Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9)

by Patrick Logan

  It wasn’t foolproof, as Tobin could simply pay someone and never come near East 86th himself, but it was the best they could do. The only thing now working in their favor was that the crowd was growing. If Tobin was as obsessed with being famous as Drake thought he was, then he had to show up to see this in person… didn’t he?

  He took a deep breath and checked his watch.

  Twenty-four minutes to go.

  “All right, I’m going to—” Drake began, but was interrupted. “What the hell?”

  Approaching from the opposite direction that Veronica and Mandy were standing, wasn’t just one or two people interested in the paper, but a crowd of about thirty or forty. Not only that, but they had signs and were chanting.

  “No way,” Drake cursed.

  “Uhhh, Drake?” Screech said. “What are we going to do about this?”

  Drake squinted hard, trying to read the signs.

  “Christ, look at these fuckin’ libtards,” mustache man grumbled.

  They were shouting something about animals, something to do with—

  “Hey! Ever hear about freedom of speech? The first amendment?”

  It wasn’t mustache man this time, but another person waiting in line. Others were starting to grumble, as well.

  Shit.

  Things were about to escalate and the last thing they needed right now was a brawl between free speech advocates and animal right activists.

  All this over a fucking article?

  Making up his mind, Drake instructed Hanna and Screech to stay put and then strode briskly towards the crowd of protesters.

  As he neared, the chants became clear.

  “What about the victims?”

  “Making money off the dead is sick! Making money off the sick is dead!”

  “Crime shouldn’t pay!”

  Jesus Christ, they pulled out all the winners here, Drake thought.

  He walked right up to the lead protester and held his hands out.

  “You can’t—”

  “Out of our way!” the woman with a shaved head shrieked.

  Drake stood his ground.

  “You can’t come here, you can’t—” he didn’t know what to say.

  You can’t come here because there’s a sting operation going on… you’re about to ruin everything and let a killer go free.

  “Get the fuck out of the way!” someone else shouted.

  Before Drake could react, he was shoved to one side. He spun in that direction and instinctively grabbed the closest person. It was a waif-like woman with large brown eyes, and Drake immediately let go.

  Apparently, this wasn’t good enough.

  The woman slapped Drake across the face. The blow itself wasn’t that hard, but it just happened to coincide with the crowd pushing forward. Drake was knocked to his knees and looked up just in time to see the powder keg ignite.

  Chapter 65

  At first, Chad wasn’t sure what was happening. He saw what looked like two different political factions coming together directly in front of the newspaper vendor that was selling his article.

  HE laughed, then covered his mouth in case people were around. It was a wasted effort. He was alone in an alley—everyone was moving away from him, toward the commotion.

  The cacophony of shouts—primarily a combination of crime shouldn’t pay and free speech—quickly melded into an incoherent mess.

  It was an amazing sight: forty plus people fighting over him.

  If a week ago, someone had told Chad that this was going to happen, he would’ve been skeptical.

  He deserved it, there was no doubt about that, and he wanted it… god, he wanted it more than anything in the world. But all that fucking cunt Jan Dewalter could do was tell him that his forehead jutted out too far.

  Chad laughed again, but this time he didn’t bother covering his mouth. His high-pitched cackle echoed off the bricks on either side of him, but the sound was instantly swallowed by the still escalating shouts.

  And then, things got even worse.

  Or better.

  With the ABC cameraman turning his attention toward the mob, a man in a baseball cap took advantage of the distraction. He lunged for the stack of articles, quickly toppling the pile. He almost made off with an armful but the man from the Times, the one with the long blond hair grabbed the opposite side. They battled tug-of-war style for several seconds before the strap keeping the copies together snapped.

  Paper flew into the air like giant swatches of confetti, which ratcheted the intensity of the confrontation up to eleven. Chad lost sight of Ivan partly because the crowd converged on the articles and partly because his head was thrown back in laughter.

  Chad inched forward, creeping toward the mouth of the alley to get a better view of the madness. He was nearly there when a flicker of movement in his periphery caught his attention. A man was leaning up against the brick, his head down, his focus on a camera in both hands.

  Where the fuck did he come from?

  As if hearing his thoughts, the man looked up. He was handsome with short brown hair and even shorter beard.

  He offered a placating smile and then turned his attention back to the camera.

  “Sorry,” the man grumbled. He pushed himself off the wall with his foot and then walked in the direction opposite the newsstand.

  Chad watched him go, confused by what had just happened.

  Was he one of the protesters?

  He hadn’t seen him enter the alley.

  These fucking paparazzi… they’re like ghosts… popping in and out of reality… doing everything they can just to take a picture of someone whose life they wish they had.

  When the man with the camera dipped out of sight, Chad looked back toward the brawl.

  To his surprise, one of the articles had drifted close to him. It was out in the open, but it was so close.

  Twenty-five feet, maybe only twenty.

  Chad knew that he should stay put, that he shouldn’t stray into the light, but it was… right… there.

  He tilted his head to one side and read the title: The Drive for Fame.

  Licking his lips, Chad took one step forward, then another.

  I can just grab it and then back up. No one will see me. They’re all there, they’re all fighting over me. They’re all fighting over me!

  But they were also watching. Everyone was on the lookout for celebrities. Everyone wanted to spice up their gram. Everyone wanted a piece of him.

  Chad groaned. Ivan had said on the news the night prior that this was going to be the only print run, that today was your only chance to get a copy.

  And it’s right there… half of them are ruined but there’s one right theeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrre.

  He started to shift in place like a toddler trying not to pee their pants.

  The tipping point was when he saw a young black man throw his hand up and scream for somebody to call the police.

  Now or never, Chad thought.

  Mustering all of his courage, he stepped out of the alley and walked quickly, but didn’t run, for the wayward article.

  Within seconds, he came to it and bent over. A strong bout of vertigo struck him then and for one horrifying moment, he thought he was going to fall. But Chad ground his teeth and regained his balance.

  Ever since he’d become a superstar, his luck seemed to have changed.

  He picked up the article and held it in both hands. It was thin, but goddamn if it wasn’t as heavy as lead.

  Or gold.

  Back up now, Chad. Back up, then leave this place.

  He licked his lips again and slowly started to open the front page.

  I just have to see… I have to seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

  But rather than feeling utter elation like an addict getting their morning hit, Chad felt his insides curdle.

  Aside from the cover, all the other pages were completely blank.

  Chapter 66

  Drake pushed himself onto all fours and then slowly peeled himself t
o his feet.

  “What the fuck is happening?” he whispered.

  It was like a scene out of Mad Max, only with people dressed in business attire instead of used hockey equipment.

  He couldn’t believe the fervor, the sheer intensity of the clash. Drake knew that people could get defensive when their beliefs were challenged, but the current era of identity politics, of not being able to differentiate between a difference of opinion and a personal affront?

  This was new, and he hated it.

  He couldn’t see Ivan anywhere, nor the ABC film crew.

  What a fucking mess.

  The only good thing was that in the chaos, no one seemed to notice that the very article they were fighting over was a sham. Perhaps it didn’t even matter.

  The most outspoken of the group were simply there to have their shrill voices heard, their peacock feathers seen, not actually vie for real change, not push any actual cause.

  Drake was determined to run crowd control, to bring some semblance of order when he heard Leroy’s voice above all others.

  “Someone call the police! Get Dunbar here, now!”

  It was officially over, now. This sting had failed miserably. Not only had they failed to draw Tobin out, but now East 86th St was filled with complete strangers on the verge of rioting.

  He pulled his phone out of the pocket, intent on calling Dunbar as Leroy had suggested.

  All it took was one overzealous social justice warrior with a knife and then things would really pop off.

  As he scrolled to the bottom of his contacts, he looked around to make sure that his people were still safe.

  Hanna was behind the counter slapping anyone who came close.

  Leroy… well, Leroy had already proven that he could take care of himself. Screech, on the other hand, was cowering behind a stack of newspapers—real newspapers—but when Drake glanced across the street to scope Veronica and Mandy, they were no longer seated outside the cafe.

  “Ah, shit, where are you guys?”

  He scanned the interior, thinking that they might have been forced to take refuge inside, but he still couldn’t see them.

  Veronica wouldn’t run, but Mandy? He wasn’t sure about Mandy.

  About thirty yards to the left of where they’d once been, he spotted a hunched figure emerging from an alleyway. He was rail thin with a bandanna covering his forehead, and Drake shook his head and rubbed his eyes to make sure that he wasn’t seeing things.

  When the form remained, his focus changed. His thoughts were no longer on Mandy or Veronica and he could no longer hear the hateful shouts all around him.

  Drake put the phone away and started to move, weaving through the angry mob.

  The man emerged from the alley and bent down to pick up one of the articles that had drifted in his direction. Knowing that he had little time before the man looked inside, Drake picked up the pace, his hand moving for the gun in his shoulder holster.

  “Crime don’t pay!” a man yelled, stepping in front of him. “Crime should never pay!”

  “Move!” Drake shoved him, and the man screamed as he and his sign clattered to the ground. “Move!”

  Drake regained line of sight with the figure at the mouth of the alley just as he opened the newspaper. A second later, it slipped from his fingers and fluttered back to the ground.

  Fuck.

  The man took two steps back and then lifted his dark, sunken eyes.

  As if drawn by some unknown force, his gaze immediately fell on Damien Drake.

  Chapter 67

  When Drake saw a sinister grin form on Tobin Tomlin’s pale lips, he knew the man was going to bolt, which was why he leaped over the protester he’d pushed to the ground and broke into a run. Drake was tired, but he was fueled by fury.

  Tobin, on the other hand, was an anemic little bitch who liked to maim and kill defenseless animals.

  The man had no chance.

  Ten feet inside the alley, Drake was within striking distance. He reached out with his right hand, intending to grab the back of Tobin’s neck. He missed but didn’t come up empty; Drake grasped the knot of the man’s bandanna instead.

  Something strange happened next. Instead of pulling the man backward, or even untying the knot, something… slipped. The bandanna slid backward, and Tobin’s scalp went with it. The man shrieked as a thick pad of skin rumpled at the back of his neck and he dropped.

  As Tobin fell hard on his ass, Drake spun around and mounted him. The combined impact of Tobin’s fall and all of Drake’s weight landing on the man’s chest made his eyes roll back into his head.

  The strange, warbling shriek continued to come out of his mouth, however.

  “You almost killed Patty,” Drake hissed from between clenched teeth. “You almost—”

  As Tobin’s face came into focus, Drake’s stomach lurched.

  It was like staring down at a bloody, sinewy skeleton.

  Tobin had no hair; his scalp had been completely torn off his forehead. As a result, the skin on his face sagged downward, giving him a dopey, droopy expression.

  What was worse than the visuals, was the fact that somehow, even though Tobin was screaming, the sick bastard also seemed to be laughing.

  “Why are you laughing?” Drake shouted. When this only served to intensify the man’s maniacal cackle, Drake repeated the question, this time as loud as he possibly could. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

  Aside from the sound, Tobin wasn’t doing anything to try and get Drake off him. In fact, it seemed as if the man was completely paralyzed.

  “Stop laughing!”

  Drake moved his hands from Tobin’s shoulders to his forehead. The sensation was horrible, warm and wet and sticky.

  “Stop it,” he said, more quietly now.

  Staring down at the twisted grin, Drake was no longer thinking about Patty or even the man who had been murdered in the video.

  For some reason, his mind turned back to Ms. Schmidt, the poor woman who had hired him to find her lost cat.

  A lonely woman on the verge of dementia. A woman who loved her cat as much or more than any person who loved a child.

  “You killed Cosmo,” Drake said almost incoherently.

  For some reason, this comment made Tobin’s laughter falter.

  But it still wasn’t enough for Drake.

  He wrapped his fingers around the sides of Tobin’s head and then started to apply pressure with his thumbs to the center of the man’s forehead.

  “Whatrrrrrruuuuuuudoinnnnnn?” Tobin asked in a slurred voice. “Whaaatrruuuuuudoinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn?”

  “You killed Cosmo,” he hissed while applying more pressure. “You killed the fucking cat.”

  Drake pushed even harder. He drove his thumbs downward until the veins in his forearms started to bulge and Tobin stopped making that terrible laughing sound.

  Even then he didn’t ease up.

  Just when Drake’s strength started to wane, there was a terrible crunching sound that originated deep inside Tobin’s head.

  “You shouldn’t have killed the cat.”

  Tobin’s shoulders started to shake and as he seized, Drake realized that he had to get the hell out of here. He pushed himself up using Tobin’s forehead for leverage, which caused it to cave in even further.

  The protesters were still doing their dance, jostling and shouting at one another without reverting to physical violence. This lack of escalation was due, in part, to the boys in blue: a handful of uniformed officers had shown up and were trying to keep things from exploding.

  With Tobin still shaking on the ground, Drake wasn’t sure what to do. He didn’t want to contribute to the violence, but a release was needed.

  It didn’t seem just for these two sides to take it out on one another when there was a much more deserving target.

  Instead of going to the crowd, he decided to bring the crowd to him.

  “He’s here!” Drake shouted, gesturing wildly. “Tobin’s right here! Chad’s here
! The cat killer is here!”

  It was his second shout that drew the attention of the closest protesters.

  His third or fourth shout drew them near.

  “He’s right here!”

  As the first few people descended upon the alley, Drake backed up. He wasn’t sure if they’d heard what he’d said, or if they knew who that man was on the ground, but the scuffle continued. When one of the pro-free speech group came too close to the other party, a strong shove was delivered.

  The first man fell directly on top of Tobin’s stomach.

  Having seen enough, Drake tucked his chin to his chest and left the alleyway altogether.

  And yet, no matter how far he got from the scene, he could still hear Tobin laughing.

  He could also hear the man’s voice, whispering the same phrase over and over again.

  “I’m famous… I’m famous… I’m famous…”

  ***

  The man with the camera leaned back into the alley as soon as Drake appeared. He watched the ex-NYPD detective pull Tobin to the ground, then straddle his chest. He had to adjust his angle to get a good view of both of their faces, but when it was all said and done, the video he’d recorded was of acceptable quality.

  Hell, it was better than the cat video, or the one with the squirrel, and maybe even the one that featured Kenneth Leung.

  Mostly because of the subject.

  Mostly because it showed the darkest side of Damien Drake.

  Chapter 68

  Drake drew a deep breath and stepped into 62nd precinct. He knew that coming back here was dangerous, but he had one final thing to do before he put this all to rest.

  Nostalgia washed over him, but it wasn’t exclusively good feelings.

  A half-dozen uniformed officers were milling about, none of whom he recognized. Truthfully, the only person he didn’t want to see was Officer Kramer. Detective Dunbar was a close second, but a man only had so much luck to use in a day.