Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  “Good morning to you, too,” Drake grumbled under his breath.

  Drake walked over to the TV mounted by the door and switched it on.

  “Go to the news,” Screech said.

  Drake’s thumb hovered over the buttons.

  “Which news station?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Any one.”

  When Drake was still at a loss, Screech reached for the remote. Seeing his hand outstretched like that reminded him of the photo of the man underwater, Beckett hovering over him.

  He had previously thought that it had just been some stroke of luck that Screech had found the yacht in the same place that Beckett had been vacationing, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  Was this all planned out? Could Beckett’s inquiry and Bob Bumacher all be related?

  It seemed improbable, but Drake wouldn’t put it by Ken Smith.

  But this also brought about the question of who had actually taken the picture. Who could have been that close to Beckett at the time…

  The TV switched to a news conference, with Sergeant Yasiv at the helm.

  “Jesus, he’s up early,” Drake muttered.

  And standing directly beside Sergeant Yasiv was Deputy Inspector Lewis Palmer.

  “It is with mixed feelings that I stand here and address you today,” Sergeant Yasiv began in a somber tone. “Two days ago, we lost one of our own. Two days ago, Detective Frank Simmons, a veteran of 62nd precinct, and a detective for more than a decade, was brutally murdered. He was an excellent police officer, but more importantly, he was a great man, a caring father of two children, and a wonderful husband. If there is any silver lining to this horrible act, it is that due to the hard work and dedication of all the officers of the 62nd precinct, and with the aid and support of Deputy Inspector Lewis Palmer, and other NYPD officers across the city, the man responsible for this heinous crime ultimately met his demise. The perpetrator, Aaron Walsh, 42, in the process of resisting arrest, was struck by a truck and killed.”

  Dunbar and Screech continued to listen to Yasiv’s speech, but Drake droned him out. His mind was focused on Aaron Walsh, the name that Raul had given the bastard even before Yasiv had called him out, as he fell backward.

  I’m the King, Drake. I am your Skeleton King.

  Drake shuddered as he remembered the sound the man’s head made when the truck struck him.

  “Good to see they didn’t waste any time,” Drake said before turning to Dunbar. “Aren’t you going to be in shit for not being there? I see all the other detectives there. Even that douchebag Kramer.”

  Dunbar shrugged.

  “I’m not… something doesn’t fit, Drake. Aaron Walsh… Aaron Walsh was hit by a truck and he was a bus driver. Terrible irony? Maybe, but I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, and Peter Kellington was a goddamn janitor,” Drake added. “Come on, let’s go to my office and see if we can come up with some sort of plan in case the King is still out there. It doesn’t look like the NYPD is going to be of any help.”

  With that, Drake led the way into his office, and the two other men followed. As he walked, Drake kept looking over his shoulder to see if the final member of their party had arrived.

  He should be here any moment, he thought.

  Inside his office, Dunbar laid out a folder with all of the new information about Aaron Walsh and also added some additional information about the Church of Liberation. Drake put his own folder with everything on Peter Kellington and the victims beside Dunbar’s. Screech added his folder with information about ANGUIS Holdings.

  “Okay,” Drake began, rubbing his temples. “Here’s what we know. Every one of the victims seem to have at least a minor connection with the law—they were either arrested or were part of the police force. We also know that most of them, maybe even all, made a donation or attended this Church of Liberation. Finally, everything seems to tie back to this holdings company called ANGUIS Holdings. Three levels here, with ANGUIS being at the top. Any ideas as to what’s going on here?”

  Drake had done such a thorough job summing up their knowledge that neither Screech nor Dunbar had anything to add.

  “And then there’s that guy… the strange preacher guy with the black hair and the beady eyes,” Drake continued. “Let’s start there, with the Church. What do we know about the Church of Liberation.”

  Dunbar flipped open his folder and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  “The Church of Liberation was founded in 2004, by a single member.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow.

  “Who is?”

  Dunbar shrugged.

  “I have no idea. I tried to find that out, even bent the rules if you know what I mean, but I came up blank. In fact, the only thing I could find out about the church was raw numbers related to their expenses and their revenue.”

  Screech leaned over and looked at the sheet of paper.

  “I’ll see if I can dig up something outside the NYPD. Fuck the rules.”

  Drake took a sip of his coffee.

  “And what about the revenue? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Dunbar studied a piece of paper in his hands.

  “The revenues are a bit high compared to other small churches of this kind, I guess, and a lot of it is small, private donations, but other than that…”

  “There’s no headquarters listed or anything like that?”

  “Not that I could find.”

  “And we have no idea where the next meeting is?” Screech asked.

  Drake thought about the cigarette smoking man who had told him that the sermon had already begun.

  “I might have something on that front.” He was about to add more when the door to his office opened and a tired-looking Beckett stepped through.

  He seemed shocked to see Dunbar there, but when he noticed Screech, he looked frightened.

  “What’s going on,” Beckett said, collecting himself quickly. “It looks like I just entered a scene from Deer Hunter.”

  Chapter 44

  “I think our main goal, at this point, is to find that priest, the one that I saw at the ‘church’. I’ve already given a description to Dunbar, who is going to pass it on to a sketch artist. Not sure how helpful it will be, but it’s a start.”

  Dunbar nodded.

  “We also need you, Dunbar, to keep us apprised of what’s going on back at the station. Aaron Walsh killed himself roughly seventeen hours ago, which gives us at least seven before another body shows up—if it does at all. Screech, you work on finding more about the Church—who started it, who the stakeholders are. I figure we meet back here in a few hours to see if anything new has popped up.”

  “What about me? Don’t tell me you got me up before six AM just for me to sit at the desk,” Beckett said. “I was having a killer dream about these three—”

  “You’re coming with me, Beckett. Gonna see if we can find the guy smoking cigarettes outside of the church, see if we can find where and when the next Church of Liberation meeting is.”

  Beckett frowned.

  “Boring,” he said.

  Drake ignored the comment.

  Screech started toward the door, and Dunbar followed.

  “One more thing, guys,” Drake began in a serious tone. “I’m doing this for Clay. I know you guys all have your reasons for being here, but if anything goes down, if something really bad happens, it happens to me and only me. Got it?”

  Screech raised an eyebrow and looked as if he was about to comment, as he was prone to do, but he decided better of it. Instead, he just nodded.

  “Ok, Drake,” Dunbar added, and then the two of them left the office.

  Drake waited until Screech was nearly out the main doors before hurrying after Dunbar, leaving Becket behind.

  “I’ll catch you later, Screech,” Drake said.

  Screech gave him a curious look, but left. When he was gone, Drake leaned in close to Dunbar.

  “Dunbar, I need another favor. It’s gonna put you in a bad spot, but it’s i
mportant.”

  “What is it?”

  Drake leaned in even closer and whispered in Dunbar’s ear.

  “It’s about that list of donors to the church…”

  ***

  Beckett was unusually quiet on the drive to the local community center where Aaron Walsh had killed himself.

  And Beckett usually wasn’t short on words, or crude jokes, or lewd comments, or…

  Drake’s mind was in a dozen places at once, one of which was on the photograph of Beckett looking down at the drowned man.

  Man up, he told himself. Man up and ask him.

  The problem was, after what had happened to Craig Sloan, and now this, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

  Drake cleared his throat and was about to speak, when Beckett turned to him.

  “I spoke to Suzan, like you asked.”

  When Beckett bit his lip and paused before continuing, Drake’s heart sunk.

  “He went to the church, didn’t he?” Drake said under his breath.

  Beckett ran a hand through his short blond hair and nodded.

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, but it gets worse; he wasn’t the only one.”

  Drake’s heart skipped a beat.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  He was barely able to keep his eyes on the road as he focused on Beckett.

  The man lowered his eyes before answering.

  “Jasmine went too,” he said softly.

  A cold sweat broke out on Drake’s forehead.

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  Beckett looked at him again and shook his head. There was no humor in his eyes.

  “I wish I was, Drake. What does it mean?”

  Drake swallowed hard.

  He didn’t know what it meant, not really. He only knew that Clay’s involvement in the church went deeper than he had ever hoped. Which also meant that he was likely involved in ANGUIS Holdings and, at the very least, by proxy to Ken Smith.

  You have one week to find your brother, Drake, Raul’s creepy voice echoed in his head. One week before we make these pictures public.

  “I dunno,” Drake replied at last. “But it can’t be good.”

  With that, both of them turned their eyes back to the road.

  “Why would Aaron Walsh cut off his finger, his own finger, claim to be the Skeleton King, and then throw himself into traffic?” Beckett asked after a minute of silence. “Are we just looking for a fucking weird ass lunatic?”

  Drake didn’t know the answer to that, either, but this time he elected to remain quiet.

  His thoughts suddenly went elsewhere, to the night when he had run back into the burning house to save Suzan Cuthbert’s life. He had tackled Craig Sloan outside of the building and had entrusted Beckett to look after him. The next time he saw Beckett, the man’s hands were covered in blood, his shirt drenched with it, and Craig Sloan’s head had been caved in.

  And now this photo of the man on the boat…

  Drake looked over at his friend.

  “You know how you said that no one was looking for the victims before their skeletons were found? Well, what if this church is some fucked up suicide cult, you know? Worshiping the skeleton or some shit? Like, all these ex-cons got together and decided that they needed to pay for their sins, that they…”

  It was clear that Beckett was only thinking out loud, and Drake let him ramble as he observed him.

  He had known Beckett for a long time, for more than a decade. And over that time, they had gotten close despite their differences in lifestyles. Beckett loved his women fast and loose, and liked to be seen out on the town. Drake, on the other hand, liked to be alone with a bottle of scotch.

  But how much do I really know about him, Drake asked himself. How much do you really know about anybody?

  “Hey! Look out!” Beckett suddenly shouted.

  Drake’s eyes whipped back to the road and he swerved to the left just missing the legs of a man who had started to cross the street. His Crown Vic came to a screeching halt. The man yelped and fell on his ass.

  Drake opened his mouth to say that he was sorry, when his eyes locked on the man’s.

  His face was doughy and pale, and a cigarette was dangling from his lips.

  It was him, the man from the church, Drake realized.

  The man evidently recognized Drake as well, because he pulled himself to his feet and started to run in the opposite direction.

  “It’s him! It’s the guy from the church!” Drake shouted as he pulled the door open. “Beckett, get him!”

  Chapter 45

  Beckett caught the man first. They had just turned around back of the community center when Beckett reached out with his foot and clipped the back of the man’s heel. Beckett fell on his ass in the process, but the other man, who had a good sixty pounds on Beckett, flew face first and skidded to a stop in a heap. The yellow plastic bag he was carrying marked with the words KOSHER MART spilled to the pavement, a carton of cigarettes sliding at least ten feet from him.

  Drake rushed past Beckett and landed on top of the man before he could even consider getting up.

  Sitting on his back, Drake grabbed a handful of hair and pulled his face from the tarmac. Blood spilled from both nostrils and there was a road rash on his cheek, but he was conscious.

  “Why’d you run?” Drake demanded, leaning in close to the man’s ear. “Why did you run?”

  The man spat blood on the pavement.

  “Because you’re a fucking psycho.”

  Drake let go of the guy’s head, and his nose smacked against the pavement again.

  “I’m the psycho? I’m the psycho, but you’re the one listening to sermons by a man who chopped off his own finger and then jumped in front of a truck.”

  The man groaned and Drake gripped his hair again and pulled back.

  “You’re going to tell me where the next Church of Liberation meeting is.”

  The man shook his head as best he could with Drake’s hand tangled in his hair.

  “I ain’t telling you shit.”

  With his free hand, Drake reached into the holster under his arm and grabbed the butt of his gun that he’d made sure to leave his house with this time.

  “You’re going to tell me or—”

  “I got this, Drake,” Beckett said, suddenly at Drake’s side. He put a hand on Drake’s arm. “We don’t want you doing something that can’t be undone.”

  It was a strange comment, but it resonated with Drake. His hand fell away from his gun. Then he let go of the man’s hair and slowly rose to his feet.

  “Go for a little walk,” Beckett instructed him, taking up residence on his back where Drake had been moments ago.

  “I’m not going anywhere, this piece of shit—”

  Beckett’s eyes narrowed and when he spoke again, there was something in his voice that made Drake uneasy.

  “Go for a walk, Drake. Come back in five.”

  Drake scowled.

  “I’m going to go move my car off the road, then I’ll come back here,” Drake conceded.

  Beckett nodded and Drake started to walk away. When he cleared the corner of the community center, instead of going to his car, Drake looked back the way he’d come.

  He watched as the two exchanged words, words that were too quiet for Drake to hear before Beckett got close—really close.

  A moment later, Beckett rose to his feet and then helped the man up as well.

  Even though cigarette man’s face was a mess, with dual streams of blood from his nose that not only coated his upper lip, but soaked his chin as well, his eyes were wide and his skin was unexpectedly pale.

  The man was absolutely terrified.

  Beckett brushed some debris from the man’s chest in a rudimentary gesture and then shooed him away.

  Just as Beckett turned back to him, Drake ducked behind the building and hurried toward his car.

  After giving several people the finger as he lowered himself into his car, Be
ckett joined him.

  Drake waited, but when Beckett didn’t say anything and the parade of horns continued on, he turned to his friend and said, “Well? What the hell happened?”

  Beckett shuddered.

  “They’re meeting again tonight,” he said. “They’re meeting tonight, and I’m going to be there.”

  Chapter 46

  “No way,” Drake said. “No fucking way. I’m going. You can stand point if you want, but there’s no way you’re going alone.”

  Beckett said nothing, which was somehow worse than him complaining or arguing.

  As Drake pulled into the Triple D parking lot, he slammed on the brakes and looked at his friend.

  “Beckett, you have to tell me where they’re meeting. You got a job; you’re the senior ME for Christ’s sake, and you’re a professor at the University. You can’t be getting involved in this shit. I don’t know what happened in the Virgin Gorda, but—”

  Beckett unexpectedly reached out and grabbed Drake by the collar and pulled him close.

  Drake, so caught off guard, was yanked forward.

  “What do you know about the Virgin Gorda?” Beckett hissed, his eyes narrowing.

  Drake reached up and grabbed the underside of Beckett’s wrist and twisted it. Beckett instantly let go.

  “What the fuck happened to you, Beckett? Ever since… ever since Colin Elliot, you’ve changed.”

  Beckett collapsed in his seat and stared straight ahead.

  “Yeah, shit has changed. There are a lot of fucked up people out there, fucked up people who want to do fucked up things to good people.”

  Drake blinked.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Beckett turned back to face him.

  “You tell me that I have a job? That I shouldn’t get involved in this shit? What about you? You’ve got a fucking kid on the way. You’re so fucking selfish, that all you think about is chasing your own demons and trying to catch a phantom killer. You feel guilty about what happened to Clay, and you can’t get over it. And because of that, you keep making mistakes. Everyone you try to help, everyone you ever try to help, ends up getting fucked in the end. And I’m not talking about the good kind of fucked, Drake. I’m talking about being flipped over and getting it in the ass with no lube. That kind of fucked up.”