Download Murder

by Patrick Logan

  Just one. Just enough to take the edge off.

  But the only thing in his pocket was a mysterious e-reader.

  And a finger bone. There was that, too.

  As they pulled up to the condo in downtown Manhattan, however, Drake knew that he only had to wait until he made it to the 80th floor—the penthouse—before he would get his fix.

  Drake exited the car first, and hurried across the parking lot to the glass doors at the front of the building. He knocked once and a security guard with a thick brown mustache waddled over. There was immediate recognition in his face, but to Drake’s annoyance, he didn’t open the door. Instead he just stood there, his hand on the keys at his belt.

  “Open up,” Drake barked.

  The man didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Hey, you deaf? Open the—”

  The security guard’s eyes darted over Drake’s shoulder, and he followed the man’s gaze. Raul was suddenly beside him, forcing him to do a double-take to make sure that he had left footprints in the snow, that he hadn’t just materialized like a damn apparition.

  “Ah, I see,” Drake grumbled. “Waiting for your boss.”

  Raul nodded, and the security guard returned the gesture before immediately unlocking the door.

  “Thanks,” Drake said sarcastically as he passed. He didn’t bother to knock the snow off his boots.

  Like the front doors, Drake was the first to the silver elevator, but once again had to wait for Raul to flash his key card for it to open.

  Drake took note of the card that he used: a plain, white key card that was attached to a cable extending from his plain, black belt.

  It might come in handy to have one of those, Drake thought absently.

  The elevator chimed and they stepped inside.

  Something occurred to Drake as the silver coffin ascended, a conversation he had had upon first meeting Raul.

  He turned to the man then, who was staring blankly at the doors, paying Drake no heed.

  “I thought you worked for Clarissa Smith?”

  Raul said nothing and Drake pressed harder. He was annoyed by the man’s affect, and was going to try his best to break through his frozen demeanor.

  “What? She turn you down after Thomas died?”

  Drake thought he saw the man’s mustache twitch.

  “Ah, I bet that’s it. I bet you tried to slip it in as Thomas was lowering into the ground, didn’t you?”

  Nothing this time.

  “How’s she doing, anyway? You still in touch?”

  Raul turned to him then, his dark eyebrows furrowing so much that they nearly covered his beady eyes.

  “Clarissa is—”

  The elevator pinged, announcing their arrival, and Raul’s mouth suddenly clamped shut. The doors started to open, but Drake’s hand shot out and hit the close button, halting their progress.

  “Clarissa’s what? Just a pawn in your boss’s game? Is that it?”

  Raul looked at his hand, then the doors at half-mast. For a second, Drake thought that he was going to slap his finger away from the button, and something inside of him clenched.

  But Raul did nothing.

  “You know what I don’t understand about this whole thing, Raul? I get what Ken Smith is up to—he wants to be mayor. Will do anything to be mayor, evidently. But you? What do you want out of this thing? Why are you so loyal to this prick? Me? I owe him… but you? Do you owe him too?”

  Raul looked him straight in the eyes then, and Drake thought he detected a hint of a smile on the man’s dark lips.

  “We should go. Mr. Smith will be waiting,” he said calmly.

  Drake scowled and took his finger off the button. The doors slid open, and he was surprised to see Ken Smith standing just a few feet away, dressed in what looked like another bespoke suit.

  He was smiling, revealing a row of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth that stood out on his tanned face.

  “Drake, so glad that you could make it.”

  “Like I had a choice,” Drake replied, stepping past Raul and into the lavish penthouse.

  “Please, come in,” Ken said with a hint of sarcasm. “We need to chat.”

  “What I need,” Drake began, stamping his feet, leaving wet footprints on the marble tiles, “is a drink. Then maybe we can talk.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “Mrs. Green, I know this is hard, but I need to ask: did your daughter have any enemies? Anyone that might want to do her harm?”

  Abigail Green took a drag of her cigarette, her hand trembling as it brought the white cylinder to her lips.

  “Enemies? How about the bastard that knocked her up? The one that punched her in the face when she was still pregnant? Does that count?”

  Chase let her vent. She understood the woman’s anger. People dealt with grief in different ways, but anger was one of the most common responses.

  “The father of her children?” Chase asked, her eyes darting to the two toddlers in diapers—a boy about two years of age and a girl who was at least four—who were giggling as they played with a cardboard box.

  “One of them,” Abigail replied. “Brent Doakes was his name. Little prick, if you ask me.”

  Chase turned to Stitts, who nodded back at her.

  “Alright, just a few more questions then we will be out of your hair, Mrs. Green.”

  “It’s Ms. Green,” she corrected, glaring at Chase.

  “Sorry, Ms. Green. Do you know if your daughter was friends with a Tanya Farthing?”

  The woman’s face screwed up.

  “Melissa didn’t have no friends. All she had time for is her damn books. That’s it. Nothin’ else. I wish she would stop reading and look after her kids. Told her that all the time.”

  Abigail’s eyes started to water as she spoke, but Chase saw the woman’s jaw clench as she fought back the emotion. This was a hard woman who had led a hard life, and while she was understandably angry, she was also clearly upset.

  As she should be.

  Chase stood, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Stitts do the same.

  “Thank you, Ms. Green. And again, please accept my sincerest condolences for what happened to your daughter.”

  Abigail Green grunted as she reached for another cigarette.

  “A uniformed officer will be by tomorrow with some further instructions and paperwork,” she said as she made her way to the trailer door.

  “I don’t want no cops back here. People start talking, make things hard for me ‘n the kids.”

  Chase nodded.

  “I understand, but it’s procedure. I’ll tell them to be discrete.”

  With that, she opened the door and was met by a blast of cold air. She was partway to her BMW, feeling the full brunt of the irony of telling Mrs. Green about discretion while driving a car that probably cost twice as much as her trailer, when the woman’s voice drifted to her through the falling snow.

  “Catch the bastard who did this to Melissa,” Mrs. Green called after them, her voice unexpectedly soft. “Catch the bastard.”

  Chase turned back and nodded once to the woman, and then got into her car.

  When Agent Stitts took up residence in the passenger seat, she moved her hands to the wheel, only now noticing that they were shaking slightly.

  “You okay?” Agent Stitts asked, looking over at her. His hazel eyes were soft, caring.

  “I’m fine,” she replied, putting the car into drive. She exhaled sharply. “One down, one to go.”

  ~

  Tanya Farthing’s home was the opposite to Melissa Green’s in pretty much every way possible. Located in the heart of Manhattan, Tanya lived in a meticulously maintained brownstone. Relatively new to New York, Chase wasn’t up-to-date on the real estate minutia of the city, but she knew enough to recognize that this area was expensive.

  Like seven figures expensive.

  She and Agent Stitts made it to the door together, and just before she knocked, he asked her again if she wanted him to d
o the talking.

  At this point, Chase wasn’t sure if he was just genuinely being a nice guy or if it was all some sort of a test.

  She shook her head.

  It doesn’t matter, she surmised.

  This was her gig, and she would see it through.

  Find the bastard who did this to Melissa, Ms. Green had said.

  Chase hadn’t answered, not because she didn’t want to, but because she didn’t have to.

  She would find the killer. It was only a matter of time.

  “I’ll do it,” she said as she knocked.

  The man who answered the door was short, bald, and had teeth that seemed slightly too large for his mouth.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” he asked with a slight accent that Chase couldn’t place.

  “Is this Tanya Farthing’s address?”

  Concern suddenly formed a shadow on the man’s face.

  “Yes—I’m her father. What’s this about?”

  “My name is Sergeant Chase Adams, and this is FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts. Can we come in?”

  The man hesitated, but then nodded when Agent Stitts produced and displayed his badge. He stepped to one side, and Chase could see that his breathing had become labored.

  “Honey? Who is it? It’s a little late for clients, isn’t it?” a female voice drifted down to them from the staircase off to Chase’s left.

  Tanya’s father swallowed hard.

  “Tiffany? I think you should come down. The police are here and they want to speak to us. It’s about Tanya.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “And Mrs. Armatridge, how is she?” Ken asked between puffs of his cigar.

  Drake took a swig of his whiskey, marveling again at how smooth the Johnny Walker Blue was. His thoughts turned to the video feed of the elderly woman removing the knife from the butcher block while her husband was being satisfied by the maid in the bedroom above. As she walked slowly to the stairs, slowly, as if sleepwalking, Screech and his curly hair suddenly came into the frame. His partner had grabbed Mrs. Armatridge by the wrist before she did something truly terrible.

  Drake shook his head.

  “She’s fine,” he replied flatly.

  “Good to hear. And business at Triple D? Still steady?”

  Drake frowned and sipped his drink.

  “Just get to the point, Ken. You want to know what I found out about Dr. Kildare.”

  Ken smirked.

  “You know what I like about you, Drake?”

  “That I do your bidding?”

  Drake was hoping that the man’s smile would falter, and was disappointed when it didn’t.

  “I like your no-nonsense attitude. Directness is a virtue that has been lost in a world of emoji’s and abbreviations,” he took a haul of his cigar, then exhaled the smoke through his nostrils like some sort of dragon. “And you are correct: I’ve brought you here to learn what you’ve uncovered.”

  Drake hesitated. For some reason, he was struck by the impulse to lie, to tell Ken that he had found nothing, that Dr. Kildare was as perfect as he seemed.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. After all, whatever his feelings for the man, he owed Ken Smith. Besides, he was only reporting facts. He never coerced, entrapped, or even suggested anything to Dr. Kildare.

  “Dr. Kildare is having an affair,” he said after a short pause. “He’s sleeping with his campaign director.”

  This, at last, got a reaction out of the man.

  Ken chuckled and took another puff.

  “Raul? Can you please come here?”

  Raul appeared beside Drake and slid an envelope onto the table beside his whiskey glass.

  Drake looked at it with a sense of loathing. And yet, when he finished his drink, he picked it up. It was heavy; heavier than he expected.

  He stood and slid it into his jacket pocket.

  “Raul please give our guest a ride to wherever he wants to go.”

  Drake frowned at the use of the term ‘guest’. Was he really a guest? Something told him that if he had declined Raul’s offer—however enticing—to come see Ken Smith, then there would be repercussions.

  Raul led the way to the elevator, but before it arrived, Ken Smith added, “Get your partner to set up one of those cameras, would you, Drake? Get Dr. Kildare on tape with his manager.”

  Drake nodded, but didn’t turn.

  “And remember, it doesn’t do either of us any good if you’re seen.”

  Drake was scowling when he entered the elevator, and this expression remained etched on his face during the silent drive all the way back to his Crown Vic at Triple D.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he snapped as he left Raul’s Range Rover.

  Predictably, Raul said nothing before driving off, leaving Drake standing with the snow falling around him.

  He felt the weight of the two objects in his pocket; in his right was the e-reader that he felt compelled to continue reading, while the left housed the envelope that Raul had given him.

  And he was tired, too. The day had started with the lights being out at Triple D, and only went downhill from there.

  Drake’s hand slipped into the pocket with the envelope, and he wrapped his calloused fingers around the material, feeling the thick stack of bills within.

  The dead women and Red Smile would have to wait. He had his priorities, and there was something he had to do first.

  CHAPTER 18

  Colin couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His wife of eight years was in bed with another man—an older, fat man, whom he had never laid eyes on before.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was that she didn’t seem to give a shit that he had caught her.

  In fact, Ryanne’s entire being seemed to be dripping with contempt as she sat at the edge of their bed in her t-shirt and underwear.

  “Juliette, go take off your boots,” she instructed.

  Juliette didn’t move. Colin wasn’t sure that, at seven, she understood what was going on, but she knew given his reaction that something wasn’t right here.

  Colin reached down and patted his daughter gently on the shoulder. Juliette looked up at him with wide eyes.

  “It’s alright, sweetie, head downstairs with your sister.”

  Juliette nodded and then fled the hallway without a word, leaving Colin with his wife and the stranger.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Ryanne spat. She reached for her pants and put them on, then grabbed her pack of cigarettes off the bedside table. As she did, the man turned around, and Colin felt his jaw drop.

  He did know the man, after all. It was their landlord, a man who Ryanne had repeatedly referred to as a scumbag.

  “You,” was all Colin could manage.

  The man glared at him. In his mid-sixties, he wasn’t an imposing figure despite his burgeoning belly; short in stature, with thinning grey hair and a gap-toothed smile, and yet Colin was none-the-less intimidated.

  Ryanne lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.

  “I said don’t look at me like that,” she repeated.

  Colin shook his head.

  “Like what? How the hell do you want me to look at you? Is this a joke? What the hell is going on?”

  Ryanne took a long drag of her cigarette.

  “What was I supposed to do? You can’t pay the rent, and we need somewhere to live.”

  Colin gawked.

  “So, you’re what… whoring yourself?”

  The landlord, who Colin in his fury couldn’t remember was named Gerald or Gary or Glenn, moved toward the door.

  “I’ma leave now,” he said, fists and jaw clenched. “See you next month, Ryanne.”

  Colin was so floored by the man’s audacity that he didn’t even flinch when G-whatever his name slipped by him and down the stairs.

  “Grow up, Colin. Bills needed to be paid, so I got it done. If you could just get a real job, then we wouldn’t be in this mess in the first place.”

  Colin whipped his head around to s
tare at his wife.

  “Are you serious? Are you—” he lowered his voice an octave —” are you fucking serious?”

  Ryanne nodded.

  “As a heart attack.”

  Colin raised a hand, and only then realized that it was so tightly clenched that his knuckles were white.

  He relaxed his grip and pointed a finger directly at Ryanne’s chest.

  “You’re going to be sorry, Ryanne. You don’t know what I’m capable of. I’ve…” he let his sentence trail off.

  Ryanne’s face broke into a grin and then she threw her head back and laughed.

  “What? What are you going to do about it?” her face grew serious. “You’re too much of a pussy to do anything. Don’t be fake; I hate fake people. Fucking poser.”

  “Oh, you’re going to be sorry. My next book… you’ll see. My next book isn’t just going to sell, but it’s going to be a fucking phenomenon. You’ll see Ryanne. And you’re not going to get a goddamn dime.”

  Ryanne looked away, and ashed her cigarette in a can of Coke on the night side table.

  “Whatever,” she grumbled. “Your books never sell.”

  Colin, on the verge of seeing red, of losing control, spun on his heels. His equilibrium was suddenly off and he stumbled, and was forced to brace himself against the wall to avoid falling.

  In a daze, he made his way down the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Ryanne yelled after him.

  “Out! Make sure that the girls get dinner!”

  With that, Colin threw the door to their apartment open so violently that the doorknob put a dent in the drywall.

  She’ll pay—that bitch is going to pay for everything that she’s done to me. She will pay.

  CHAPTER 19

  Chase’s hands were visibly shaking when she returned to her car after visiting with Tanya Farthing’s hysterical parents. Ms. Green and Mrs. Farthing’s reactions to the news of their daughter’s deaths were as opposite each other as their abodes.

  But it was their eyes that got to her. Their eyes were wide, they were moist, but they had a quality of emptiness that she only knew from dead bodies.

  “Fuck,” she swore, momentarily forgetting that Agent Stitts was in the car with her. And when she realized that he was, she repeated the curse even louder this time and hammered the steering wheel with the heel of her hand.