C22H28N2O.
Fentanyl.
The package of heroin that Screech had given him weighed exactly 100g. Even if the girls had swallowed just a teaspoon of that shit, the fentanyl would likely kill them. And they hadn’t swallowed a teaspoon, they’d swallowed twenty bags.
No, Beckett concluded, Bob Bumacher was not a good man.
Upon closer inspection, he realized that there were also trace amounts of other substances. He ran a comparison on these, and when the results pinged he didn’t whistle this time. He cringed.
In addition to the fentanyl, the heroin was also laced with Carfentanyl—an elephant tranquilizer—as well as two even more powerful variants: Ohmefentanyl and Lofentanil. Just a single grain of either of these would mean almost certain death.
“Fuck.”
The last thing Beckett wanted to do right now was to get involved with Drake and Screech and Bob Bumacher. His finger still ached, and his mind was a scrambled mess.
And the nightmares…
As he stared at the screen, Beckett found himself absently rubbing the tattoos under his right armpit, the three lines that represented Craig Sloan, Donnie DiMarco, and Ray Reynolds.
He didn’t want to get involved, but after seeing what they were trying to bring into New York, what choice did he have?
Chapter 26
“Goddamn it,” Screech swore, bringing a fist down on the table.
Drake startled and opened his eyes. He must’ve fallen asleep at Screech’s desk, although he couldn’t remember doing so. A quick check of his watch told him that it was coming on three in the morning.
“What?” he asked in a groggy voice. “What did you find?”
Screech shook his head.
“It’s not what I found, it’s what I didn’t find.” He pointed at the image onscreen which depicted the same leg, this time with a matching second one, that Drake had found on the card at the hangar. “You were right—it appears that this is from a private gentleman’s club. But this isn’t your local rippers. This is real cloak and dagger shit. I can’t find out who the girls are, where the place is, nothing. It’s so secretive, I’d need all the computer power of NASA to break in.”
Drake was disappointed, but he wasn’t surprised.
Screech typed something into the password box, but it simply vibrated and notified him that it was incorrect.
“Shit,” Screech muttered. “I give up. I’m not getting there. And unless you have connections with some high-priced hookers, then you’re not getting there either. I think our best bet at this point is to narrow down the most likely locations for the shipment drop and hope we get lucky.”
Drake frowned. That wasn’t a plan, that was a guess.
And Drake didn’t like guessing. He liked hard facts.
There has to be a way…
Screech’s words suddenly echoed in his head.
Unless you have connections with some high-priced hookers…
Drake rubbed his chin.
“You know what? I might just know someone who might be able to get us in the door.”
Screech looked at him with a raised eyebrow.
“You sly dog, you. Who would’ve thunk it.”
Drake ignored the comment.
“I’m pretty sure that I know someone who might be able to help. It’s just a matter of using the right method of persuasion.”
***
Drake tapped the yellow envelope in his palm.
“Should I ask where you got this from?”
Screech shook his head.
“But you’re okay to part with it?”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. I’m more concerned about how you know about a place like this and why you think that a prostitute working in this neighborhood might be able to help us out.”
Drake almost chuckled. He’d thought the same thing the first time he came here.
“It’s a long story from back when I was a Detective. Anyways, this girl can be pretty feisty so if I’m not down in 20 minutes, get the fuck out of here,” Drake said as he stepped out into the night.
It was almost four in the morning now, but something told him that the woman he was visiting would still be up—some professions never slept.
The real question was whether or not she would open the door for him.
Drake opened the rundown outer door to the apartment complex and then walked over to the intercom system.
“Here goes nothing,” he muttered as he pressed the button marked only with a V.
A moment later, a female voice answered.
“V.”
Drake cleared his throat.
“It’s Raul,” he said and then cringed. He had meant to put on his best Spanish accent, but somehow it had come out sounding Irish.
But to his surprise, there was a buzzing sound and Drake pulled the inner door open. Once inside, he was brought back to an earlier time, a much different time when he had still been part of the NYPD. His eyes turned to the hallway that he had once laid in, pretending to be a heroin addict when Raul walked by him.
Drake shook his head. That time was long past.
He hurried upstairs, making his way down the hall to the door that was painted to look like all the others, but one he knew from experience was made of reinforced steel.
He was about to knock when it suddenly sprung open and a petite woman in a nightgown leaped out. Drake was so taken by surprise that he stumbled backward.
Then he heard the crackle of a Taser.
“You again,” Veronica said. “I swear, you men never learn.”
Chapter 27
Screech squinted at the dilapidated apartment building and wondered if this was going to lead anywhere. Part of him wanted to call Yasiv, to find out if Mandy was still okay, while another part of him couldn’t get her naked body out of his mind.
Back in the Virgin Gorda, he’d seen some pretty amazing looking women—some of the most beautiful women that he’d ever laid eyes on either live or in film. But Mandy… she was different, somehow. She was beautiful, sure, but she was also real in a way that the girls on B-Yacht’ch weren’t.
Another part of him thought that Drake had just lost his fucking mind, that everything that had happened to him at the Reynolds farm had finally gotten to his head.
That the demons who haunted him had finally won.
He was fiddling with his phone when it buzzed in his hand and he answered without even looking at the caller.
“Screech here.”
“It’s Beckett. I ran your powder… it came back almost pure. But it wasn’t cut with baking powder or laxatives. It was cut with fentanyl and other, more deadly variants.”
Screech’s eyes widened. Heroin was dangerous enough, but fentanyl? A single dose could kill you.
It seemed counterintuitive to lace your product with something as deadly as fentanyl, but it was in high demand. The sad fact was, the more risk involved, the more addicts wanted it.
His brother had taught him that.
“Which is why the girls died when the plastic bags dissolved in their stomachs,” Beckett continued. “As for the other thing? The bodies? Nothing that matches your description came through the morgue.”
Screech nodded to himself.
“Long story, but those bodies been disposed of,” he said absently, trying not to picture Mandy lying on the ground, foam at the corners of her dead lips.
“Disposed of?” Beckett asked, the octave of his voice increasing.
“Some Russian guy… Drake winged him with a bullet, but he still managed to take all the bodies out to sea. I’m guessing that they’re at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean by now.”
There was an awkward pause that went on for so long that Screech thought that Beckett had hung up on him.
“You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Listen, I may have changed my mind about this. I think I’m going to lend a hand, look into how these girls made it from Colombia all the way to New York.”
>
Screech chewed to the inside of his cheek. Even though he had gone to the man for help, he wasn’t sure he was keen on Beckett getting involved.
When Beckett got involved, people ended up dead.
As these thoughts ran through Screech’s head, he nervously glanced up at the rearview mirror only to see his own scared face staring back.
“Screech?”
“Yeah, look, Beckett, I don’t know if it’s the best—”
“I can do things that Drake can’t,” Beckett said sharply. “I can go to places he’s not willing to go.”
Screech cleared his throat. He felt guilty for not doing anything about the dope on the yacht, and he wanted nothing more than to extract revenge for what happened to Mandy and the other girls.
But this… did anyone deserve what Beckett was proposing?
“That’s what I was afraid of,” he said glumly.
Chapter 28
“I’m only here to ask you a few questions, that’s it. Now please, put the Taser down.”
Veronica sneered.
“Last time you came here, you dragged my ass out in handcuffs wearing a Frozen nightie. Paraded me around like I was a… well, you know.”
Veronica crackled the Taser as she spoke, and Drake continued to step backward toward the stairs. His eyes darted from her angry face to the angrier Taser leads.
“Look, I’m not even a cop anymore. I haven’t been a cop for a long time now. In fact, I’m actually wanted by the cops.”
Veronica’s brow furrowed.
“Maybe I should give them a call then, tell them to come pick your ass up. Add harassment to whatever charges they want you for.”
Drake started to reach behind him for the envelope that Screech had handed him in the car.
“Don’t even think about it,” Veronica snapped, leading with the Taser.
Drake had been tased twice prior in his life: once by accident by a rookie police officer and the other by a drug dealer who’d gotten the jump on him. These incidents had been some of the most excruciating of his life. It felt as if his entire body was on fire, but instead of stopping, dropping, and rolling, the only thing he could do was clench his jaw together. In fact, his body had seized, and his brain felt as if someone had dumped kerosene in one ear and tossed a lit flare into the other.
Drake never wanted to feel that sort of pain again. It made his current torment feel like a hangnail by comparison.
“I’ve got a package for you, Veronica. Cash.”
“I don’t need your money.”
Drake started to turn.
“You may not need it, but I bet you want it. I remember Raul coming to you with one just like this. And unlike what he asked of you, all I have are a few questions.”
Drake untucked his shirt, showing Veronica that the only thing he was carrying was the envelope.
“Turn around slowly, Drake,” she instructed.
She remembers my name; that’s something, at least.
When he had his back to her, Drake heard the crackle of the Taser and prepared himself as best he could for what was to come. But the tasing never came. Instead, he felt the envelope being yanked from the back of his pants.
“Can I turn around now?” he asked, hands still in the air.
“Slowly.”
Veronica still held the Taser in one hand, but used the other to open the envelope. Drake knew that the moment she saw the cash and started to do some mental math, he’d have a shot to wrench the Taser from her. Veronica was petite, but she was feisty, and he knew that if he didn’t take this opportunity now, he probably wouldn’t get another.
But he did nothing; he wasn’t here to start a fight. Drake was here for information, something that required her cooperation.
“It’s a little light,” Veronica said as she closed the envelope.
Drake shrugged.
“It’s also four in the morning and it’s all I could get. It may be light, but it’s plenty just to answer a few questions.”
Veronica pressed her full lips together as she contemplated this. Eventually, she tilted her head toward the door.
“A few questions, that’s it. And that’s only because you caught the bastard who killed Tom Smith.”
Drake’s memory flashed back to when he’d apprehended Dr. Mark Kruk, followed by his most recent meeting with the man in the psychiatric facility. Something told him that these interactions with the doctor with the split personality weren’t going to be his last.
Hands still raised, he walked slowly into the apartment. Veronica followed him inside and locked the door behind them.
The room hadn’t changed much since he’d been here about a year ago. There was a large bed and one side of the room with four massive posts that extended the ceiling, and there was a makeup stand to the right. The only new addition, so far as he could tell, was on one wall: hanging from a pegboard was an array of sexual devices, everything from a paddle, to a two-headed black dildo approximately the size of a Louisville slugger, and numerous other things that Drake couldn’t even imagine uses for.
“Sit on the corner of the bed,” she instructed. Drake did as he was told. Despite the fact that the room smelled faintly of lavender and was meticulously clean, he was still apprehensive about sitting on the bed given Veronica’s profession. But his discomfort played second fiddle to his fear of being tased. “Now, what do you want to know?”
Drake started to reach into the pocket of his jeans when Veronica leaned forward with the Taser.
“I’m just getting a piece of paper. Jesus, relax.”
“People in my profession who relax contract chlamydia or end up dead.”
Good point, Drake thought.
He took out a piece of paper that Screech had printed from the Internet. It was a blown-up version of the icon on the business card: two female legs that ended in lacy shoes.
“Have you ever seen this before,” he said, tossing the paper at the woman. Veronica kept her eyes locked on Drake as she unfolded it.
“I hope this worth ten grand to you, because—” she stopped speaking the second her eyes darted at the paper. “Where did you get this? Where the hell did you get this?”
Chapter 29
It’s amazing what you can find online these days, Beckett thought with a smirk. He would have thought that a man like Bob Bumacher, given his profession—which was looking more and more like it consisted of mainly smuggling women and drugs—would have exercised some discretion when it came to posting online.
As it turned out, a simple Internet search revealed not only Bob’s address, but his phone number as well.
Beckett checked his watch. Normal people were sleeping at this hour.
But he wasn’t normal.
He hadn’t been normal since that day he’d come across Craig down the side of the burning house.
After printing out Bob’s Manhattan address, Beckett pulled a leather case out of his desk. Inside, he laid a scalpel, a syringe loaded with Midazolam, and then, after a moment’s contemplation, he threw in the bag of heroin that Screech had given him.
Satisfied, he stood and stretched his back. It had been a long day—shit, it had been a long week, and it wasn’t about to end. Not just yet, anyway.
With a sigh, he made his way toward the door and peered back into his room one last time. Beckett knew that the risk of what he planned to do was even greater than when he’d dealt with Craig Sloan and Donnie DiMarco. Craig had been a known murderer and it had been easy to claim self-defense. Donnie had died on foreign land run by corrupt cops that had been paid off on his behalf.
But Bob Bumacher—according to his ‘official’ profile at least—was a well-liked fitness trainer that would most definitely be missed. And a man of his immense size would pose a physical challenge as well.
And yet, if Beckett found concrete proof that Bob knew about the girls, that he was responsible for bringing them over from Colombia, then he had to pay.
Drake had his methods, his co
nnections in the police force, his analytical process.
Beckett, on the other hand, had a more rudimentary approach. An ancient one, but crude none-the-less.
With a self-assured nod, he tucked the small leather case into his pocket and left his apartment.
If Bob is responsible in any way for what happened to those girls, he will pay.
Chapter 30
“That… that’s a long story,” Drake said apprehensively. Veronica’s visceral reaction to the image on the page had been startling, to say the least. “I just want to know if you’ve heard of these guys, if you know where I can find them.”
Veronica shook her head.
“You don’t want anything to do with these guys, Drake. Trust me on that one.”
Drake frowned.
“Is it a strip club? Escort service?”
Veronica shook her head.
“No.”
Drake threw his arms up in frustration.
“I gave you the money, and you said you’d answer my questions. But you aren’t giving me shit? Who are these guys? What the fuck is this thing?”
Veronica’s eyes narrowed and for the first time since Drake appeared at her door, she lowered the Taser to her lap.
“It’s not an escort service, Drake. It’s an auction.”
Drake’s jaw went slack.
“An auction? They’re selling these girls?”
Veronica nodded and set the Taser down on the chair beside her. She took a deep breath, then finally started opening up.
“Before I started here, myself and a couple other street workers were approached by a man with this symbol on a business card. You see, Drake, on the street, every girl is your competition, but every girl is also your safety net. If something goes wrong, if a John goes too far or tries to get something he didn’t pay for, the best protection you have isn’t you guys—the police—but your fellow street worker. There’s power in numbers, Drake. But you need to earn the respect of your fellow workers before they’ll put their neck on the line for you.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 28
