“Jesus Christ, you okay?”
Dunbar nodded and then reached up and touched his scalp. His fingers came away red, but after further probing, he said, “Fucker just grazed me.”
And then anger overcame him and before Yasiv could intervene, Dunbar rolled back onto his knees and punched Pontiac in the face.
There was an audible crunch as his teeth bent inward and from somewhere behind them, Yasiv heard Dalton gasp.
“Don’t kill us, we didn’t… we didn’t do anything. We got the stuff back, I swear, that’s why the kid—”
Yasiv ignored the man’s pleas; his mind was working a million miles a minute, trying to piece together what had happened.
Screech had told him that the kid was in the back of the car, that the off-duty cops were beating on him. When Dunbar had first approached, Yasiv figured that was why Pontiac had come out, pistol at the ready.
But now, after Dalton’s comments, it was clear that this wasn’t the case. They were afraid, but not of getting caught with the kid. They were afraid of something… and someone… else.
“You gonna be okay, Dunbar?” Yasiv asked as he helped the man to his feet.
Dunbar touched his scalp again.
“I’ll be fine,” he replied. Now that they were standing, Yasiv could see that the bullet had only grazed a small part of his scalp. “Can’t believe that fucker fired at me.”
“I believe,” Yasiv said with disdain. A year ago, he would have been floored that a cop would have tried to take out one of their own.
But not anymore. Not after what he’d seen.
“Please, don’t kill us,” Officer Dalton blubbered. “We got the drugs back—we got them back. That’s why the kid is here. He had them, but we got them back.”
Yasiv glanced over at the fat officer and saw that there was snot and tears running down his face.
“Oh, we won’t kill you,” Yasiv said, picturing Drake’s bruised and battered body. “But in prison? In prison, I’m pretty sure somebody will.”
Chapter 57
“One of these days, I’m going to get you to tell me how you do that,” Drake said.
Hanna just laughed as she helped Drake out of the trunk. He’d already changed out of his white garb and switched into the jeans and t-shirt she’d given him before, and now he brushed himself off.
Hanna might be a master manipulator and capable of the impossible—like sneaking Drake out past the cops in the trunk, while Dr. Kruk was in the backseat with just a towel covering his cuffs—but one thing she wasn’t, was clean.
The trunk was full of shit; of garbage, of strange knickknacks, of ancient newspapers.
Dust billowed off his clothes, and Drake coughed as he made his way to the passenger seat. He debated joining Kruk in the back to keep an eye on him, but with the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, he wasn’t going anywhere.
“A girl has to have some secrets,” Hanna said as she put the car into drive.
“Speaking of secrets,” Dr. Kruk piped up from the backseat, “I’m curious as to why a detective of your stature would need to resort to such extreme measures just to go for a drive.”
“I told you, I’m not a detective anymore.”
Now it was Dr. Kruk’s turn to chuckle.
“No, I don’t suppose you are. I think you’ve fallen pretty far, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend, and I told you not to psychoanalyze me.”
“Stop bickering and tell me where we’re headed,” Hanna interjected.
Drake thought about the safest place to meet Stitts. It was dangerous for him to be out in the middle of the day, especially considering he wouldn’t be surprised if Palmer had put out a ‘shoot on sight’ notice for him.
Just thinking about this inspired Drake to pull the hood on the sweatshirt he’d found in the trunk up over his head.
Hopefully, that and the bruises would disguise his appearance enough not to get noticed.
“I know a place,” he said quietly. “Take us back to the city, and I’ll give you directions from there.”
***
“I never took you as an EDM fan,” Hanna said as they pulled up outside of the neon sign that read: BARNEY’S.
“EDM?” Drake asked.
“Electronic dance music,” Hanna replied, hooking a chin at the blinking lights and the music that emanated from the open doors.
“I’m not,” Drake said before turning back to Dr. Kruk. “I’m going to take your ankle shackles off, but if you try anything…”
BARNEY’s was the safest, most discrete location he could think of, but that didn’t mean that they could just traipse in there with Dr. Kruk in chains without raising undue attention.
Dr. Kruk smiled.
“We have a deal, Drake. So long as you give me what I want, I’ll give you what you want.”
“Whatever,” he said, getting out of the car and heading for the backseat.
Drake unlocked the man’s ankle cuffs and disconnected them from his wrists. But he didn’t go as far as to take the doctor’s handcuffs off. Instead, he just wrapped the towel around them more tightly.
Then he looked to Hanna in the front seat.
“All right, let’s get this over with.”
Drake walked with his arm hooked through Dr. Kruk’s and Hanna followed closely behind.
It had been a long time since he’d last been to BARNEY’S and, disappointingly, not much had changed. Drake had hoped that it had gone back to the way it had been, that Mickey had given up with the neon diarrhea and reverted it to its classic, local watering hole roots.
But no. It was the same as the last time, complete with Tweedledee and Tweedledum standing in front of the doors.
“Dee and Dum, how are you?” Drake asked, not even bothering to feign a smile.
It took a while for the two refrigerators wearing suits to recognize Drake and when they did, their mouths cracked into identical smiles.
“I see that your mouth got you in trouble, after all,” the one on the left, Tweedledum if Drake remembered correctly, said.
Drake let the comment slide.
“Step aside, Mickey’s expecting us.”
He could sense the bouncers’ frustrations—they weren’t used to being spoken to like this—but eventually, they did as he asked. Drake fought the urge to whisper a disparaging comment as he passed.
“Looks like you make friends everywhere you go,” Hanna remarked from behind him.
Drake ignored her and guided them to a booth near the back. The place was deserted, which was what he’d hoped for. Clearly the EDM crowd, while large enough to support the place, only arrived later.
Drake wondered if Mickey just kept it open during the day to pay homage to his old guest, like himself.
“You guys stay here,” Drake said as Hanna and Dr. Kruk slid into the booth. “I’m going to talk to the owner.”
Hanna nodded, and Drake made his way over to the bar.
Mickey Roots was standing with his back to him, cleaning the glass with a white rag.
“Bartender! Yo, bartender! Think you can hook me up with some of that top shelf scotch?”
The man’s hand froze, and he slowly turned.
When he saw who it was, he nearly stumbled.
“Drake? What the—”
Drake reached up and pulled his hood back just for a second before replacing it.
“Jesus fucking Christ. It is you. What the hell—what are you—how did you—”
“Don’t have a coronary, Mickey. It’s a long story and one day I’ll tell it to you. I swear.”
The bartender gave him a look and then reached up and grabbed a bottle of Johnny Blue. It hadn’t been cracked yet—clearly, the EDM crowd preferred their Crantinis—but he didn’t hesitate to open it and pour two glasses.
He slid one over to Drake and held the other one up.
“Fucking A,” Drake said, clinking his glass with Mickey’s. He downed the entire drink and Mickey immediately refilled it.
T
he liquid hurt his raw throat from the thrashing he’d taken in prison, but it warmed his belly in a way that nothing else could.
“Thanks, Mick. But I need more than just a drink this time. I need a favor.”
Mickey leaned in close.
“Sure… what do you need, Drake?”
“Some privacy, just for a little while. No more than an hour. I have a friend coming and some business to take care of.” Drake cast a glance toward the door. “Maybe you could…”
Mickey nodded and brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply.
“Hey Meat, no more patrons for the next hour. No one is to enter except for—” he looked to Drake for the name, and he gave it to him. “No one but Jeremy Stitts. Let him in and then lock up shop and take a hike. Go get yourself a coffee or some testosterone, whatever you want. I’ll keep you on the clock.”
The bouncers looked at each other, shrugged, then nodded at Mickey.
Drake raised his glass once more.
“Thanks, Mickey. When I have more time, I’ll tell you about today. But just a head’s up? There is no way you’re going to believe it.”
Chapter 58
Leroy thought he was going to die. He’d survived infiltrating Chris and his gang of thugs, only to be killed by those who were supposed to protect him: the police.
The same two police officers with whom he had a history.
But then, seemingly out of nowhere, Sergeant Yasiv had arrived with a detective and shit had gone down.
It had been stupid for him to return to Tremont, Leroy knew, but he was just trying to set things right with Chris.
To make sure the man didn’t come after him or his mom when he missed his weekly delivery.
Besides, how was he supposed to know that Officers Pontiac and Dalton were on the prowl?
“Just a coupla bruises, kid,” the paramedic said as Leroy adjusted himself in the back of the ambulance.
Leroy nodded and let the man dab at his cuts while his mind was elsewhere. He was good at history, math, and a whiz at chemistry, but memorization wasn’t his forte. And he had to make sure that he got his story straight, the story that Sergeant Yasiv had told him to make sure he didn’t go back to prison.
Tell it just like it happened: you were just walking, minding your own business, and they grabbed you because of what happened last time—that the charges against you didn’t stick. Then they threw you in the car and beat you up a little bit. That’s when Detective Dunbar and I showed up. We tried to get you out of the car when they drew their guns and one of them fired.
Leroy was aware that his lips were moving as he ran through the scenario in his head, but he didn’t care.
Don’t say too much, and don’t say too little. Pontiac and Dalton will run their mouths, but their statements aren’t gonna be worth shit. If anyone asks about the drugs, you know nothing about them. You don’t know where they came from or who they belong to. Don’t even mention them.
A woman in a navy suit approached and introduced herself as Melissa Orson from Internal Affairs.
“How are you feeling, Leroy?” she asked. The woman had a pleasant face, with high cheekbones and plump lips. But there was a hardness to her eyes that set Leroy on edge.
“Okay,” he replied softly.
“Doesn’t look like anything was broken,” the EMT offered. “He’s gonna have a nasty welt around his right eye, but the swelling should go down in a few days.”
Melissa nodded and then turned her attention back to Leroy.
“Is there someone you would like me to call, Leroy? Your mother or father, perhaps?”
Leroy shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to call his mom; Officer Pontiac might have nearly killed him, but his mother wouldn’t hesitate to complete the job if she found out he’d been walking around Tremont looking for trouble.
“Uh-huh, okay. And how old are you, Leroy?”
“Eighteen,” Leroy lied. This was something else that Yasiv had ‘suggested’. As a minor, they’d have to get his mom involved before they asked him any questions.
Melissa nodded and produced a flip pad. She scribbled a few notes before addressing him again.
“Is it okay if I ask you a couple questions about what happened today? Like the sergeant told you earlier, you’re not in trouble and you’re not under arrest.”
Leroy nodded.
“Good, thank you. I think the easiest thing is if you just tell me, in your own words, what happened.”
Leroy spoke quickly, recounting the narrative that Yasiv had prepped him with.
Don’t say too much, don’t say too little.
The woman stared at him intently as he spoke, jotting the occasional note. When he was done, the woman gave him a comforting smile that never reached her eyes.
“Thank you, Leroy, and I’m very sorry that you had to endure such a traumatic event. I know you’re probably tired and sore and just want to get home, but I think it’s important for you to come down to the station and give a statement. You know, while everything is still fresh in your mind.”
“Wh-what?” Leroy stammered. Yasiv hadn’t said anything about going to the station; he needed to get back to Screech and Drake. He had to ask them to find some more drugs to replace the bricks that were currently in evidence. If he didn’t come up with more in a week, if Chris—
A hand suddenly came down on his shoulder.
“Try to take some deep breaths,” the EMT instructed. “Nice and slow and deep.”
But the man’s words failed to register, and Leroy felt himself on the verge of hyperventilating.
I almost died… the cops were gonna kill me. Now Chris will definitely kill me… me and mom.
“I can’t,” he blurted. “I can’t go with you.”
The woman’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes turned icy.
“Leroy, I know that you’re in shock—we all are. But it’s best to get this taken care of. The last thing we want is a drawn out—”
Sergeant Yasiv suddenly appeared behind the woman.
“I’ll take it from here, Melissa,” he said, and Leroy felt a wave of relief wash over him.
“Sergeant,” she said with a nod. “I have everything under control. I was just telling Leroy that it would be best to give an official statement back at the station. I think it’s in all of our best interests to wrap this up as quickly and efficiently as possible. Don’t you?”
Yasiv looked over his shoulder at Leroy before turning to the woman again.
“May I speak to you in private for a moment?”
Melissa agreed, and they stepped around the side of the ambulance and out of earshot.
“Leroy, you want something for the pain? Advil? Something stronger?” the EMT asked when they were alone again.
Leroy’s eyes narrowed.
“Something stronger?”
Like an opioid, he almost said.
The EMT nodded.
“Yeah, something with a little more kick.”
Leroy shook his head.
“No. I’m fine,” he said dryly.
When he turned back, he was surprised to see Sergeant Yasiv standing in front of him.
“Come on, Leroy. Let me take you home. You can give your statement in the morning. Let’s just get you the hell out of here.”
Chapter 59
As soon as the man with the medium length brown hair stepped into Barney’s, Drake rose to his feet and hurried toward him.
He looked older than Drake remembered, but he was well aware of his own appearance. While Stitts looked older, Drake was the one who looked closer to death.
As he approached, Drake smelled the strong odor of cigarette smoke coming off the man in waves.
“Jeremy Stitts.”
Stitts’s eyes met Drake’s and for a second, there was no recognition in them.
Closer to death? Maybe resurrected would be more appropriate.
“Drake? Shit… what happened to you?” Stitts asked after several awkward se
conds.
“Long story that I don’t have the time to tell,” he replied, extending his hand. Stitts shook it. “Is she really missing?”
They may never be the best of friends, but it was clear that any animosity between them had been shelved.
At least for the time being.
Stitts nodded.
“It’s been almost 3 months, Drake. I don’t know how much he shared with you about her,” the man hesitated, clearly being careful about his word choice, “about her past, but I think it finally caught up with her.”
Drake thought back to the first time he’d met Chase, when she’d held up the yellow crime scene tape for him even though she was so short that she could practically walk beneath it without even ducking.
He thought about how pissed he’d been about getting a new partner, and then how she’d warned him that if he ever showed up to work drunk again she’d kick his ass off the force.
Chase was a feisty one, someone who Drake knew could look after herself. Even when Dr. Mark Kruk had held her hostage, she hadn’t broken.
But Drake knew deep down that if anybody was going to get Chase, it was herself. It would be her own demons that hurt her.
The parallels between his own life and Chase’s were not beyond him.
“I’ll find her,” Drake promised. “As soon as I’m done here, as soon as I deal with this shit, I’m going to find her. That’s a promise, Stitts.”
The expression on Stitts’s face said it all: this wasn’t an, ‘I need a break, gonna blow off some steam for a few months’ type of scenario.
This was bad.
Really bad.
The man nodded and then reached into his coat and produced a plastic Ziploc bag that contained a red hairbrush.
“That’s hers?”
Stitts nodded and handed it over. But when Drake grabbed the bag, Stitts held onto one corner.
“Just for DNA, right?”
Drake resisted the urge to look over his shoulder at Hanna and Dr. Mark Kruk.
“Yeah,” he lied, and Stitts released the bag. “DNA.”
The man seemed to contemplate this for a moment before reaching into his jeans and pulling out another Ziploc.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 52
