Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9)

by Patrick Logan

  “I’m better than all of you,” he whispered. The animal cowered as Tobin’s hand stretched toward it. “I’m better… I’m better… you’ll see. I’m fucking better. Yeah, better.”

  His voice was a thin whine now.

  Tobin’s fingers grazed the animal’s fur as it continued to pull back, to try and squeeze between the wall and the dumpster.

  But even the cat had limits on how much it could contort its body.

  Tobin was smiling when he grabbed not fur but flesh this time. He stood, holding the animal by the neck at arm’s reach. It was clawing at his arm, hissing at him, tiny, pointed teeth bared, but Tobin didn’t care.

  “I’m better.”

  Tobin started to squeeze, and the animal’s movements became more desperate.

  But nothing would stop him now.

  “I’m betttttttttter,” he sighed as something broke inside the cat’s neck. The animal immediately stopped squirming and went limp.

  Tobin cocked his head to one side, inspecting the cat’s now flaccid features.

  He had no idea how long he stood there staring at the dead cat. Only a random New York City car horn pulled him out of his seized state.

  Tobin dropped the corpse, but he wasn’t done with it yet. In a move of surprising coordination, before the animal hit the ground, he raised his foot and delivered a kick so solid that the cat flew across the alley and struck the opposite wall.

  “I’m just fucking better. You’ll see. Everyone will see.”

  PART II – The Mouse

  Chapter 24

  Beckett would hate this, Drake thought. He would absolutely hate this shit.

  He let his gaze drift to the small gathering of people who surrounded the gravesite. In addition to himself, and Hanna and Leroy who flanked him, there were several men and women who he knew just had to be doctors. It was the way they stood, their chins lifted just slightly above parallel, their shoulders rotated an inch backward. Drake was almost certain that in med school would-be doctors took a course on how to stand. He suspected the instructors told them that this posture was important to confer authority and confidence to patients, but this was only part of the reason.

  The other was to convince the general public of their superior status.

  That was one of the things that made Beckett so different. Sure, people would, and had, pointed to the fact that he was covered in tattoos and looked more like a biker than a doctor, or the fact that he had no problem dropping an F-bomb during a board meeting.

  But what really set him apart was the way he treated people, the way he didn’t pretend to be better or worse than others… Beckett was just Beckett.

  Nothing more, nothing less; what you see is what you mother fucking get.

  This thought brought a small smile to Drake’s lips.

  He recalled the very first time they’d met. Just a few months on the job, Drake and his partner Clay had responded to a call that has to this day stuck with him even after all he’d been through.

  Some asshole had broken into a house and shot a man and woman in their bed while they slept. No rhyme, no reason—just straight-up murder.

  The man could have left then, could have taken anything he wanted, and just bolted with very little chance of ever getting caught.

  But he wasn’t done; his most cruel act was yet to come. This piece of shit walked into the daughter’s room and shot her, too.

  Just seven years old…

  They’d arrived on scene and the man was still there, just sitting at the dining room table, staring blankly at the wall.

  Clay had entered the house first and he was also the one who had put a bullet in the man’s leg.

  Beckett had saved the girl, but lost the criminal.

  Boo-fucking-who.

  “That’s Dr. Nordmeyer,” Screech whispered behind him.

  Drake looked at the small woman with dark hair tucked behind her ears. Everyone was uncomfortable at funerals and if they said differently, they were lying, but Dr. Karen Nordmeyer looked positively anxious.

  He’s dead, doc. No need to be scared of him anymore.

  Detective Steven Dunbar and Sergeant Henry Yasiv stood on the other side of the grave, their posture as unique and authoritative as the doctors’.

  There was also a man in a worn leather jacket, standing by himself whom Drake didn’t recognize.

  “This is terrible,” Hanna grumbled under her breath. Drake grunted an affirmative and continued to look around.

  Behind them, leaning up against a tree, was a small figure. The dreary weather and overcast sky made it nearly impossible to make out any specific features, but Drake knew exactly who this mystery person was.

  It was Chase Adams, returning to New York to pay her respects.

  They hadn’t spoken since the events at the Butterfly Gardens, after Marcus Slasinsky’s death. To the rest of the world, Chase Adams was dead, she and her sister Georgina the final victims of the sadistic serial killer’s twisted plot.

  Drake knew better. Still, for her sake, he hoped that Chase had the courage and discipline to stay out of the spotlight, to live a different life. This was her chance, and he knew firsthand how seldom opportunities like this one came around. Sad as it was to lose her, Chase had been through more than enough.

  She’d brought down her fair share of bad guys, as well. She’d done her part, now it was time for Chase to look after Chase.

  The one person who was missing from this group was Suzan Cuthbert. Suzan, who had been Beckett’s long-time girlfriend, and who also just happened to have a deep connection to Drake, was… somewhere. At a psych facility, of all things.

  The details about what had happened to his friend and his late partner’s daughter were still sketchy, but Drake had a feeling that things would become clear very soon.

  Now just wasn’t the time.

  The funeral director said a few more generic words, and then the ceremony came to an abrupt, and unsatisfying end.

  It wasn’t touching, it wasn’t heartfelt, but worst of all, it wasn’t Beckett.

  The director asked the small gathering if anyone had anything to say, but no one came forward. It wasn’t that they didn’t care about Beckett, quite the contrary: they didn’t speak because it would be a disservice to the man.

  If there was a heaven, Beckett was more than likely looking down at them, both middle fingers raised.

  Drake shook his head.

  More like looking up at us, still flipping the bird.

  No, this is not the place to celebrate the man’s life, Drake concluded. This is garbage, ritual, routine, nonsense that no longer holds meaning in today’s world.

  The only way to celebrate Beckett was to head out to a bar, have a few too many, and tell stories about the crazy times they’d had together.

  That was Dr. Beckett Campbell. Living on the edge and sometimes slipping off.

  “Another time,” he whispered. “Another time, old friend.”

  The funeral director gave a curt nod and the employees started to lower the casket. Most people took this as their cue to leave, but not Drake.

  Drake just stared.

  “Excuse me?”

  The man who approached was good-looking, with thick brown hair brushed away from his forehead. On his face was the beginnings of a beard.

  As he came forward, he extended his hand.

  “I’m assuming you’re the one who Beckett called Drake?”

  Drake nodded but didn’t shake the man’s hand. There was something dark in his eyes, something that was in stark contrast to his otherwise friendly features.

  “My name’s Tommy Wilde, and I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, lowering his hand to his hip.

  “How did you know Beckett?”

  “I cleaned up for him,” Tommy replied. It was an ambiguous comment, but it was also somehow fitting for Beckett. “And I was his friend.”

  Drake nodded again and then introduced his crew.

  Tommy politely acknowledged eac
h of them but paid the most attention to Screech. Drake knew that after the Virgin Gorda, Beckett and Screech had developed a more intimate relationship, and this was proof that the good doctor had told others about them too. After once again reiterating how sorry he was for their loss, Tommy jammed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and walked away.

  Drake watched him go, strangely convinced that this wasn’t the last time he would be seeing the handsome man.

  “Well, that was… nice,” Detective Dunbar said, coming up from the rear.

  “That was terrible, that’s what that was,” Screech replied before Drake could offer the same sentiment.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Beckett would have hated this.”

  The detective’s words hung in the air for several seconds before Dunbar addressed Drake again.

  “Can I talk to you for a second? Alone?”

  Drake looked at Leroy, Screech, and then Hanna.

  He shook his head.

  “Whatever you wanna say, you can say it in front of my team.”

  Dunbar frowned and looked uncomfortable, but eventually continued.

  “Someone came in the other day, wanted to press charges against you.”

  Normally, this wouldn’t have surprised Drake, but everyone related to the last case was either a friend or dead.

  “What? Who?”

  “A man with a dark beard… Dr. Swansea? I think that was his name.”

  Drake’s expression, previously one of surprise, now soured.

  He recalled visiting the man with Chase, remembered grabbing his throat, demanding that he tell them where Suzan was.

  Who knows how long, or hard, he would have choked the man if Chase hadn’t talked him down?

  “Fuck.”

  Dunbar tempered his anger by holding up a hand.

  “I told him that if he wanted to press charges there was a lot of paperwork and information that we needed from him first. The doctor decided that it was too much work. I know our friend—” Dunbar looked over his shoulder, and Drake followed the man’s gaze. The spot where Chase had been standing by the tree had since been vacated. “—well, you managed to get out from under the whole Officer Kramer thing, but I’m not sure that you’re going to come out on top, should you get into any more trouble, Drake. The DA…” he let his sentence trail off.

  “What are you saying, Dunbar?”

  “I’m saying that you gotta stay away. You can’t go back there—you can’t go near Suzan or Dr. Swansea.”

  Drake scowled. He knew that Dunbar was trying to help him out, give him some practical advice, but he didn’t like being told what to do.

  And the fact that Suzan was being held in some sort of psychiatric facility meant that nothing would keep him away.

  Dunbar sighed.

  “What a shitty day.”

  Drake couldn’t agree more.

  It had been a miserable fucking day, week, six months… more.

  “Tell me about it.”

  With nothing left to be said, Drake turned his back on the grave and started to walk toward his Crown Vic.

  Screech caught up to him first.

  “Wait, your ‘friend’ got you out of jail? Who’s this friend?”

  Drake didn’t answer right away, not because he was holding back information from his partner, but because he wasn’t exactly sure.

  All he knew was that a rich friend of Chase’s who went by the name Stu Barnes had made a donation to the DA.

  The DA had, in turn, then decided to put the whole Officer Kramer debacle on hold… permanently.

  But Dunbar was right, Drake was on a short leash now.

  “Just a friend… friend of a friend, anyway.”

  Drake reached his car and opened the door. His entire team was surrounding him now.

  “What’s the rush?” Hanna asked. “That back there was brutal… why don’t we have a drink in Beckett’s honor?”

  Drake thought about this for a moment and then he shook his head. He owed Beckett that much, at least, but now didn’t seem like the right time.

  “Soon. Soon, we’ll do it the way he would have wanted.”

  “You heading back to the office then?” Leroy this time.

  Drake couldn’t help feeling that he was being treated with kid gloves. None of his partners wanted to see him back behind bars, that much was clear, and Drake didn’t want that either.

  But it wasn’t about him.

  Never had been.

  Never would be.

  Okay, you want to treat me like a child, then so be it.

  “Naw, not the office,” Drake got into his car. “I got a damn cat to find.”

  With that, Drake closed the door. The rusty hinges groaned in protest, and while he saw Leroy cringe at the sound, he didn’t mind it.

  In fact, it reminded him of old times.

  Old times mired in an alcoholic haze, sure, but they were simpler times.

  Times when Drake only had one dead friend to mourn.

  Chapter 25

  There was someone pounding on Tobin’s head. No, that wasn’t quite right; there was someone pounding inside Tobin’s head.

  They were trying to get out and only had a sledgehammer at their disposal.

  He groaned and rolled onto one side. The ache in his forehead was so great now that he shrieked.

  This just caused more pain; his throat felt as if he’d spent hours gargling with porcupine quills.

  With great effort, Tobin managed to open his eyes. His eyelids made an audible tearing sound as the mucus that had formed overnight broke free.

  I’m in my Hollow Shelter, Tobin realized. This came as a relief; at least he was familiar with these surroundings.

  He tried to sit up but immediately slumped back down.

  His entire body hurt. After several moments of just staring blankly into the black cloth that hung over him, Tobin became aware that while there was indeed pounding inside his head, there was also a thumping sound coming from the real world.

  Tobin brushed the fabric aside and squinted at the door.

  It wasn’t coming from there; it was coming from outside the apartment.

  “Answer the door.” His words came out dry and hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Kenneth, answer the fucking door!”

  The knocking persisted and Tobin feared that it would never end if he didn’t deal with it.

  Fucking Kenneth… fucking asshole wants his rent, but he can’t even answer the fucking door?

  It took three attempts for Tobin to sit up, and maybe a half dozen more for him to stand. He wasn’t surprised that he was still wearing exactly what he had been the night before. The jean shirt was horribly wrinkled, and his hat felt welded on at this point, but these were the least of his worries.

  Tobin unlocked his bedroom door and peeked out.

  Kenneth wasn’t walking around with his fucking noodles, and the bathroom was empty.

  “Kenneth, get the fucking door!”

  Tobin jumped when the man appeared out of the shadows.

  He didn’t think Kenneth was home.

  “Issa police.”

  Tobin inhaled sharply.

  The police? Was it… did Caine call them on me? No, that doesn’t make any sense.

  An image of Dr. Cratom holding a shotgun came to mind.

  Shit… the vet called the cops on me?

  Three more thumps.

  How long have they been here?

  “Kenneth, answer the door.”

  “No, you.”

  More knocking.

  They couldn’t be here because of Caine or Dr. Cratom, Tobin concluded. Caine tried to choke the shit out of him, and god only knows what else, and Dr. Cratom was doing unlicensed surgeries out of the back of his veterinary clinic.

  So why the fuck are they here?

  Tobin crept up to the door and raised his eye to the peephole.

  Sure enough, a young NYPD officer stood on the other side.

  After a deep b
reath, he pressed his back against the door. Tobin immediately regretted doing this; the cheap laminate material rattled in the frame. Almost immediately, there was another series of knocks.

  Fuck.

  Tobin took another breath and then unhooked the security chain and opened the door a full eighteen inches.

  Putting on his best smile, which was admittedly weak given the pain that racked his entire body, he said, “What can I do for you, officer?”

  “I was just—” The officer was looking down at a photograph in his hand when he started speaking, but when he raised his eyes and saw Tobin he immediately clammed up.

  “Oh, yeah, no, I, uhh, I had a… a terrible night last night, officer. I’m glad—” he was about to tell the man about what had happened with Caine when the officer lowered the photograph just low enough for Tobin to see it.

  His eyes bulged and he was suddenly unable to swallow.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  Tobin couldn’t say anything.

  “Sir?”

  Thoughts of disclosing what had happened with Caine were suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.

  “Yes,” Tobin croaked. “I just—like I said, I just had a crazy night. What can I—what can I help you with?”

  The officer stared for a moment longer, his eyes squinted. Then he looked over Tobin’s shoulder before returning his gaze to front and center.

  “Yeah, I’m just canvassing the neighborhood looking for a missing cat.”

  As he finished the sentence, the officer turned the photo around and showed it to him.

  Tobin now added nausea to his ever-growing list of symptoms.

  His hands also started to shake as he recalled grabbing the poor cat around the neck and squeezing… and squeezing… and squeezing…

  In its death throes, the animal had clawed at his arms and chin.

  Tobin instinctively pulled away from the door, bowed his head, and interlaced his fingers on the small of his back.

  “No, no, I haven’t seen it. No way. Pet free zone here.”

  Tobin hoped that this would be enough, that the officer would just pack up and leave, but the young man just stood in the hallway and gawked at him.

  I must look like an absolute psycho.

  “Is it… is it an important cat?” Tobin said, wanting nothing more than to break the awkward silence.