Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1

by Patrick Logan

The door to the cream-colored Crown Vic groaned as it was thrust open, and a man with short brown hair that was starting to gray at the temples even though he couldn’t have been much older than forty, made a similar sound as he stepped out. Then he spat on the sidewalk and adjusted the collar of his wrinkled sport coat, while at the same time rubbing his neck.

  Like the woman, this detective looked around before heading to the apartment. Also like her, his eyes paused when they fell on the park across the street before continuing on.

  I know you, the man in black thought suddenly. I’ve seen you before.

  It took a few moments, but then it came to him. He recognized the man in the rusted Crown Vic from a newspaper article a few months back.

  Detective Damien Drake…

  He was the one who had gotten his partner killed in the pursuit of the notorious Skeleton King serial killer.

  And now he was back with a new partner and on the case of another killer.

  As the detectives started toward the house, together now, the man in the park pulled a small container out of his pocket and held it up to a sliver of light coming from a street lamp that had just clicked on.

  “Your time will come,” he said softly, observing the caterpillar as it wriggled and crawled over the leaves inside the clear container. “Your time will come. You will have your chance… you will be reborn.”

  Chapter 21

  “Drake, you coming?”

  Drake reluctantly opened the car door, the rain instantly wetting the sleeve of his sport coat.

  “Waste of fucking time,” he grumbled.

  Clay was already halfway across the road by the time Drake hauled his ass out of the car, and he had to hustle to catch up to him. He was surprised to see that his partner already had his gun drawn. Clay disliked guns so much that it wasn’t uncommon for him to leave it back in the office. Not the smartest decision in Drake’s estimation, but Clay didn’t really need a gun when he had Drake.

  The rain was coming down heavily now, and Drake was drenched by the time he dipped under the maroon awning and sidled up to Clay. Somehow, his partner had managed to stay relatively dry.

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” Drake asked, not bothering to keep his annoyance from creeping into his voice.

  Clay’s eyes were wide, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly.

  “Door’s open,” he whispered, using the barrel of his gun to indicate the gap between the door and the frame.

  Drake wiped the rain from his eyes and leaned forward, trying to make out the interior of the home.

  He could see nothing; it was pitch black inside.

  Drake turned to Clay and was surprised that his partner was staring at him in laden expectation. Drake only shrugged.

  Door open, door closed, what did it matter? This isn’t our guy.

  “This is your case now,” Drake said harshly. “You lead the way.”

  Clay took a deep breath, his chest hitching nervously as he prepared to enter Peter Kellington’s house. He was uncomfortable, as most people were when thrust into a new situation, NYPD detectives included. Clay was the smooth-talking, deep-thinking yin to their yang. Drake, on the other hand, was the muscle; the bad cop to Clay’s good.

  But fuck him, Drake thought, he’s wasting our time. The only reason I came along was to see his face when we bust this guy beating off to cat videos on the Internet.

  Drake had to stifle a chuckle from the visual—Clay’s face, not the act itself.

  “Should we announce? Tell them that we are NYPD?” Clay asked, poised an inch from the door.

  Drake shrugged, his meaning clear.

  It’s your case now.

  Clay nodded and took a reluctant step forward, leading with his gun. He used his empty hand to push the door wide.

  “NYPD!” he shouted into the darkness. He waited for a few seconds before shouting again. “NYPD! We’re coming in!”

  Drake reached into his armpit and pulled out his service revolver.

  Then he followed Clay inside.

  ***

  Drake awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. He groaned and opened his eyes. He located his phone immediately—it was on the table beside the bottle of whiskey—but picking it up proved more difficult. Twice he knocked it spinning with an uncoordinated hand before he finally managed to grab it and answer.

  “Yeah?” he said groggily.

  The man’s voice on the other end of the line was the antithesis of his own: clear, concise, authoritative.

  “Drake? Where do you want to meet?”

  Drake closed his eyes and massaged his temples.

  He felt another headache coming on. For some reason, the diner that Chase had taken him to, the one where she had shown him the article about Thomas Smith, came to mind.

  “Patty’s Diner on 57th,” he said quickly.

  “I know it. I’ll see you there in twenty,” the man replied.

  Drake hung up and peeled his sweating body from the couch.

  A half hour later, he found himself the sole patron of Patty’s Diner, sitting in a cracked red vinyl booth with a clear view of the door. A young woman came by shortly after he was seated—Broomhilda and her whacked out Key Lime pie and winning smile apparently had the night off, thank god—and offered him a coffee in a pleasant voice.

  “Two creams, three sugars,” he replied.

  The woman nodded and returned to the bar.

  A few seconds later she returned, flipped his porcelain mug over and poured him three-quarters of a cup.

  “The cream? Sugar?” Drake asked.

  The woman, who had a brown ponytail pulled so tight that it lifted her eyebrows unnaturally high on her forehead, indicated the dish by the window.

  “Thanks,” he grumbled, realizing that the usual accouterment had been on the table all along.

  As he reached for the creamer and sugar, he slowly became aware that the waitress still hadn’t left his side.

  Drake prepared his coffee the way he liked it, and when he was done and she was still hovering over him, he turned to her expectantly.

  She smiled, revealing a large diastema between her two front teeth.

  “Going to be a long night? You waiting for someone?” her eyes skipped first to her watch, then to the folder on the table in front of him.

  Drake looked up at her, suddenly wishing that Broomhilda hadn’t decided to take the night off to feed her dozen cats.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’ll call you if there’s anything else.”

  The woman’s smile faltered, but didn’t quite leave her face. She turned to leave, but before she was gone, Drake addressed her again.

  “On second thought, do you have any Key lime pie?”

  The woman said they did and then went to retrieve a slice.

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  Drake hadn’t even had a chance to sip his coffee when the bell above the door suddenly chimed. A man in a navy k-way jacket, the hood pulled over his head, stepped into the diner. He was tall, over six feet, and walked with a slight limp.

  He made his way directly to Drake’s booth, and slid in across from him without saying a word.

  The man was older than Drake remembered, with ash-gray eyes and thick lines around his mouth. He was clean-shaven, and a few strands of long, brown hair, damp from the rain or from sweat, slipped from the hood and framed his round face.

  Drake slurped his coffee, then cringed.

  It was scalding.

  The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a yellow envelope, roughly the size of a video cassette. He placed it on the table beside Drake’s manila folder, but didn’t remove his hand from it.

  Drake looked up, and for a moment he thought that the man was going to say something. But he didn’t; instead, he let go of the envelope dramatically, and reached for the folder. He was in the process of tucking it inside his k-way jacket, putting it in whatever hidden pocket that the envelope had come from, when Drake finally spoke. Hi
s voice was harsh, his tone deliberate.

  “No reference to alligator shoes—you got that?”

  The man paused and his thick eyebrows furrowed. Again, he looked like he was going to say something, but then decided better.

  Instead, he nodded once then left the diner the way he had come.

  Drake didn’t touch the envelope until after the bell above the door returned to his dormant state. Even then, he first took a sip of coffee. As he reached for it, the young waitress returned with his pie and he pulled his hand back.

  She slid the plate in front of him and then smiled widely.

  Drake first looked at the pie, then at the waitress, trying to figure out if she was playing a trick on him.

  “Key lime?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Key lime,” she confirmed.

  Drake used the fork to lift the stale, pale yellow crust, revealing a pinkish red interior.

  “Is everything to your liking?” she asked. Drake couldn’t tell if she was deliberately trying to provoke him, if Broomhilda had posted his picture in the kitchen with the caption, Fuck with this asshole if he comes in, complete with a cigarette burn in his forehead, but in the end decided that it didn’t matter.

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “Everything’s fine. But get me a shot of Johnny Red to go with my pie, would you?”

  It was raining more heavily by the time Drake left Patty’s diner, but he barely noticed. He stumbled toward his car, trying to keep the envelope dry while at the same time retrieving his keys from his pocket. He dropped them into a puddle, swore, then almost fell when he bent to pick them up again.

  A minute later he was on the road, and ten minutes after that he rolled down a quiet street and parked outside a familiar, plain, brick duplex.

  His eyes darted to the glowing numbers on the dash, then cursed himself for not setting the clock. He checked his watch and with one eye closed to avoid double vision, was fairly confident that it was a quarter past one in the morning. On second glance, however, he thought that there was a fifty-fifty chance that it was actually three-oh-five.

  But, like the cake, Key lime or strawberry rhubarb or minced meat, this didn’t matter, either.

  With a heavy sigh, Drake opened his door and stepped back into the rain.

  He walked slowly toward the house, careful not to slip in a puddle, and then stopped outside the wooden gate. A black mailbox with a red flag lying flat against its side was just within reach. He opened it, glad that the sound of the rain concealed the creaking of the rusty hinge, and slid the envelope inside. Then he raised the flag.

  A final glance revealed that the house was dark save a window near the top that was illuminated by a dull yellow glow.

  A reading light was on.

  Drake felt his breath hitch, but fought back the tears that threatened to spill. With a final longing look, he made it back to his car and then passed out behind the wheel.

  Chapter 22

  This time it was Detective Chase Adams who was late for their morning briefing. Drake had arrived five minutes early, once again with coffees in hand, and had taken a seat at the head of the table. The pressboard behind them that had been empty the day before now had three photographs on it affixed by a pushpin, each with their names beneath: Thomas Smith, Neil Pritchard, and Chris Papadopoulos.

  Chase must have been working late, Drake thought, which explains her tardiness.

  Detectives Luke Gainsford and Frank Simmons, who had been commissioned to inquire about Thomas’s travel schedule at SSJ, walked by the conference room twice, not so subtly looking inside to see if Chase had arrived yet.

  Drake held their gazes, but this didn’t seem to faze them in the least. There had been a shootout overnight—three dead, two injured, all gangbangers—which had forced Rhodes to redirect some of the resources from Thomas’s case. Which left only himself, Detectives Gainsford and Simmons, and Detective Henry Yasiv the budding entomologist, and of course Chase to work on a case that had gone from one murder to three in the course of less than six hours.

  Knowing Rhodes and his vendetta, Drake considered the prospects of receiving any additional help on the case, irrespective of the influence of the victims’ families, was about as close to zero as one could get.

  Detective Yasiv suddenly opened the conference room door, a folder in his hand. Upon seeing Drake and only Drake, he lowered his gaze and muttered something about having to go to the bathroom. The man ran his free hand through his short blond hair, apologized ambiguously, and then turned to leave when Chase’s voice filtered up the hallway.

  “Detective Yasiv? Where’re you going? When I say there’s a briefing at eight you come at eight? If I’m not here yet, you sit and wait? Got it?”

  The man lowered his eyes even further and nodded. He held the door open for her, but she grabbed it from him.

  “Detectives Gainsford and Simmons, that goes for you too, alright? Inside.”

  Hank entered the room, and Luke and Frank hurried in after him.

  Drake couldn’t help the small smile that formed on his lips. When Chase entered last, however, a scowl on her face, it fell away. She was holding a newspaper like a caveman holding a club. The door behind her hadn’t even fully closed before she addressed them in a harsh tone.

  “Butterfly Killer?” she nearly shouted as she waved the newspaper in front of her. “Butterfly killer? For fuck’s sake, I said to keep the press out of this!”

  She threw the paper down and it landed on the oblong table with an audible swack and unrolled. Even from his vantage point, Drake could see the large, bold type on the front page of the New York Times.

  Butterfly Killer stalks New York’s rich and famous.

  Chase threw herself into a chair and leaned back, her lips pursed.

  “It’s hard enough with Weston Smith blocking us every time we so much as think of speaking to any members of the Smith family, but now this?” she sighed heavily and closed her eyes. Drake put her coffee on the table in front of her, but either she didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  This was a new side to Chase, one that he hadn’t seen before and Drake was unsure of how to proceed. When he and Clay worked together, Drake was the one to fly off the handle, while Clay was always calm and collected. During these moments, he had appreciated his partner’s calculated decision to just leave him alone, to let him work things out on his own and cool down. And now, given his abrupt change in role in Homicide, he afforded Chase the same courtesy.

  Eyes still closed, she said, “When I find out who leaked this information, you’re going to be pulled from this case and any others I preside over. And you’ll be spending your weekends in records alphabetizing petty thefts in Manhattan South.”

  Silence fell over the five people in the room, which dragged on for nearly a full minute. Drake, for one, appreciated the lack of sound; it served to quiet his headache.

  Chase took a deep breath then opened her eyes. When she spoke next, her voice had regained its soft, composed tone.

  “Guys, we have three bodies now—this case has officially been upgraded to serial status. With the shootings last night in the Bronx, Rhodes has given us limited resources, despite the status change. And as much pressure as we are going to get to solve this case by members of the affluent community, Rhodes is a bread and butter guy—he is refusing to offer it more than the usual resources, meaning that it’s only us. But that doesn’t change the facts; there will be enough pressure to turn us lumps of coal into diamonds. This is the sort of case that makes or breaks careers.”

  Her eyes jumped from one man to the next, skipping over Drake.

  Bread and butter guy.

  Drake, who had worked under Rhodes for more than a decade, couldn’t have said it better himself. Chase continued to impress him with her ability to read people after only brief interactions.

  She forgot self-serving ambitious asshole, of course, but that was alright. This revelation would come in due time.

  Chase t
ook a sip of her coffee.

  “Now, I assume that everyone got my memo last night?”

  Drake screwed up his face.

  Memo?

  Now Chase looked directly at him.

  “Check your email next time,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. Then, to everyone, she said, “Three dead, all with the same butterfly on their back.” She indicated the board behind her. “Chris Papadopoulos, wealthy Montreal restaurateur, Neil Benjamin Pritchard, a local businessman who owns three print and copy stores and two high rise apartment buildings, and Thomas Smith, who you all know by now. Chris was the first, found dead in one of his restaurants fifteen days ago. Neil was next, six days ago, and Thomas just two nights ago.”

  Chase let the information sink for a few seconds before picking up a blank square of paper roughly the same size as the photographs of the three men. She plunked it on the cork board beneath the images of the dead, then drew a circle with a cross beneath it with a black Sharpie: the universal symbol for a female.

  “So far the only connection between them is the blood on their back. For the two New York deaths—Neil and Thomas—we know that the blood is female and that it is not fresh, meaning it’s unlikely to be our killer’s. That being said, this woman holds some sort of…” Chase looked around and then turned to Drake. “Where’s Beckett?”

  Drake shrugged.

  “I told him to come at eight, just as you said.”

  Chase’s face soured, but only for a moment.

  “I’m not one for profiles, but the way I see it is that the woman whose blood was used holds incredible importance to our murderer. We find out who she is, and I bet she leads us directly to the killer.”

  She paused, offering an opportunity for others to contradict her theory.

  No one did.

  “Frank? Luke? Tell me that you have something from your visit to SSJ yesterday?”

  Frank cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “I wish I had good news, Detective Adams, but unfortunately we have little to report. Luke struck up a casual conversation with Thomas’s secretary just prior to your press conference, like you said. She had only just told us that she wasn’t sure where Thomas was—no mention of traveling to Texas—when we were shut down.”