Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  If he was here, of course.

  “How about you let me in or start looking for another job. How does that sound?”

  The woman behind the glass seemed to contemplate this for a moment, her eyes flicking from DI Palmer to Yasiv and back again.

  Eventually, she nodded and acquiesced.

  “Fine, you can come in for five minutes, but only because your friend here is cute,” she said, winking at Yasiv. A metal box suddenly slid out from beneath the glass. “Please put all your firearms in the container. You can have them back on the way out.”

  Chapter 45

  A cotton swab was still partway lodged in Drake’s ear canal when he heard a beep and saw the door to his cell start to open. He quickly tossed the swab into the wastebin with the napkins that he’d used to make himself respectable, then turned to face the door.

  Hanna started into the room first, but she was quickly pushed aside by a much bigger man.

  DI Palmer.

  Drake had to exercise all of his willpower not to lash out at the man.

  “So he is here,” Palmer grumbled, not bothering to hide the displeasure in his voice.

  “Where the hell else would I be?” Drake snapped.

  Yasiv entered the room next, his face like melted candle wax.

  “You're here,” he almost gasped in relief.

  “And you’re the second person to make that penetrating observation. Yeah, I’m here. Now what the fuck do you want?”

  DI Palmer moved deeper into the room and Drake’s hands curled into fists. He was in no shape to fight, but if Palmer so much as touched him…

  Thankfully, the man resigned himself to just inspecting Drake, paying close attention to his bruised face, his swollen lips.

  “We had report that you kidnapped someone else,” Palmer said, his eyes locked on Drake's. “Another police officer. Two of them, in fact.”

  Drake pointed at one of his ears.

  “You wanna repeat that? My hearing hasn’t been great, lately.”

  The truth was, his hearing had pretty much returned to normal since clearing out the blood. He still experienced a dull hum as if an air conditioner was running in his head, but it was easy enough to ignore.

  Palmer frowned and ignored the comment.

  “What happened to his face and ears?” he asked, turning to Hanna.

  “Had a little tussle with another patient,” Hanna replied without hesitating. “The other inmate provoked him and he was just defending himself. Protocol is to separate them, which is why he’s in a new cell. No big deal, though; happens more than anyone would like to admit.”

  Palmer made a face.

  “Who was the other patient?” he asked.

  “Not allowed to say. I think that's enough for now, Drake is getting ready—”

  “Has he had his psych eval yet?” Palmer demanded, cutting her off mid-sentence.

  Hanna shook her head.

  “Not yet. He's here for a week; his preliminary interview is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. After that, he'll see the psychiatrist every day or so, as dictated by the court.”

  With every subsequent reply, Palmer’s face turned a darker shade of red. Drake couldn’t help but be reminded of Sergeant Rhodes.

  Definitely cut from the same cloth, those two. Cut from the same cloth and working for the same man.

  “We done here, Jacques Clouseau?” Drake asked. “Because I popped two xannys before you got here and I’m feeling mighty sleepy.”

  Palmer suddenly strode over to Drake, and he hopped to his feet.

  “If I find out you left, Drake,” Palmer threatened when they were nose to nose.

  Hanna grabbed the DI by the shoulders and guided him back toward the door.

  “I think that’s enough. If this goes any further, or takes any longer, I’m going to have to report this intrusion to the court. And none of us want that, do we?”

  For a moment, it looked like Palmer was going to come at him again, but the man eventually smiled and shook off his frustrations.

  “I want his psych evaluations the minute they come in,” he told Hanna, his voice oddly calm.

  Hanna said that she would send them directly to him—by FedEx if necessary—and then she escorted the two men from the room.

  Palmer left without looking back, but Yasiv hesitated long enough to throw a glance over his shoulder.

  A look that said, We’re on the same side, Drake.

  Drake no longer had any doubts that they were indeed on the same side, and that he could trust Yasiv. But that would only get them so far; the sergeant had rules and regulations, protocols he needed to follow.

  Drake, on the other hand, would do anything and everything to put DI Palmer and Ken Smith behind bars.

  Chapter 46

  “You think… you think he got back quick enough?” Leroy asked, his eyes fixed on the TV screen. They’d turned it on the second that Drake had bolted from Triple D, thinking that if Palmer didn’t find him at Oak Valley, it’d be all over the news. So far, nothing. “Screech?”

  The man was standing right beside him, but didn’t appear to hear. Leroy reached out and nudged him gently.

  “What?” Screech snapped.

  Leroy took a small step backward.

  “Sorry,” he grumbled. “I was just wondering if you thought Drake got back in time.”

  “I don’t know how, but he must’ve,” Screech said under his breath.

  Leroy moved away from the TV and thought about what to do next. His mom was probably worried sick about him, but she would have to wait. He’d get a whooping if he went home now, and so much had happened since his case had been settled that he wouldn’t even know where to start.

  Unlike Screech and Drake, however, he had no vendetta against the mayor. What he did have a problem with, was the two assholes who had gotten his brother killed: Officers Pontiac and Dalton.

  “What do you think happened to the two cops that Drake threw in the trunk?” he asked absently.

  “What happened to them? Nothing. Probably just filed a report and went back on patrol.”

  Leroy frowned.

  “And Chris and BT?”

  “Who?”

  “The thugs in the apartment… the ones that I gave the drugs to. You know, when I planted the camera?”

  “No clue.”

  This is going nowhere, Leroy thought. Screech was clearly so concerned about Drake that he couldn’t think of anything else. In fact, Leroy was fairly certain that he hadn’t even gotten back to Sergeant Yasiv about their discovery, about finding out where the ohmefentanyl was being manufactured.

  It was obvious that there was a hierarchy of priorities at play: Screech cared about Drake, first and foremost, while Drake only had bringing the mayor to justice in mind.

  Leroy made his way over to the computer and shook the mouse to wake it up. Then he loaded the video feed from the camera he’d planted the night prior in the trap house.

  His heart immediately sunk. Not only had the cops not raided the place as he’d hoped, but Chris was back at his desk.

  “How is this possible?” he whispered.

  Thinking that perhaps this was just a recording from earlier in the day, before the junkie had OD’d, Leroy closed the app and then reopened it.

  But Chris was still there, Declan’s chain hanging around his neck. As Leroy watched, the man started to roll a joint. Then he raised his head, said something to BT, and laughed.

  Frustrated, Leroy closed the video and backed away from the computer. He intended to say something to Screech, to lament on how bullshit this whole situation was, when his eyes fell on the bricks of heroin that Drake had brought back with him.

  One week… you bring me a key every week… just don’t be late.

  Leroy swallowed hard.

  No, I can’t, he thought as he made his way over to the table. It’s not right to steal from them.

  At worst, the two owners of Triple D were eclectic vigilantes who meant well. At be
st, they were the last bastion of good in a world that had gone so bad.

  And that said nothing of the fact that they’d treated him, personally, like an adult, afforded him the freedom to make his own decisions. That was something that his mother, bless her heart, struggled with mightily.

  You’re the only one of us who can get out of here, Leroy. Not me, not your brother, but you.

  Both she and Declan had used practically the same refrain, but neither had stopped to ask him what he wanted.

  Another glance at Screech and, after confirming that he was transfixed by the news, Leroy silently scooped up the bag and made his way to the door.

  Screech’s eyes never left the TV screen.

  But it’s not really stealing, he rationalized as he stepped outside. Technically, it’s not theirs. And, besides, they have their priorities, and I have mine. Mainly, staying alive and keeping my mom safe. And making sure that what happened to Declan doesn’t happen to me… or her.

  Chapter 47

  Drake was pacing inside of his cell when he heard the beep and the door opened.

  He half expected it to be DI Palmer returning, this time with a set of handcuffs to haul his ass away again. But it wasn’t him; it was Hanna.

  “That was close,” she said with a grin.

  Drake still hadn’t wrapped his mind around this woman, hadn’t figured out who she was or what she was up to; why she was so eager to help him. But that was for later. He had to focus his limited mental faculties on what really mattered.

  “They left?”

  Hanna nodded.

  “Yep—gone. Now are you going to tell me what happened?”

  Drake hesitated.

  Like Yasiv, he was certain he could trust Hanna. But Beckett’s words weighed heavily on his mind, and he was hesitant to get anyone else involved or, in Hanna’s case, more involved in this mess.

  “I need to get out again,” Drake said, purposefully ignoring her question.

  The smile slid off of Hanna’s face.

  “It… it can be done, but it’ll be more difficult now. That douchebag inspector has a cop standing watch in the parking lot.” She hesitated. “I think I can be of more help if you just tell me what you’re trying to do here, what your endgame is.”

  Forgetting about his missing tooth, Drake bit his lip and his mouth erupted in pain. Maybe it was time to figure out what her motivations were, after all.

  “Fuck. I’ll tell you what I’m up to, if you tell me why you’re so eager to help me. I’ve met you, what? Twice? Once way back when, and then again when I came to speak to Dr. Mark Kruk. That was—”

  Drake’s mouth fell open.

  Dr. Mark Kruk!

  The name shot through his brain like a lightning bolt. The psychiatrist had treated Ken’s son, Thomas Alexander Smith, at his father’s request. It was an arrangement that had ended in Thomas’s murder, something that Drake had always suspected was part of Ken’s master plan.

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s it; he can help. He will help.” Drake said, nodding to himself. “Hanna, I’ll tell you what I know, but I’m gonna need your help. I need your help getting out of this place, but I need to see a patient first. A very specific patient.”

  ***

  “Ever hear of chemtrails?”

  It was Hanna’s first comment after Drake had told his story. And it made zero sense.

  “Chemtrails?” he asked, genuinely confused.

  Hanna chuckled.

  “Never mind… just remember what they say: just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t after you.”

  Drake shook his head. He didn’t like wasting time like this; he’d already been out for two days, which left him five to find enough dirt on Ken Smith to get him indicted. After that… sneaking out of a psychiatric facility with Hanna’s help was one thing, but breaking out of a New York State prison?

  Wasn’t going to happen.

  “So that’s why I need to talk to Dr. Kruk—I think he can help. He might know something that I can use against Ken Smith.”

  Hanna sighed and slapped her thighs.

  “Well, we’ve gotten this far, and Pachomius we ain’t. Would be sad to see it end here.”

  With that, Hanna rose to her feet and unlocked the cell door. She waved her hand and Drake stepped into the hallway, with her following closely behind.

  He hadn’t the slightest clue who Pachomius was nor did he understand why Hanna seemed to do whatever the hell she wanted in Oak Valley, but he was grateful that she was on his side.

  Something told him that those who crossed this woman only did so once.

  He followed Hanna down a long hallway to another area of the facility, one that had yet to be equipped with fancy electronic keys; these doors had to be opened by an old fashioned key.

  Hanna guided him to a seemingly random room and opened the door. She told him to enter and, like the last time he’d interviewed Dr. Kruk, once inside, she locked the door behind him.

  Also like last time, the second the door was closed, thoughts started to echo and magnify inside Drake’s head.

  The place might be designed to house the minds of the criminally disturbed, but Drake had no doubt that it could also disturb those who were criminally minded should they spend too much time here.

  Just as his thoughts turned to Jasmine, to the exchange he’d witnessed on her porch and the admission by the two cops that they got their heroin from her, the door opened again.

  Dr. Mark Kruk, born Martin Slasinsky, a man who’d been tormented as a boy, stood in the doorway.

  “Damien Drake,” Dr. Kruk said as he shuffled into the room, his wrists and ankles bound by chains. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  Drake frowned. The man’s clean-shaven face bore a knowing smile that he didn’t care for.

  He pushed his feelings aside.

  “Dr. Kruk, I’m back to ask for another favor.”

  Although he hadn’t specifically told Hanna that they should keep the fact that this time Drake was a patient at Oak Valley and not a visitor, he figured that she would intuit this. He just hoped that the doctor overlooked the fact that Drake wasn’t wearing street clothes, but a uniform not unlike his own.

  The problem was, Dr. Mark Kruk was a master manipulator, an imago in the flesh. Drake knew full well that while he was the one requesting information, Dr. Kruk was extracting his own data at the same time.

  The man may be a murderer, he may have a split personality, and he may be bipolar and schizophrenic, but one thing that Dr. Mark Kruk wasn’t, was stupid.

  “I knew you’d return,” the man said with a chuckle as Hanna accompanied him deeper into the cell. “I hope that you remember our previous conversation and come bearing compensation.”

  Drake’s eyebrows knitted.

  “Compensation?”

  Dr. Kruk made a tsk, tsk, tsk sound as he lowered himself into the chair across from Drake. In his periphery, Drake saw Hanna close the door, only, unlike last time, she remained inside the room.

  “If you want my help, Drake, I want something from you in return—well, more specifically, something from your partner. From Chase Adams.”

  Chapter 48

  “Yeah, I don’t care what they say,” Officer Dalton began. “That was Damien Drake.”

  “I don’t give a shit who it was,” Officer Pontiac replied as they walked out of the station. He lowered his voice. “All I care about is the shit he took.”

  As he approached his car, he glanced at the rear door and scowled. A fellow officer had managed to close it while they were giving their statements, but he’d done a shit job; it was held together by a repurposed coat hanger and some electrical tape. Mike tried the door, but not only did it not open, but it felt as if it were welded shut.

  “Motherfucker ruined my door,” he muttered as he got in the driver seat. When Dalton didn’t immediately join him in the car, Mike leaned out the window. “Get in.”

  Dalton glanced back toward the front doors of
the precinct.

  “Think you can give me a ride home? I was considering picking up my daughter from school early and taking her to the movies.”

  Mike stared at his partner in disbelief.

  “Get the fuck in the car, Pete. Now.”

  Dalton did as he was asked and Mike bit his tongue as he pulled out of the police station parking lot and made his way back toward Tremont.

  When they had been driving for nearly ten minutes, he finally looked over at Dalton.

  “Are you a fucking idiot?”

  The man made a face.

  “What are you talking about? It wasn’t my fault—”

  “Going to the movies with your daughter? Seriously?”

  Dalton shrugged.

  “IA said to take the rest of the week off. I just figured—”

  Mike ground his teeth in frustration.

  “What do you think is going to happen when Chris and his crew see that the heroin is missing? Huh? When we can’t pay Jasmine for the dope we took on consignment.”

  Dalton held his hands up.

  “Dude, it’s not our fault. Someone jumped us.”

  Mike shook his head.

  “I knew you were a fat slob, Dalton, but I didn’t think that you were a complete fucking moron. They’re going to come after us, you idiot.”

  Dalton swallowed hard.

  “Naw, we can explain. Tell them what happened.”

  Mike made a hard left and pulled around a slow moving taxi cab.

  “Yeah, sure, that’ll work great. Both the thug and the drug lord will just, oh, I dunno, give us a hug maybe, tell us it’ll be okay. Then they’ll forget the whole thing.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You wanna go to the movies with your daughter? They are gonna fucking gut her and pull her intestines out like silly string, you fat fuck.”

  Dalton’s jaw clenched and he finally clammed up. They continued toward Tremont for several minutes in silence, before Mike started to feel bad for the man.

  “Look, you know what happened to Detective Simmons, right?”