Straw Man

by Patrick Logan

  Yeah, I’m going to find Cosmo… I promise.

  He wiped his hand on his jeans and focused on the road. For a city that never slept, New York was fairly quiet at three in the morning. Still, Drake drove slowly, not just because he was tired but because he was delaying the inevitable.

  After about fifteen minutes, he pulled up to the curb next to a small bungalow. The lights were off inside, which came as no surprise. He stared at the still house for a while, unknowingly fingering the key in his pocket.

  It took him several more minutes to convince himself to get out of the car. The night air was chilly, sending a small shudder down his shoulders. He reached the door and slipped the key into the lock but didn’t turn it immediately.

  You’re like King Midas, but everything you touch turns to shit.

  The words were so vivid, so perfectly Beckett, that Drake glanced over his shoulder to make sure that the man wasn’t standing on the stoop beside him.

  He wasn’t—Beckett was gone and never coming back.

  Fuck you, Beckett.

  Drake turned the key and then opened the door and walked in. A nightlight guided his way down the hall, through the kitchen, and to the first door, which was partly open. He glanced inside for a second, before heading to the second room.

  Clay Cuthbert lay on his back in a crib, his legs and arms splayed like a starfish. Drake took one step into the room, then cringed and froze when the floorboards beneath his foot creaked. Baby Clay stirred, his tiny, heart-shaped mouth mimicking suckling, but did not wake. Breathing deeply now, trying not to hyperventilate, Drake carefully walked up to the crib.

  He couldn’t believe that this was his son. It just didn’t seem real. Drake had spent a grand total of maybe half an hour with the child since his birth. During that time, the pink lifeform had cried, shat, and cried again. If you poked it, it reacted.

  An over-sized amoeba, more or less.

  But now Clay looked like a human being.

  Drake cocked his head and leaned over the child. It still had the generic characteristics shared by most babies: a small, slightly upturned nose; large eyes, which he could note even though they were closed, and perfect, puckered lips.

  Drake’s breath caught in his throat.

  Clay had Jasmine’s complexion, slightly darker than Drake’s own, and his hair, short as it was, was pitch black.

  He couldn’t see his own features in the child—a five o’clock shadow and red-rimmed eyes didn’t come until later—but Drake thought he saw some of the baby’s namesake in him. It was Clay’s ears; they were a little too big for his head.

  Drake had often teased his late partner Clay about his ears, even though they were nowhere near Dr. Nordmeyer status.

  It was a trait that even Suzan carried, although hers were usually hidden behind her hair, which she preferred to wear down.

  A tear dropped onto Clay’s face and the baby stirred. Drake pulled back and roughly wiped his cheeks.

  How much time had Suzan spent with her half-brother? Was it a month? Three? Or, like Drake, had it been less than an hour?

  He had no idea.

  But what Drake did know, is that it wasn’t likely Suzan would ever see Clay again.

  I fucked up… goddamn I fucked up so bad.

  A sound from behind him made Drake straighten. It was Jasmine. She was wearing gray pajamas, and her long dark hair was pulled into a messy bun.

  He didn’t know what to say or what to do.

  Thankfully, Drake wasn’t prompted to do anything. Jasmine simply walked over to him and looked down at Clay, her hand finding it’s way to Drake’s spine where it rested comfortably.

  “Stay,” she whispered.

  Drake watched Jasmine as she stared at her son. She was several years older than him, but most people were apt think that the opposite were true.

  Not that that mattered.

  Not to Drake, anyway. But he realized, at that moment, that he didn’t love Jasmine Cuthbert.

  Drake liked her, he liked being around her, liked hanging out with her, liked her enough to have a baby with, as unplanned as Clay had been. But he didn’t really know her. Almost everything he’d learned about Jasmine had come through the lens that was his late partner.

  And Clay Cuthbert wasn’t the type of man to boast. He spoke highly of her, often commenting on how smart she was, but that was pretty much it.

  No need to speak about her beauty—that much was obvious.

  Drake turned his attention to baby Clay.

  He loved that child, though. Drake knew less about Clay than he did Jasmine, but just glimpsing his cherubic face…

  “Stay with us,” Jasmine said softly.

  Drake reached into the crib and gently caressed the baby’s cheek with two fingers.

  Then he backed away.

  “I can’t,” he said, wiping more tears from his cheeks. Jasmine’s hand fell away from his spine. “I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

  Jasmine opened her mouth, but Drake silenced her with a single word.

  “Please.”

  And then he hurried out of the house, chased by the sound of his own footsteps. After locking the door behind him, he slid the key in the mailbox.

  Beckett was right, Drake thought as he got into his car. They’re better off without me. Pretty much everyone is. Whatever I touch turns to shit, and I won’t ruin that boy’s life or Jasmine’s any more than I already have.

  Chapter 19

  The man grunted as he stretched his legs and tried to get comfortable. The car was too small for him, too small for most people, but he would never consider getting rid of it.

  It was, after all, the only thing she had ever given him. A parting gift of sorts, a big fuck you, here, take the car, and don’t forget my guilt—it’s in the trunk.

  But it was from her, and that’s what mattered.

  On long stakeouts such as this one, however, the man wished he’d rented or borrowed something a little bigger. Soreness ran from his thighs all the way down to his calves.

  As much as he wanted to get out, he couldn’t do that either. Not this close to the club.

  He’d been inside before, about a month ago. That was his first time hunting in years.

  And he’d fucked up. Fucked up bad.

  He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

  His second hunt at the campsite had gone much better—nearly perfect, in fact.

  Dad would’ve been proud.

  The man was right; women were an easier target, that was just the reality of his business. They also reminded him of her, which was an added bonus.

  All he had to do now was wait.

  And hope his legs didn’t cramp up when the time to move came.

  The crowd that filed out of the nightclub slowed as late evening transitioned into early morning. A smattering of drunk college boys, followed by a large group of girls. Neither would suit his purpose. Just as the man thought the last of the club-goers had left the building and was about to hunt elsewhere, he saw them: two girls in their early twenties, clearly intoxicated.

  One was short with dark hair and a bright smile.

  That one reminded him of his sister, only without the smile.

  The other, a blonde in a white dress, was the drunker of the two. She flirted with the bouncer as she left the club, giggling madly, and groping his massive biceps.

  The bouncer didn’t seem to mind.

  The man in the car watched the two girls cross the street and make their way to the parking lot. Their vehicle, a black BMW, was one of only a handful left.

  The bouncer’s eyes lingered on them for a moment longer, a grin on his face, before ducking back inside.

  That must be it, the man thought, that must be the last of them.

  A jangling of keys drew his attention to the girls again. The brunette had dropped her car keys and nearly smacked her head on the car door trying to pick them up. This brought about another bout of giggles from the blonde.

  A
s he continued to observe, a plan began to formulate in the man’s brain. His initial idea had been to replicate what he’d done at the campsite—offer drugs—but that wouldn’t work here. These girls were already wasted. They had no interest in flooding their systems with more toxins.

  Instead, he came up with something else, something even better.

  As the blonde collapsed into the backseat, lying on her back, eyes closed, her friend started the car. The man did the same with his much smaller vehicle.

  “This one is going to good,” he whispered to himself. “This one’s gonna prove to you that I can do it. That I’m good enough.”

  The girls’ route was easy enough to predict as there was only one road leading away from the club and toward the highway. Knowing where they were going made it easy for the man to get in front of them, especially considering that the girl behind the wheel was being extra careful, trying her best not to draw attention to herself.

  Little did she know that the person she should really be afraid was right in front of her eyes.

  A stop sign loomed, and the man sped up only to slam on the brakes well before the white line painted on the road. A sober person would have still been able to stop in time, but the driver of the midnight black BMW was anything but.

  Her bumper collided with the man’s car, jolting him forward. It was only a minor bump, barely enough to leave a scratch, but that wasn’t the point.

  The man got out of the car and stretched his legs. The girl followed suit, her eyes wide with fright.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

  She was drunk and nervous, but uninjured.

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” she said, slurring her words. “I just—I mean, you slammed on the brakes.”

  The man groaned.

  “It’s a stop sign. I just stopped.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Listen, so long as you’re okay, that’s what matters.”

  “I’m—I’m fine.”

  The man looked over the blond’s shoulder and observed her car.

  “And your friend?”

  The girl followed his gaze.

  “She’s fine. Passed out in the back seat. But about—” the girl paused, and then looked back at him. She must have realized that her friend couldn’t be seen through the tinted windows.

  The man smiled.

  “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “I’ve been watching you and your friend. Have you been watching me?”

  The girl’s thin eyebrows crossed, and she started to back away from him.

  “What? What are you talking about? If you’re from the club, Frannie didn’t mean—”

  “You have, haven’t you?” His arm shot out. The girl’s reaction time was slowed, and he had no problem grabbing a fistful of her hair. “And now you’re going to tell me what I want to hear.”

  She shrieked and he spun her around, pulling her tight to his chest. Then he cupped a hand over her mouth and said, “You’re going to tell me you love me.”

  She shook her head and tried unsuccessfully to bite him.

  The man laughed.

  “Oh, you will. Trust me, you and your friend are both going to tell me you love me. And then I’m going to prove to them that I am good enough. That my work speaks for itself. Just like daddy showed me.”

  Chapter 20

  “You look like shit,” Screech said the moment Drake stepped into DSLH. Startled that his partner was already present, Drake jumped and spilled some coffee on his jacket.

  “Fuck,” he grumbled, wiping the liquid off. After doing the best he could with just his hand, Drake observed Screech.

  “You look like shit, too, by the way.”

  Screech shrugged but before he could offer another barb, someone else spoke up.

  “You both look like shit. Two big fucking dookies holding hands at the bottom of a toilet bowl.”

  Truthfully, Hanna appeared as if she’d gotten the least amount of sleep of them all. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was a mess. Unlike with Screech, however, Drake decided to keep his opinion about the woman to himself. He valued his testicles, after all.

  “What the hell are you guys doing here so early?” Drake asked as he tossed his jacket on the hanger near the door. It was one of the few items that had made the move from their old location, and it was out of place with the rest of the modern decor, but so was his desk. Leroy, Screech, and Hanna had given him the worn wooden thing as a joke, and Drake had kept it partly to spite them and partly because he liked it. Unlike his partners’ chic glass desks, not every coffee or scotch stain needed to be instantly cleaned up.

  It was old, worn, and comfortable—the inanimate version of himself.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Screech and Hanna said in unison. They both looked at each other, and Drake raised an eyebrow.

  “I couldn’t either.”

  Drake had just sat down at his desk when the door opened, and the final member of their crew came in. It was hard to believe that the thick man with a passable five o’clock shadow that entered DSLH was the same person Drake had met in the prison infirmary.

  “I come bearing gifts,” Leroy said, holding up a tray full of coffees. He went to Hanna first, then Screech, and lastly Drake. When he noticed the coffee already in Drake’s hand, he made a face.

  “Put it on the desk, I’ll get to it.”

  “With this?” Leroy asked holding up a thick yellow envelope.

  Drake’s eyes narrowed. His name was scrawled on one side, written with a thick black marker.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “Out front. I guess you guys were just too lazy to pick it up.”

  It wasn’t there a moment ago, Drake thought.

  “Yea, desk is fine,” he said absently.

  Leroy tossed it roughly onto the wood surface.

  “Looks like you have a secret admirer,” Hanna said.

  There was something about the way Drake’s name was written—in all caps—that was familiar.

  “You going to open it?”

  As he reached for the envelope, his phone started to ring and Drake, grateful for the distraction, answered it.

  Nothing good came in a yellow envelope with just a name on the front of it.

  Fucking subpoena, debt collector, ransom photographs. Hell, it could even be a body part curtesy of Tobin Tomlin.

  “Drake? It’s Yasiv. Something’s come up. Won’t be able to make it until this afternoon at the earliest.”

  Drake frowned.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  After the way the DA had reacted the night prior, Drake had assumed that this case would take top priority. The faster that it was dealt with, the less likely it would make a splash on the news.

  That’s the way the DA thought, anyway.

  Yasiv hesitated before answering.

  “I’ll—I’ll meet up with you this afternoon. I don’t want to tell you how to run your case, but if you bash heads, it’s only going to—”

  Drake closed his eyes and pictured Lisa Fairchild’s resting bitch face.

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’ll be nice and sweet.”

  Drake hung up and addressed his partners.

  “Yasiv’s not going to make it.”

  “For real?” Leroy asked.

  Drake nodded.

  “For real.”

  “Why not?” Hanna followed up, sipping on her coffee.

  “I have no idea,” Drake admitted. “Said something came up.”

  “Something more important than a fucking human skinsuit?”

  Drake shrugged and Hanna cursed.

  His partners were more upset with this news than he was. Truth be told, it was a blessing in disguise.

  “At least they won’t get in our way.” As he spoke, Drake picked up the envelope. He turned it over in his hand and felt something hard inside. This triggered a memory and he realized why the writing had seemed familiar.

  He’d seen it before.r />
  Warmth flooded his cheeks and his ears started to burn.

  I warned you. I told you to stay away from me and my friends.

  “Drake?”

  Drake grunted and tossed the package into a desk drawer. He would deal with this, and the person who sent it, later. For now, Hanna was right. There was something more important to take care of. He took a deep breath and then downed the rest of his coffee.

  “I’m fine,” he said, answering the unasked question. Even though he’d just arrived, Drake suddenly felt the need to be out of there. The last thing he wanted to do was sit at his desk and twiddle his thumbs while some freak hunted more women.

  This often happened on a case, especially one that progressed slowly—an uncomfortable antsy feeling that only went away when one moved. The destination wasn’t as important as just becoming mobile, a simple, yet effective method of tricking your mind and body into thinking that you were doing something productive.

  Without glancing at Leroy, Screech, or Hanna, he strode to the door and grabbed his jacket. He was partway out the front door before a nagging voice in the back of his head reminded him that these weren’t his employees, but his partners.

  And his friends.

  He sighed, then turned and looked Screech square in the face.

  “Well? You just going to stay there and let me do all the work? We’re a team, remember? Get your shit on and let’s go figure out what happened to those women, shall we?”

  Chapter 21

  “You really think they’re going to talk to us? I mean, wouldn’t it be better to wait for the cops?” Leroy asked. They had opted for two cars, with Drake and Leroy in one and Hanna and Screech in the other. Screech was driving the second car because, like Drake, the man was terrified to be in a vehicle with Hanna behind the wheel.

  Drake was glad to have Leroy for company as ever since Yasiv had called, Screech had appeared on edge. And after what had happened with Jasmine last night, and his decision to return to Patty, Drake wasn’t in the mood for anything that might further irritate him.

  “Maybe,” he said, trying not to be intentionally obtuse. “Or maybe they’ll open up more.”