“What the fuck is going on?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, just give it to him, Screech,” Hanna said, rolling her eyes.
Screech sighed and reached for a folder on his desk and then held it out for Drake, only to pull it back before he could grab it.
What kind of fucking game are they playing?
“There might be some shit in here that you don’t want to see.”
Drake’s eyes narrowed, his thoughts immediately going to Jasmine and his son, Clay. Screech knew better than to continue holding out and he extended the folder once again. Drake took it and tore it open. Inside, he found various hand-written notes as well as official police documents.
And none of them had to do with either Jasmine or Clay.
They were about Dr. Beckett Campbell.
“What the…”
Someone in the force had a hard-on for Beckett, it seemed. There were numerous pages of comments and links to different crimes across New York City, as well as GPS tracking of Beckett’s phone.
Drake knew that Beckett danced to the beat of his own drum, had known this since the day they met way back when he was but a young resident. More recently, he’d heard rumors…
He flipped a few more pages, and then his jaw dropped.
Ten murders? Beckett killed ten people? Gimme a break.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, lifting his eyes. Screech looked at his toes while Hanna and Leroy likewise refused to meet his gaze. “Beckett’s dead… why is someone—”
“Keep reading—towards the back,” Screech offered in a deadpan voice.
“Just fucking tell—”
While he was speaking, Drake continued to turn the pages. And when he glanced down next, something caught his eye.
Dr. Karen Nordmeyer’s name was circled and beside it were the words: DECEASED. But no matter how strange this was—he’d just seen Dr. Nordmeyer at Beckett’s funeral—it was the next sentence that made his heart skip a beat.
Suzan Cuthbert murdered Dr. Nordmeyer.
“What in the fuck? Who wrote this shit?” he demanded. When no one answered, Drake stepped aggressively toward Screech. “Where’d you get this from?”
When he reached for the collar of Screech’s shirt, Leroy suddenly appeared between them. Drake scowled. This wasn’t the same scared boy whom he’d first met in prison. Not only was he thicker, more muscled, but he was no longer a boy.
He was a man.
Drake lowered his arm.
“Screech, who wrote this? I’ll find out, I’ll—”
“Yasiv. Sergeant Yasiv.”
“What? Yasiv?”
Drake had been thinking that it was Officer Kramer or one of his buddies who was behind this, an elaborate plan to continue to fuck with him after the charges had been withdrawn. But Yasiv?
“He’s on… he’s on our side?”
Drake recalled when Henry Yasiv had been a green detective, when the man got sick at the sight of a dead body. There weren’t many people in the NYPD that Drake could trust, and fewer he could count on, but Yasiv was one of them.
Had been one of them.
Apparently, much more had gone down when he was away than his partners had let on.
“Well, looks like I’m going to go have a little chat with the Sergeant, then.”
Drake shoved the pages back into the envelope.
“That’s… yeah, I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Hanna said.
“Fucking right it is.”
“No, it’s not.” Screech now. “Dunbar said you gotta stay out of shit and going to challenge the new Sergeant of 62nd division? Not a good idea.”
“He’s a friend. This has to be a mistake.”
Hanna sighed.
“Things are different now, Drake. Yasiv is on a fucking tear. We can’t trust him. Can’t trust anyone.”
Drake growled.
If someone was going to start making accusations about Beckett, about Suzan of all people, accusations that were patently false, then they needed to be talked to.
Dunbar’s warning echoed in his head.
Fuck.
Hanna must have seen something in his face, defeat, maybe, because she quickly offered a different outlet for Drake’s anger.
“But Yasiv didn’t drop this off.”
Drake stared at her.
“Then who did?”
He flipped the envelope over in his hand. There was no address, no stamp, not even a name on the front, even though he was certain that it had been intended for him.
“We set up some cameras outside the door after—”
“Just tell me who the fuck sent this,” Drake interrupted.
Screech took a deep breath before answering.
“Mackenzie Hart.”
For a second, Drake had no idea who that was. Then he remembered the showdown, the USB key, both of their arrests. With a nod, Drake tucked the envelope under his arm and started back the way he’d come.
“Wait—where are you going?” Screech hollered after him.
“Well, if I can’t talk to Yasiv, then I’m going to have a conversation with Mac.” The last word came out thickly as if his tongue were coated with glue.
“Drake… Drake, this is exactly what they want you to do—they want you to do something stupid so that your ass ends up back in prison.”
Drake, still seeing red, didn’t reply or even slow. As he hurried out onto the sidewalk, it was Hanna’s voice that hollered after him.
“But… but what about the cat, Drake? Don’t forget about the damn cat!”
Chapter 33
Chad started to feel better the second he posted the link. And he felt veritably amazing when Anon not only replied with a derisive comment but also reposted his post. After his surgery, Chad had felt good, relieved, but that was fleeting.
This kind of good was going to last, however.
Grinning from ear to ear, Chad rose from his desk and unlocked his door.
“Kenneth?” he hollered. When the man didn’t answer, he left his room and went right up to the man’s bedroom. “Yo, Kenneth?”
Still no answer.
Chad tried the handle, only to find it locked. This put a wrench in his plan but only temporarily. His foot shot out and struck the cheap veneer. He was surprised not just that it almost went through, but that he felt no pain despite being barefoot. Chad wound up and kicked again, this time as hard as he could. It took four such blows, but then the wooden frame split, rendering the lock useless.
Chad entered Kenneth’s room and looked around. It was disgustingly clean. He stomped over to the man’s dresser and yanked the top drawer open. Inside, he saw two rows: one of white underwear, the other paired socks.
“Fucking psycho,” he muttered as he slammed the drawer shut and opened the one beneath it. More neatly folded clothes, this time, T-shirts. Chad pulled them out, one by one, and threw them on the floor. They were all shit, generic assembly line junk. All but a dark blue Hawaiian T-shirt.
It wasn’t his style, not really, but it looked to be of at least moderate quality, unlike the rest of the cotton-blend bullshit. Chad took the shirt and left Kenneth’s room, not bothering to even try to close the broken door behind him.
In the kitchen, he found a pair of scissors and cut the body of the T-shirt into several long strips, tossing the sleeves and collar into the garbage. Strips in hand, Chad went to the bathroom next.
Even the sight of several torn stitches and a strange, yellow-tinged substance leaking from the far edge of the incision wasn’t enough to ruin his mood.
He folded one long strip of Kenneth’s shirt and then wrapped it around his wound, tying it tightly at the back of his head like a cross between a bandanna and a sweatband. It was no Balenciaga hat, of course, but that, like the denim shirt seen in the video, had to be retired.
Chad turned his body and then looked over his shoulder, his lips pursed.
It kinda works… shit, if it doesn’t, with your following, Chad,
you can start a new style trend.
Laughing now, he stopped only for long enough to slip his shoes on before leaving the apartment entirely. As a big ‘fuck you’ to Kenneth, he left the door not just unlocked, but slightly ajar.
The air was cool and refreshing, particularly on his face, which had gotten progressively warmer since he’d woken up. And the more he moved, the better he felt. Sure, the farther he got from his neighborhood, the longer people seemed to stare.
But this was a good thing.
Yeah, that’s right… they know I’m a somebody. They might not know where they recognize me from, but they know I’m someone.
Chad walked for nearly an hour with no clear destination in mind. Eventually, however, he started to recognize his surroundings.
“Tobin didn’t make the cut, but Chad will,” he said softly as he approached the front door of the nondescript building.
Chad raised his fist and slammed it against the door several times in rapid succession.
“Jan! Jan Dewalter!” he shouted, pausing only to chuckle to himself. “Jan! Open up! You’ve been waiting for me! Jan, you’ve been waiting for me and now I’m here!”
Chapter 34
Drake sat in his car and stared at the Hart Investigator sign until the sun started to dip. He didn’t know anything about this man, and had no idea why he’d teamed up with Officer Kramer in order to screw with him.
Why he tried to turn Hanna against him and the others.
What he did know, was that Mackenzie Hart was spreading horrible rumors about a dead man and someone he cared about deeply. Someone who was now institutionalized.
And neither of those things were acceptable to Damien Drake.
Drake wanted nothing more than to demand for Mackenzie to come out, but if his time in the Virgin Gorda had taught him anything, it was that, occasionally, a modicum of patience went a long way. And this was one of those times where sitting tight wasn’t just the smart play, but the right one as well. If Yasiv was truly on some sort of vendetta against Beckett and Drake got in the way, it was unlikely that Stu Barnes would be able to keep him out of prison.
As he waited, Drake finally got the time he needed to reflect on DSLH as a whole. He’d been drawn back to New York to help Hanna and the rest of the crew out of a significant bind, to make sure that the firm that he helped build stay afloat. And now that he was here, there were other issues to deal with: primarily, Suzan Cuthbert.
There was also some guilt about not being around for Beckett, but that wasn’t entirely his fault. The irony was that Beckett claimed Drake brought about bad luck, bad juju, but it was Beckett who had dug a hole so deep that not even he could crawl out of while Drake was halfway across the world.
But after he cleaned up all the messes he could, Drake wasn’t sure he would stick around. He would consider going back to the Gorda, or maybe somewhere else entirely. It didn’t mean he had to stay away forever, or that he couldn’t return to help if he was needed again, but New York had a way of changing him.
Of turning him into the person he used to be, one that was ultimately toxic, not just to himself, but to those he cared about, as well.
The door to Hart opened and a massive man, the same one who had posed as Hanna’s ex-husband, emerged. After looking around, he jammed his hands into his pockets and then tucked his head low and he walked off.
The way he moved suggested that he was either an ex-con or an ex-cop.
Maybe both.
When he had disappeared out of sight, Drake slowly got out of his car, wincing at the sound of creaking metal.
Familiar? Yes. Comforting? Yes. Discreet? Hell, no.
Drake assumed a similar posture to the man who he’d just seen leave as he hurried to the entrance. Without hesitating, he pulled the door open and stepped inside.
And then he froze.
The place reminded him so much of the old Triple D that it was uncanny.
What the hell?
There were a handful of uncomfortable-looking chairs in a makeshift lobby and a central desk that was currently unmanned. What Hart didn’t have, were fancy computer monitors, smartboards, or voice-controlled lights.
“Jimmy? You back?”
The voice shattered the crippling nostalgia and Drake remembered why he was here.
Without answering, he strode to the door at the back of the room, the one with frosted glass and the word ‘MAC’ stenciled on it.
“Jimmy?”
Drake grabbed the handle, turned it, and swung the door open so hard that it smacked into the wall behind.
“Naw, it’s not Jimmy—it’s Drake. And you and me, Mac, we’re going to have a little chat.”
Chapter 35
Eventually, Chad stopped knocking. It wasn’t because of the people staring at him, from both across the street and those making a wide berth around him on the sidewalk, but because he’d lost all feeling in his hands.
As a last-ditch effort, he leaned back and looked up at a series of windows, all of which had their blinds drawn.
“Jan! I’m here! I’m here for Savage Money!” Chad broke into a laugh as he finally gave up.
Ah, Jan… poor Jan. You’re gonna be sorrrrry!
Swiveling his hips, Chad walked away from the site of his final rejection. Like when he’d come to the warehouse this time around, he moved with little idea of what his destination would be.
Just pulling his phone out of his pocket and checking his socials was done on pure muscle memory.
His laugh was a decidedly conscious effort.
Chad’s Instagram profile was blowing up. And he had Anon to primarily thank for that… as well as himself, of course. After all, he was the one who had taken the video from the depths of 8chan to one of the most popular social media platforms in the world.
His efforts were finally paying off. All of the abuse and bullshit that he’d suffered at the hands of his mother and asshole classmates, to the fat ginger, to the man in the apron with the rope, to every single one of the so-called talent scouts who had passed him up for their shitty reality TV show… it was all worth it. He had proved them all wrong… Chad was a star, and he’d done it all on his own.
Chad laughed again and continued to strut. With his eyes locked on his phone screen, he almost bumped into several people, but they always moved at the last moment.
They knew… they fucking knew.
When you had it, you just had it. Did Tom Cruise dip and dodge to avoid knocking shoulders with some regular folk? Hell, no. Did Tom Hardy wait in line… anywhere? No fucking way.
Chad suddenly took a hard left and found himself in an alley that looked to be primarily used for bikes. It wasn’t the alley, that was closer to Manhattan, but it was an alley. Narrow as it was, he was surprised to find a dumpster off to one side.
He chuckled and scurried over to it, for old times’ sake.
There’s no way… I can’t be this lucky, can I?
Tobin wasn’t, history said as much. Neither was Lucas.
But Chad… Chad was different.
Tucked behind the dumpster was a gray squirrel. Chad almost didn’t notice it, on account of how anemic the animal was and the fact that it was partially blocked by a greasy hamburger wrapper that it was licking.
This time, Chad had to stifle his laughter.
It was a serendipitous find. After all, the chances of him catching a squirrel out in the open were next to zero.
But here, behind the dumpster, finding this sickly squirrel… it was destiny. It was fucking amazing.
Because if there was one thing that Chad knew about being famous, is that you constantly needed to put out new content. No longer could a YouTube personality put out a video every week; you had to produce something new every day. It was worse if you were an IG superstar… then you had to publish new selfies or short, quirky vids every few hours.
Even writers had it tough; fans aren’t satisfied with a book a month, anymore; you have to put one out every few weeks, else y
ou start dropping in the rankings and become less and less relevant.
The world of the Internet is a broken wheel upon which a mouse addicted to nanosecond gratification ran.
Chad looked around briefly, looking behind him first, then down the other end of the alley.
People were walking by, but nobody looked—not really.
While the Internet world was lightning fast, the real world was slow like cholesterol chugging along in the thickened arteries of the average American.
Besides, they were only interested in cat memes and viral Karen videos.
“They don’t know that they’re among royalty,” Chad said with a dry chuckle. “These idiots don’t know who they’re walking right by.”
He slowly reached up and loosened the strip of shirt that he’d used to cover his incision. It was stuck to his forehead in several places, and he sucked in sharply as he carefully peeled it off his skin. Instead of untying it completely, Chad just lowered it over his nose and mouth before tightening it again.
It smelled nasty but probably looked good, like some sort of haute couture bandit.
Distracted or not, Chad figured his new look may draw attention from the automatons nearby and decided to act quickly. Sparing his usual pre-post ritual, he switched his camera on, triggered a live video, and stared right into the lens.
“So, you like my cat video?” he said in a gruff whisper. “Then you’re gonna love this one.”
Chad stared at the camera for a moment longer, then, using the video screen as his eyes, he reached back and grabbed the unsuspecting squirrel. It was a once in a million chance, but Chad was a one in a million type of guy.
Maybe even a billion.
The animal squealed and tried to break free, but it was feeble, and Chad’s grip was iron-like.
“Oh, yeah, you are really going to love this one.”
Chapter 36
“Ah, Drake, I was wondering when you were going to pay me a visit,” Mackenzie Hart said from behind his large wooden desk.
“You may have been expecting it, but you sure as hell weren’t prepared.” As he spoke, Drake’s right hand drifted towards his coat. He pulled it open just far enough to reveal the butt of his gun under his armpit. The movement was subtle, but Mackenzie picked up on it.
Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9) Page 13
