Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  This time when Declan tried to grab the joint, it was Leroy’s turn to pull it back. He was smiling as he did this, but Declan wasn’t.

  “Whatever,” Leroy grumbled, handing the joint over.

  “No, not whatever, Little L. You need to focus on your schoolwork; you’re smart, man. Fuck, you know more about chemistry than half the teachers at our school. With that brain of yours, you could go to college. Imagine that shit, huh? A Robinson in college? What would mom—”

  A police siren blipped behind them and Leroy whipped around in time to see an NYPD cruiser pull up to the curb. The window was open, and a man straight out of the 80s leaned out.

  “Shit,” Leroy swore. He adjusted the straps on his backpack and prepared to run. “Flick that shit and let’s get the fuck out of here, D.”

  Leroy had already broken into a slow jog by the time he realized his brother wasn’t by his side.

  “What the fuck?”

  Declan hadn’t heeded either of his suggestions; in fact, he was still smoking the joint and appeared to actually be going toward the police cruiser.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Leroy hissed. “Let's get the fuck outta here.”

  Behind Declan, Leroy saw the cop with the blond brush cut and aviator sunglasses start to strum his fingers on the car door.

  “You always were such a pussy,” Declan said over his shoulder.

  Leroy, getting anxious now, turned his head to look for an escape route. The gang bangers who had been sitting in the park had long since left, leaving a straight path between the two high-rise apartment buildings.

  “D,” Leroy urged. “Let's go!”

  But his brother continued toward the police car as if locked in some sort of tractor beam. Leroy wanted to run—after all, it made no sense for both of them to be arrested—but he was so confused that he came to a complete stop and watched instead.

  To his surprise, the police officer didn't order his brother to the ground; he didn’t even bother getting out of his car.

  What the hell?

  Heart racing now, Leroy’s eyes whipped back and forth from the police cruiser at the side of the road, to the path between the apartments behind him.

  I should run, he thought again. But, like before, Leroy just stood and watched.

  He observed as the officer leaned out of the car and looked up and down the street before holding a yellow package out to Declan. His brother took one final drag from the joint and then flicked it to the ground. Then it was his turn to look around. Satisfied that Leroy was the only one nearby, Declan crouched and put the package in his backpack. Then he slipped the backpack over one shoulder, nodded at the cop, and started back toward Leroy.

  “Told you, you were a pussy, Little L.”

  Leroy watched with his mouth agape as the police car peeled away from the curb.

  When his brother arrived at his side, Leroy said, “What the hell was that? Declan, what the hell was that?”

  Declan just smiled and continued walking as if nothing had happened.

  “You're smart, Leroy. I ain't.”

  Leroy shook his head.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means what it means. What's your GPA, 3.7? 3.8?”

  “3.9. But what does that have to do with anything?”

  Declan kicked an empty 40 onto the street.

  “That has everything to do with everything,” he said, and Leroy rolled his eyes. “You can go to college, you can get a real job. You can get out of here.”

  “What was in the package, D? How do you know that cop?”

  Declan shrugged.

  “A man's gotta eat,” was his only response.

  Leroy, feeling the effects of the weed now, threw his hands in the air. Normally, this sort of response from his brother would set him off, but he was too high to be pissed.

  “Whatever,” Leroy grumbled under his breath.

  “Just promise me that you’ll make it out of this shit. Promise me that you won't be held down by them.”

  “By who? Please tell me who this them is, Malcolm.”

  Declan shook his head again.

  “By who? Just listen to you—you’re already halfway out of here, Little L, you’re already speaking just like them. Just keep your grades up, and…”

  Leroy let his brother drone on as he focused on the sidewalk ahead of him. The three gangbangers that had been hanging out in the park before the police car had shown up had returned. Only now there weren’t in the park.

  They were standing twenty yards in front of them, blocking their path.

  Leroy elbowed his brother in the ribs.

  “D, we should probably cut through the path.”

  “…talking about the Sunday funnies. Yuck, yuck, yuck. Hey, Martha did you see how the stock market performed today? Did you charge the Tesla? Did you—”

  Leroy elbowed his brother even harder this time, which finally did the trick.

  “What?”

  “We should take another route,” Leroy said under his breath. But even as he uttered the words, he knew it was too late. “Shit.”

  The three men, all wearing black hoodies, fronted, making it clear that them blocking the path was no accident. The two on either side were thickly built, but the one in the middle, even though he was on the slighter side, was obviously in charge.

  Declan sucked his teeth as he stared down the man with the bandana covering the lower half of his face. Standing at only 5'10”, Declan wasn’t the biggest of men, but he weighed a solid 190 pounds. Leroy remembered a couple years back when somebody at school had stolen one of his comics. The kid had been at least 3 inches taller and 30 pounds heavier than Declan, but Declan had nearly put him in the hospital when he’d found out about the theft.

  But something told Leroy that being able to throw a punch—or even to take one—wasn't going to help them much here.

  “Don't be such a pussy,” Declan said again.

  “What's in the bag, nigga?” the man in the lead asked, his voice muffled by the bandana. His eyes were more yellow than white, and he reeked of sweat and weed and booze.

  “Let's just get the fuck out here,” Leroy whispered. He felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead, even though it was a cool October evening in New York City. “Let's just run, Declan. Don’t be stupid. It ain’t worth it.”

  But Declan evidently had other ideas.

  “Why don’t you step aside.”

  But the man didn’t back down.

  “Why don’t you shut the fuck up and give me the bag.”

  Heart racing, Leroy grabbed at his brother's arm and tugged.

  “Run,” he said quietly at first. But when his brother tried to shake him off, he repeated the word, louder this time. “Run!”

  But there was something different with Declan today. Leroy couldn’t be sure if it was because he was super high, or that he’d just shared his philosophy with Leroy, or maybe because of his interaction with the cops; whatever it was, Declan just wasn’t going to back down.

  “Give me that—”

  Declan didn't wait for him to finish his sentence before he lunged.

  His fist connected with the man’s jaw, knocking the bandana askew and sending him crumpling to the ground.

  The other thugs were so surprised by the attack that they didn't react for several seconds. In fact, they remained still long enough for Declan to turn back to face Leroy, a smile still on his face.

  “Promise me,” his brother said.

  Leroy was so surprised by what had happened, that he mistakenly moved forward instead of backing away. In doing so, he bumped into one of the thugs.

  This snapped him out of his stupor, and the man immediately threw a punch at Leroy's head. Leroy saw it coming and managed to dodge the blow.

  “Run, D!” he shouted as he turned and started toward the apartment complex. “Run!”

  Leroy could hear the big fella who’d taken a swing at him huffing behind him, and h
e didn’t dare look back. When he got to the small fence in front of the park, he put both hands on top and hoisted himself over, barely breaking stride.

  Only then did Leroy glance over his shoulder.

  He had hoped to see his brother either right behind him or even sprinting in the opposite direction, but neither was the case.

  Where Leroy had avoided a punch, his brother clearly hadn’t; he was curled in a ball in the middle of street, the last remaining thug hovering over him.

  “Declan!” Leroy shouted. The man who had been chasing him stopped and turned around. “Declan!”

  When the thug started back toward his friends, Leroy was at a loss for what to do next—he didn't know if he should go and try to help his brother or to call the police.

  If he opted for the former, he’d likely get an ass whooping of his own. Choosing the latter was no guarantee that the cops would get here in time, especially in this neighborhood, or even come at all.

  “Shit, shit, shit.”

  As he watched, the man that Declan had decked groaned and then pulled himself awkwardly to his feet.

  And that's when Leroy made up his mind. He couldn't leave his brother here, not like this. Leroy had never been much of a fighter, and he was even smaller than his brother. But he wouldn't leave him.

  With something akin to a battle cry, Leroy hopped back over the fence and started running as hard as he could toward the scene.

  The two larger thugs looked at him as if he was verifiably insane, but the other man barely seemed to notice. He was busy trying to get something out of the front of his pants.

  As he approached, Leroy saw that he had a gold incisor, the color of which wasn’t all that different from his jaundiced eyes.

  “Get away from him!” Leroy yelled. “Get away—”

  He stopped cold when the man pulled a pistol out of his jeans.

  “No!” Leroy shouted, but he was too late.

  Two shots rang out in rapid succession.

  “No!” Leroy yelled again.

  Two red blossoms appeared on Declan’s shirt—one just beneath the collar and the other further down—and he stopped moving.

  Only now did the man with the gun seem to realize that Leroy was standing not thirty feet away. Slowly, almost robotically, he raised the pistol and pointed it directly at Leroy’s chest.

  Leroy froze completely. He wanted to put his hands up, to show that he had no weapons, that he wouldn't put up a fight, but he simply couldn't move. Even when his brother sputtered and blood spilled from his lips, Leroy couldn't even open his mouth.

  And then the man pulled the trigger and Leroy saw his life flash before his eyes—all seventeen and three-quarter years of wasted youth.

  But the gun didn't fire. The man had cocked it back as if it had gone off, but he had never pulled the trigger.

  Leroy felt warmth spread on the front of his pants.

  One of the other thugs slapped the shooter on the back and pointed at Declan's body. Gold-incisor nodded, slid the pistol into the front of his jeans, and then reached down and removed Declan's backpack.

  He stood briefly, but then squatted over Declan's body. After a brief hesitation, the man’s fingers wrapped around the chain that hung from Declan’s neck and then he yanked it off.

  To add further insult, the bastard held it up and let it dangle like some sort of pendulum.

  A siren filled the air then, and one of the thugs slapped the shooter on the back again, this time a little harder.

  “We need to get the fuck out here,” the man said, just loud enough for Leroy to hear. “Let's go, let's go!”

  And then all three of them were off and running; even the fat man who’d struggled to keep up with Leroy a few minutes ago now seemed to be able to haul ass.

  When they disappeared around the corner, Leroy’s heart reanimated and flooded his limbs with blood.

  “No,” he moaned. And then he managed to run, too. His legs felt as if they were cinderblocks and he stumbled three times before making it to his brother's fallen body.

  Declan’s blood had turned his shirt nearly completely red now, and Leroy dropped to his knees.

  “Please,” he moaned, gently cradling Declan’s head in his lap. He used the pad of his thumb to wipe some of the blood and spit from his brother’s lips.

  Declan was shaking then, not a dramatic seizure as one might see in the movies, but more of entire body trembling.

  Leroy knew more about chemistry than biology, but he was certain that there was no coming back from this.

  “Please, Declan. Stay with me. Stay the fuck with me.”

  His brother coughed, this time bringing up so much blood that Leroy couldn't wipe it all away. And yet, despite his obvious pain, Declan appeared to be trying to say something. He was so weak that Leroy had to nearly put his ear directly up against his brother’s lips to hear what he was saying.

  “Promise me,” were the man's last words before he died. “Promise me that you’ll make it out of here.”

  Chapter 3

  “Drake, do you think this is a joke?” Roger Schneiderman asked, peering across the table at his client.

  Drake cracked his knuckles.

  “This is no joke,” he affirmed in a low voice.

  “You better believe that it’s no joke. Do you know what the maximum penalty for aggravated kidnapping is in the State of New York?”

  Drake shrugged. He knew what the penalty was, of course, but all of a sudden, he didn't feel like talking. What he felt like doing was getting the fuck out of there and hunting down the smug bastard DI Palmer.

  “Life in prison, Drake. Life. And, let me tell you something in case you didn't know, there are people out there, powerful people, who want to throw the book at you. So, tell me, what the hell was that outburst all about?”

  Drake shrugged again and continued to stare at the intricate network of scratches on the table between his hands.

  “Seriously? You’ve got nothing to say?”

  Drake’s silence said enough and Roger threw his hands in the air.

  “Fact is, I don't need this, Drake. I don't need the stress or the job.” The lawyer stood and knocked on the glass, signalling to the corrections officer that their meeting was over. “You can tell your friend Screech to keep his money, too. He warned me that you were ornery, that you were out for blood, but he never told me that you were a self-destructive asshole.”

  As his lawyer made his way toward the door, which the corrections officer was in the process of unlocking, Drake raised his eyes.

  “If you’d done just one shred of research on me, you would’ve found that out for yourself,” he said at last.

  Roger looked back at him, shaking his head.

  “If you can’t help yourself, then I can’t help you.”

  The door opened, and Roger started to leave. Just as he stepped over the threshold, however, Drake spoke again.

  “I don't want you to help me. I want you to help my wife. I want you to help my wife and my newborn baby. I want you to help the city clean up the garbage that this mayor and his misfit crew have spread like pestilence.”

  “Follow me, please, Mr. Schneiderman.”

  “Just a sec, Brian,” Roger said, patting the officer on the shoulder. “And how do you expect me to do all that, Drake? Hmm?”

  Again, Drake shrugged.

  Roger rolled his eyes, and then leaned over to the officer and said, “Give me another few minutes, Brian, please.”

  The man nodded reluctantly, and Roger stepped back into the room.

  “I can’t help everyone, Drake. But I want to help you. I want to help you because I knew your partner. Back when I was on the other side of the law, I knew Clay quite well. And if you were a friend of his, then that says something about you. But I can't help you if you're going to be an asshole and get yourself in trouble. You speak of cleaning up the garbage in New York City, but you can’t do that from behind bars. And your little speech? The only thing that accom
plished was getting you a night in the slammer.”

  Drake said nothing, and Roger sighed.

  “Judge Robinson was pissed; he won’t stand for any of that circus crap in his courtroom. Shit, his first instinct was to let you marinade in jail for a week. A week. But I pleaded with him, told him that because of your health condition you weren’t thinking straight. Probably the only time that drinking has really proven helpful, huh?”

  Drake swallowed hard. The doctors hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what had happened when he’d collapsed. Their best guess was that alcohol withdrawal had caused acute and transient tachycardia.

  Roger leaned in close and when he spoke again, his tone softened somewhat.

  “My advice? Don’t let anyone know that you’re a cop in there. Being an asshole behind bars won’t get you a slap on the wrist like it does on the outside, but a broken arm. Being an asshole and an ex-cop? That will likely put you in the morgue. Be safe, Drake.”

  Chapter 4

  Leroy tucked his face into his hood as the cop car passed. It wasn't quite night yet—the sun was still desperately clinging to the horizon—but with his back pressed against the wall as it was, it would be difficult for anyone to see him.

  Leroy had been standing on this corner almost every night in the month since his brother had been murdered. But tonight was the first night that he saw him.

  The cop with the aviator sunglasses. The one who had passed a mysterious parcel off to Declan, which had subsequently been stolen by the man who’d murdered him.

  Leroy pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and fired off a quick text.

  The cop car slowed as it approached the intersection, and then proceeded to roll the stop sign.

  Even though he knew it was coming, Leroy didn’t see where the bottle had originated from. He only saw it when it smashed against the windshield and sent a shower of liquid and glass across the hood. One of the officers shouted something inside the car and then the sirens clicked on.

  The driver, whom Leroy never got a good look at, turned the car in a tight circle and sped after two youths sporting oversized New York Yankee jerseys. They ran down an alley that was too narrow for the car to pass, and the cop parked it half on and half off the road.