Drake knew that it was on him to keep going, to keep pressing onward as he had done many times before. In his absence, Screech had done his best to keep DSLH alive, had done a valiant job of it, but this was his domain.
“Screech, if you have to—”
Screech swallowed hard.
“I’m fine,” he said, clearly trying to convince himself as much as Drake. “I’m fine.”
Drake nodded.
“Those look like links to other videos,” he said.
“Yeah.”
Without prompting, Screech opened Chad42819’s first video.
It depicted Chad or Tobin or Lucas tearing the limbs off a sickly squirrel. Despicable and disgusting, yes, but they’d already been desensitized.
The next video was the one that hit Drake the hardest, made his heart leap into his throat, his stomach twist into a pretzel. This one was more orchestrated and had a demented narrative to it.
And Drake was the guest star.
“Oh my God,” Screech gasped as they watched the SPCA shelter go up in flames. “Oh my God, Drake, you were there.”
Drake said nothing.
“Drake?”
Screech reached for him before he toppled right out of his chair.
Drake was shell-shocked. He couldn’t believe it; the man who had killed Cosmo, a squirrel, and an Asian man, had nearly killed Patty and him.
“You okay?”
“Drink,” Drake croaked, his throat so parched that he could barely speak.
Screech gently pushed Drake back into his chair, made sure he was solid, then hurried out of sight.
An incomprehensible period of time passed before Screech returned with two glasses and a bottle of Johnny Blue. His partner poured the drinks and Drake promptly downed his before immediately asking for a refill.
Screech obliged.
“This fucker,” Drake said from between clenched teeth. “This fucker’s going to pay.”
“Yeah… I guess easing you back in with this missing cat case kinda backfired, didn’t it?”
Drake filled his mouth with scotch. The video had been paused, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the frozen image of the SPCA building burning.
“You want me to call Dunbar? Let him know what we found out?” Screech asked.
This wasn’t the first time that Drake had been targeted; in fact, as far as these things went, this seemed wholly accidental.
But all he could think about was what Beckett had said long ago.
About how everything Drake touched turned to shit in the end.
It was true. He’d spent one hour with Patty, and she’d nearly been killed because of him.
Beckett himself hadn’t been so lucky.
He died because he was there the night Craig Sloan had been taken hostage. If Drake hadn’t asked Beckett to keep an eye on his trunk, make sure the man didn’t escape, then the doctor wouldn’t have been forced to brain Craig with a rock.
And that wouldn’t have set him along the path that eventually—
“What do you want to do?” Screech asked, sounding desperate now.
This time, Drake’s answer was immediate.
“Find this asshole—that’s what I want to do. No, that’s what I’m going to do.”
Find him and kill him, Drake thought but didn’t say.
Chapter 62
“I can’t do it, Drake. I tried—I tried when you first sent me the cat video. This fucking guy… Chad or whatever, he knows his way around a VPN. I can’t trace him. Even the VPN company might not be able to trace him and that’s if we had a court order forcing them to open their books. Maybe—maybe if we got the FBI in, they could use brute force to figure it out. But that’s a big maybe, Drake.”
Drake shook his head. It didn’t matter if the FBI could do it or not, it would take too long either way.
They had to find Tobin before he killed again. Because he would kill again. And based on how absolutely horrific the man’s first murder was, Drake wouldn’t be surprised if his next job involved multiple targets.
One cat… then the whole SCPA. One man… then?
“Fuck.”
“Indeed. You want my opinion? We get Dunbar in here. We wash our hands of this mess, let the NYPD do their job. We were hired to find a cat and we did that. At least, we found out what happened to the cat. It’s not in our best interest—and definitely not in yours—to get involved. I know how much you want to make this man pay, but we need to be smart, Drake.”
Drake wasn’t paying attention anymore.
Besides, Screech should know better. You just didn’t get away with fucking with Drake’s friends.
Much had changed since he’d killed Ken Smith and then his own brother, but there was one part that would always remain stable: loyalty.
Even if this wasn’t personal, Tobin’s escalation had been meteoric. He was from a different generation, and he was entitled.
Entitled to commit murder, it seemed.
Screech sighed.
“You didn’t want my opinion, did you? Even if you did, you weren’t going to—”
Drake hushed him and took another sip of his drink.
If they couldn’t trace Tobin, if they couldn’t go to him, there was only one other option: get Tobin to come to them.
Draw the psychopath out of the woodwork.
“Can you bring up Lucas’ interview for Savage Money again?”
Screech frowned. He wasn’t happy with Drake’s decision to keep pushing forward. But in the end, he did as he was asked.
Together, they watched another ten minutes of the audition in silence.
It was hard to believe that this man was the same person who had chopped up another human being just days after this was recorded. Not because Drake didn’t think it was possible—he was sure of it—but because Lucas/Tobin was so damn calm. And obsessed. The man had a singular goal, just one compulsive, driving force.
Drake grabbed the application sheet and scanned the page. Near the bottom, he found what he was looking for, something that he had glossed over before.
Under ‘Ambition’, Tobin had written ‘FAME’ in big, block letters.
Drake tossed the paper onto Screech’s desk and looked at his partner.
“I know how we can find him,” he said softly. “I know how we can get him to come to us.”
“How?”
“I need you to get everyone in here. I need Hanna, Leroy, and if you can, ask Veronica and Mandy to help. I need everybody here as soon as possible.”
Screech stared at him.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Get it done, Screech. Get it done before this asshole kills again.”
Drake stood quickly and walked toward the front door, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went. He hated leaving Screech in the lurch like this, but they had to move quickly, and he didn’t have time to explain.
He scrolled through his contacts and eventually clicked on a number he hadn’t called in a long time—pre-Virgin Gorda time.
It rang twice and then a man answer.
“Ivan, it’s Drake. I need your help. I’ve got another whopper of a story for you… and this time you won’t have to wait before sharing it with the world.”
Chapter 63
“Police are actively seeking the man that you see on your screen. He has several aliases and might be going by the name of Tobin Tomlin, Lucas Lionell, or Chad. Authorities believe that he is responsible for the most recent fire at the Manhattan SPCA, as well as several other acts of cruelty to animals. They are also investigating a disturbing video of this same man who appears to be murdering and dismembering his roommate. If you see this person of interest, or you have any idea where he may be, police implore you to contact 9-1-1 immediately. He is considered armed and dangerous and should under no circumstances be approached.”
With the standard disclaimer completed, the news anchor turned to his left and the image of Chad vanished from the screen. Across the
desk from the anchor was a man with a weathered face and long blond hair tucked behind his ears.
“We are now joined by Pulitzer prize-winning journalist Ivan Meitzer, Head Writer for the New York Times and ABC Special Correspondent. Ivan was the first to break the news about ex-Mayor Ken Smith and his involvement in corruption and strong ties to a Colombian drug cartel and he is the first to have insight into our lead story this evening. Ivan, first of all, welcome, and secondly, with all of your success following the Ken Smith exposé, I know you’re a busy man and have had to turn down many a story… so what about this story caught your interest?”
Chad’s eyes were wide and wet as he stared at his cell phone. His heart was racing and even though he hadn’t slept all night—he’d just wandered the streets after dropping off his packages—he had never felt so awake, so alive, in his entire life.
It’s happening, he thought. It’s really happening.
“Thank you, Keith, but before we get started, I would like to extend my condolences to the victims in this case. To both the man in the video and also the animals that were harmed. I also recommend that anyone who came across Tobin’s disturbing videos to contact their local crisis center for support. Now, as you mentioned, Keith, I have been very selective in which stories to pursue. This is mainly because I prefer to do a deep dive into the story, identify all the major players, and really get to the heart of the story, which takes more time and effort.”
“Yes, of course. But what is it about this story in particular that caught your interest? And given that this story is just breaking, how is it that you already have so many sources and so much information?”
“Well, Keith, the reason I chose this story for my next long-form series, is because I believe that these unfortunate events were inevitable. I think that what Tobin Tomlin has done is reprehensible, but it won’t be the last time we see something like this. As much as I hate to admit it, Tobin is a somewhat of a macabre trendsetter. As to how I came across my sources, let’s just say that some fell into my lap. You know how these work, Keith, a lot of times it’s about making connections and hope that they pay dividends later.”
“Speaking of sources, is it true that you have interviewed the man who saved the SPCA employee from the fire?”
Ivan nodded.
“Yes, he’s actually an old friend. He was there during the fire. I’ve also spoken to a producer of a reality TV show that Tobin auditioned for, under an alias, and I have his audition tape.”
Chad moaned. He knew exactly who this reporter was talking about. The man in the beige car who had run inside the burning building while others just watched. And, of course, Jan Dewalter.
“Wow, you move—”
“That’s not it, Keith. When a case like this breaks, time is of the essence. I’ve also interviewed Tobin’s mother, Ida Tomlin. And let me tell you, she is a very outspoken woman, about her son, and other issues, as well. I think my readers are going to find what she has to say about Tobin very, very interesting.”
There was a short pause as if one of the men missed their cues, which made Chad giggle and shake his head.
Amateurs.
The anchor spoke next.
“Ivan, with respect to all the work you’ve put in and continue to put into this unfolding story, there is one more issue that needs to be addressed. This case is already garnering a lot of attention from victim advocate groups. They claim that we, as the media, are glorifying Tobin’s actions and thereby setting the stage for copycats.”
“Yes, Keith, I understand their concern. But my intention, and I’m sure yours as well, is never to glorify Tobin’s or any other criminal’s actions. It is to provide information so that individuals and authorities can have a better understanding of why these people commit these crimes and thereby prevent future ones.”
The anchor was nodding the entire time Ivan was speaking.
“Yes, it is a fine line, however… now, please tell us about this special release of the New York Times that you have planned for tomorrow.”
Ivan’s face lit up and he ran his hand through his hair.
“I’m very excited to announce that, for the first time ever, there will be a special release of the New York Times. In addition to the daily circular, we will be releasing a limited edition, ten-page in-depth report about Tobin Tomlin and the role that social media plays in crimes today. Due to the late hour, we were only able to print a thousand copies, which will be sold at one venue.” A picture of a newspaper stand appeared on-screen, as well as the address: 280 East 86th St in Manhattan. When the camera switched back to Ivan, he was holding up one of these special reports.
The headline was big and bold, but Chad didn’t even read it. Instead, he focused on the large image of his face.
Chad recognized it immediately.
He really does have the audition tape.
It wasn’t a bad photo, but it wasn’t the best either; after all, this was pre-surgery.
“This special release, entitled, The Drive for Fame, will only be sold at this venue tomorrow morning. I expect that it will be sold out in less than an hour.”
Chad blinked several times, but that failed to clear the viscous fluid that had leaked down his forehead and into his eyes. He was forced to rub it away with both hands.
It’s a trick, he thought. It’s a stupid fucking trick. They think I’m going to fall for this?
“Ivan, I want to thank you—”
Chad scowled and then went to press pause on his phone, but it slipped from his sweaty hand.
“No!” he shouted. He juggled it but couldn’t grab the phone before it smashed to the sidewalk.
Several people who were already on their way to work despite the early hour looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
Chad cursed again when he picked up his cell phone and saw that the screen was completely destroyed.
“Fuck!” he screamed.
People were staring now, but he didn’t care.
All famous people had tantrums… it was allowed. Shit, it was even expected.
Mel Gibson, Michael Richards, hell, Britney Spears was the queen of public meltdowns.
Instead of picking up his phone, Chad brought his heel down on top of it, enjoying the sound it made as the case cracked.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asked nobody in particular. When everyone just bowed their heads and kept walking, he added, “That’s what I thought.”
With that, Chad started to move again, this time more briskly. His face was all over the news and it was only a matter of time before someone noticed who he was and snapped a picture, or, worse, reported him.
Chad wasn’t sure where he was headed, but he knew where he wasn’t going: East 86th St.
No way was he going to do that.
That would be suicide.
And for what? On the rare chance of grabbing one of a limited number of copies of his article?
Was it really worth it?
Chapter 64
“You sure he’s gonna show, Drake?” Screech asked.
Drake looked around. They were all set-up outside the newspaper vendor on 86th street. Ivan and ABC News were standing about twenty feet to their left with one cameraman and one boom mic operator, the bare minimum to make it look believable. Beside them was a tall stack of the New York Times Special Edition article.
Hanna was tucked behind the counter, trying her best to look annoyed, as nearly all the people working at these booths were.
Leroy was combing through the magazine section, while Veronica and Mandy were stationed across the street sipping Styrofoam cups filled with hot coffee.
Drake had borrowed one of Screech’s suits and had put it on, playing the role of a businessman on the way to his nine-to-five. Even with his weight loss, it was still uncomfortably tight, but it was good enough to pass a distance sniff test.
“He’ll come.”
Screech was less confident.
“You saw the man’s au
dition,” Drake continued, trying to convince his partner. “He’ll come. He won’t be able to resist.”
But as he looked around, Drake realized that they were taking a tremendous risk here. They had yet to inform Dunbar of what they’d discovered, although the man had likely heard the dozens of news reports that Ivan had disseminated regarding the connection between the foot and the fire at the SPCA. There was also a high probability that the detective, or other members of the NYPD, would show up.
Drake just hoped that if they did, they would wait until after they caught Tobin to put him in cuffs.
“But if this backfires, Drake, we’re going to—”
“Hey, you guys got that article on the Internet killer? The guy who made all them videos? The whacko who calls himself The Chad?”
Drake turned and saw that the man who had spoken was wearing a baseball cap and a green bomber jersey. He was tall with a thick black mustache. Drake had memorized every persona, every look, that Tobin had, and had shared these with his team.
This wasn’t him.
“Not for—” Drake began, but Hanna cut him off.
“We got it, but we ain’t sellin’ it until ten o’clock.” She curled her upper lip. “And it’s gonna be twenty bucks a copy.”
“Twenty bucks?” The man protested.
“You don’t like it? Then get it off eBay tomorrow for fitty.”
This act was so convincing that Drake peeked over his shoulder at Hanna to make sure that she hadn’t been swapped out for the real deal.
The man with the mustache turned to three other people who were approaching the booth, none of whom fit Tobin’s description.
“It’s not for sale yet, guys. Gotta wait half an hour. And, get this, it’s twenty bucks.” The man shot a look at Hanna who stared back, stone-faced.
Drake grabbed his coffee off the counter and sipped it. It was cold and thick like tar, but it did the job, kept his fatigue at bay.
As the line of people waiting for their copy of The Drive for Fame started to grow, Drake looked over at Mandy and Veronica. Like Hanna, they were playing their roles perfectly. Appearing to just be enjoying a casual pre-work conversation, their job was to make sure that if Tobin showed up and paid someone to grab a copy for him, they would point him out.
Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9) Page 22
