND WHAT I HID

  THEY WILL KNOW WHAT YOU DID

  He clenched his hand holding the page into a fist, crumpling the paper, as his chest exploded in pain, radiating up and out. His free hand reached up, gripping his chest, squeezing it tightly, as if trying to rid it of the pain ripping it apart. He willed himself to the door as the pain racked his entire chest cavity, pulsing out to his back, his breathing becoming increasingly labored. Reaching out, he grabbed the knob and twisted. Pulling the door open with the last of his strength, he shoved his head, then shoulder through, and finally, completely spent of any remaining strength, collapsed, the upper half of his body in the exclusive hallway, the rest inside the luxury suite.

  His mind screamed what his mouth couldn’t.

  Help me!

  Frank’s head pounded. Again. The sense of déjà vu sent his heart racing as he struggled to wake himself. His eyes heavy with sleep and whatever else had knocked him out, refused to open. He screamed in his head, and slowly, the adrenaline of panic started to course through his veins, and he willed his eyes open. But this time was different. This time, he knew exactly where he was.

  He was in his own bed.

  His heart started to settle, his panic eased, as he realized he was home, he was safe. Maybe it was all a dream? He looked about. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. He looked down the bed at himself. He was fully dressed, still wearing the clothes he had worn to work. But how had he gotten here? He racked his brain, trying to remember. He left the station to get a coffee, he talked to that girl there, her name escaping him, then left, then…what? He had a vague recollection of someone carrying him, of the elevator, of them saying something.

  Tick tock, elevator, tick tock!

  He bolted upright in bed at the memory. The voice echoed through his head, repeating over and over. Tick tock! Tick tock! He jumped from the bed and grabbed for the wall, his head pounding, the room spinning around him. He leaned against the wall, steadying himself, concentrating on a spot on the floor, his wandering mind making a mental note to vacuum later. Settled, he rose, this time slowly, and as his first few tentative steps didn’t send him tumbling into his furniture, he stepped from the bedroom and into the living area, cautiously peeking around the corner of his opened door.

  Nothing.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, and listened.

  What is that?

  He listened harder, cocking his ear. Dripping? He looked across the open concept living area and could see the kitchen sink and the tap, not dripping. He took several tentative steps toward the bathroom, when he spotted his cellphone sitting on the carpet in front of the door. He picked it up and saw there was a te
xt message.

  His heart started to race as he hit the key to view it.

  TICK TOCK

  LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK

  COULD SOMETHING HAVE BEEN SLIPPED

  WHEN THE POT WAS TIPPED?

  The coffee shop? Could it be? Could someone have dosed his coffee today? And Friday? It made sense, it was the only thing in common he had with today and then, but why tip him off? And who? If he was carried here, it had to have been by a man. And Rachel made his coffee. There was no way she could have carried him. Could she be working with someone? He had always thought she liked him, but dosing him? That was no way to show it. Sarah! Could she have been jealous of Sarah? So jealous she dosed both of them, and killed Sarah?

  But was Sarah dead? Right now she wasn’t missing, she wasn’t due at work until tomorrow, and he had kept his ears open for any new cases coming in, and had heard nothing about her, or any other Jane Doe’s fitting her description, so right now his optimistic side was thinking she may still be alive.

  But if Rachel had dosed them both on Friday because she was jealous, then she would have had to have known he would be coming there with a girl. And he never brought girls there. In fact, he almost never went out on dates. Scratch that. He never went out on dates. You’re a loser geek with no self-confidence and no idea how to approach a girl. In fact, Friday’s invite offer to Sarah had been so out of character for him, he was stunned when the words came out of his mouth, and equally stunned Sarah had said yes.

  Getting shot gives you confidence?

  It certainly had brought him attention from some of the women at work, but he hadn’t followed through on anything. He had been given a few numbers and pecks on the cheek, but hadn’t called any of them.

  But Sarah. Sarah was different. She had always smiled at him, long before he had been shot, and she had always seemed like such a nice girl. He didn’t care she had a few extra pounds on her; he thought they looked good on her. He had always pictured holding her against him, her softness a turn-on as opposed to a turn-off.

  His phone vibrated again. He gulped, closed his eyes, and pressed the button to view the message. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and swallowed his heart.

  TICK TOCK

  LITTLE TIME ON THE CLOCK

  THE ONE ON THE CASE

  BETTER NOT SEE YOUR FACE

  His hand darted to his face, but felt nothing out of the ordinary. He rushed into the bathroom, flicking on the light and gasped.

  His face was covered in blood.

  Again.

  Shakespeare stepped into the lab and was thankful to find it empty. He leaned against the wall and gasped for air, unable to do so moments before in the stairwell due to the lab’s health-crowd traffic. After a minute of sucking in filtered, air conditioned air, he looked at his watch. Too early for the kid to have gone home. Then he remembered it was the weekend, and realized it wasn’t early at all. Maybe the kid did go home. He was about to turn around when something caught his eye. A large screen at the far end was blinking a message, Process Complete. He approached the screen and stared at it, the swirl gone, a slightly imperfect image revealed of a man’s face.

  A man he recognized.

  A man half of New York probably recognized, if they read a newspaper.

  And a man the rest definitely knew the name of.

  Richard Tate.

  Shakespeare sat down and stared at the photo. It was a profile shot, so a little bit more difficult to recognize, and he was lip locked with a rather hot blonde who looked half his age, but he was sure it was him. His initial gut instinct was one of definite recognition, and that’s what he usually went with. He tried never to let doubts creep in and make him second guess himself, but this was one situation where he had to be sure. You couldn’t go around accusing one of the richest men in America of involvement in a gruesome murder.

  And isn’t he married?

  Shakespeare leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head, tilting his head from side to side, trying to get different angles. It had to be him. And if it was, this case just got a lot more difficult. Billionaires had lawyers. Billionaires’ lawyers had lawyers. Teams of lawyers. Teams of lawyers who would immediately advise their clients to not say a word, under any circumstances, then would start calling in favors.

  The 1%.

  Above the law, living a life the rest of us couldn’t even fathom. It wasn’t just the fancy cars and mansions, it was the complete disconnect from the real world. Anything you wanted at your beck and call, walk into the fanciest restaurants without a reservation, secretaries that were not only capable, but hot and willing to boot, trophy wives who didn’t mind the philandering, butlers, maids, drivers, ass kissers and wipers, ‘no’ was a word never heard unless it was followed by ‘problem’.

  And they almost never saw the inside of a courtroom.

  He stared at the screen. He needed to be sure. He knew he had seen in the movies tricks where they would take a profile picture, spin it and mirror it, creating a front-on shot of a full face. He had no idea what the technical term was, but his was ‘fancy shit’, and he needed Frank to work his magic on this photo, and he couldn’t wait until Monday.

  He dialed Frank’s number, and after ringing several times, it went to voice mail.

  “Frank, it’s Shakespeare, call me ASAP, it’s urgent.”

  He snapped his phone shut and clipped it to his belt, his love handles enveloping it like a protective layer.

  Time to tell the LT.

  Trace’s phone rang and she hit the button on her steering wheel to answer as she waited, stuck in traffic.

  “Trace.”

  “Hey, Trace, it’s Shakespeare. You haven’t seen Frank, have you?”

  Trace’s trouble radar went off. “No, why?”

  “Can’t find him at the station, not answering his phone. That photo looks like it’s finished, but I need some more work done on it before I can confirm the ID of the John Doe.”

  “Who’s it look like?”

  “I’d rather not say, not over the phone. Let’s just say if it’s who I think it is, this case just got a whole lot tougher.”

  Trace didn’t like the sound of that. But part of her was also titillated. Who could be in that photo that Shakespeare of all people would be concerned about? Then it dawned on her. Frank! It had to be. It made sense. Shakes wouldn’t want to say anything to her, just in case it wasn’t, but why would he be so horny to get a hold of him? There were other techs, why not ask one of them? Because then they’d know.

  “Okay, I understand.” She paused and looked at the street signs. “Listen, I’m only a couple of blocks from his building. How ’bout I go check and see if he’s there?”

  “Do that and get back to me. I’ve gotta talk to the LT.”

  The line went dead.

  If he’s talking to the LT about it, it has to be Frank.

  She did a shoulder check then pulled a U-turn. She was nowhere near Frank’s place, but was determined to be the one to bring him in.

  Lieutenant Phillips looked up when Shakespeare tapped on the glass, and raised a finger for him to wait, the other hand jotting notes while his desk phone was cradled between his ear and shoulder. Shakespeare nodded and turned to survey the squad room. Walker passed by, staring at a file, and looked up.

  “Hey, Shakes, what’s shakin’?”

  “Everything that shouldn’t.”

  Walker laughed and sat at his desk, tossing the file over to his partner who sat across from him. Shakespeare looked at his own desk, and the now vacant one across from it.

  I wonder who’ll get assigned to me. And when.

  The door opened behind him and he turned on his heel.

  “Come on in,” said Phillips.

  Shakespeare followed and closed the door behind them. Phillips raised his eyebrows. “Problem?”

  Shakespeare nodded. “I think so.”

  Phillips pointed at one of the chairs in front of his desk which Shak
espeare gratefully accepted. Stairs were one thing; standing for too long a time would just have him sweating up a storm. He dropped into the uncomfortable wooden monstrosity and took a deep breath.

  “I think we’ve got an ID on the John Doe in the photo.”

  “Really?” Phillips leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk and clasping his hands. “Who?”

  “Richard Tate.”

  Phillips let out a long whistle as he leaned back in his chair. “Are you sure?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t find the kid Brata to do some more wizardry on the photo to be sure.”

  “Can’t another tech do it?”

  “I’m sure they could, but how many people do you want knowing Richard Tate is involved in a murder investigation? It’d be all over the lab and then the press within hours.”

  Phillips nodded. “Good point. We better tread lightly here.” He thought for a moment then leaned forward. “Crazy idea. Why not reach out to that reporter woman, Kai, and see if she’d do us a solid and let us know if there’s a leak?”

  Shakespeare thought for a moment. “Might be an idea. That photo has been sitting on a screen in the lab, unscrambled, for God knows how long. I recognized him right away, and I’m sure others will too.”

  “You didn’t turn off the monitor?”

  Shakespeare rose from his seat. “Have you seen that place, LT? You know me and computers, I’m liable to hit the wrong button and lose the whole damned thing.”

  Phillips shook his head and Shakespeare opened the door. “I think we need to schedule some computer training for you.”

  Shakespeare smiled at Phillips as he stepped from the office.

  “I’m sick that day.”

  Frank scrubbed and scrubbed some more. The sticky, dried purplish blood flowed down his arms and neck, turning a bright crimson as he applied copious amounts of hot water and soap. He was making progress, but it was slow. And disgusting. He kept spitting as water mixed with blood entered his mouth. He tried holding his breath, but that made it worse, he tried breathing through just his nose, but he was in so much of a panic, he was beginning to hyperventilate.