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Prologue
Part I – Natural Causes
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part II – Accidental
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part III – Suicide
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part IV – Homicide
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Epilogue
END
Author’s note
Prologue
First Act
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Cause of Death:
The injury or disease responsible for initiating the morbid chain of events—whether brief or prolonged—that led to death.
Cause of Death
Detective Damien Drake Book 2
Patrick Logan
Prologue
The man poured two glasses of scotch. He added a splash of pure ethanol to one of them, stirred it with his finger, then made his way back to the table. As he approached his guest from behind, he forced a smile on his face.
“It’s real nice of you to bring me in,” the seated man said loudly. “It’s—”
The man laid the two glasses on the table.
“Aw, sorry, didn’t know you was back. I was sayin’ it’s real nice to bring me in. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out der.”
The smile remained on the man’s face as he took a seat across from his guest in the torn trench coat.
“Well, Trevor, I think that the drink might warm you up some. Don’t know about keeping the witches at bay, however.”
Trevor was a dark-skinned man with a receding hairline and a patchy beard that was interspersed with blotches of gray. He had wide-set eyes, which had a habit of darting about nervously.
“Thank you, Mister,” Trevor said. “Wha—wha’d you say your name was, again?”
The man smiled and took a sip of his own scotch.
“I didn’t.”
Trevor eyed him suspiciously, but the call of the drink was too great for him to heed any warning signs. He gulped greedily, wincing as he swallowed.
“I ain’t the gay type… I—I—I ‘preciate the drink and warm house ‘n all, but I ain’t doin’ no gay shit.”
The man chuckled.
“Why is it that everyone thinks a kind gesture is expected to be repaid in some way?”
Trevor took another sip, his eyes darting. Instead of answering the question, he cleared his throat, and said, “This be a real nice place you got. What are you? Some sort of doctor? Lawyer? I saw a place like dis once in a book, it was a rich lawyer’s house.”
“Something like that,” the man said with a smile. He observed that Trevor’s glass was nearly empty, and even though he had just sat down, offered, “Would you like another?”
Trevor seemed to consider this for a moment. The crystal rock glass was trembling slightly in his fingerless gloves, but it was unclear if this was from fear, hunger, or just the alcohol.
With a slow blink, Trevor brought the drink to his lips and finished the rest of the pale gold liquid.
“Sure,” he replied. When he went to put the glass back on the table, it banged loudly, as if he had misjudged the distance. “Is good shit. I’ll have another.”
Another came out like anudder.
“Yes,” the man said, taking a sip of his own scotch. “Yes, it is ‘good shit’.”
Then he stood and started toward the kitchen. As he went, he said, “I see that your gloves have holes in them—the fingers are missing. Interested in a new pair?”
When he made it to the kitchen, he made sure to make his guest’s glass with half ethanol and half scotch this time.
“Why you doing this, man? What’s in it for you?”
He sighed, and placed his palms on the marble countertop, closing his eyes as he did. His chest rose and fell with several deep breaths, then, after he had collected himself, he picked up the glass and the pair of leather gloves beside them. Tucking a sweater that he had laid on the counter earlier in the day beneath one arm, he made his way back to the kitchen table and placed all three items in front of his guest.
Trevor did the shifty eye thing again, but this time he didn’t immediately grab the drink.
Ah, I thought it might come to this, the host thought. Sooner than I expected, but here it is. The hesitation before the fall—before total and complete acceptance.
“Look,” he began slowly, pausing to have a sip of his own glass scotch. “I know this seems strange, and I bet it’s been a long, long time since someone has shown you this level of kindness, of respect. And you have every right to be suspicious—in fact, I doubt you would have survived on the streets for as long as you have without your instincts. But, I assure you, I want nothing in return for my hospitality.”
Trevor grunted.
“Then why you doin’ this?” he asked, his words slurred.
The man smirked. Trevor was more astute than he had first thought. The others’ inquisitions had stopped at sidelong glances, pursed lips.
It would all end the same way, however, but still…
“Because I know what it’s like—I know what it’s like to be down on your luck. I was in your position once, a long time ago. But I got out. Built all of what you see around you with perseverance and dedication. And now I’m looking to pay it back.”
Trevor squinted at him, his thin lids lowering over bulging eyes.
“Go ahead, have a drink, put the sweater and gloves on. Keep warm. There are no strings attached here.”
Suspicious or not, old habits die hard.
And a free drink was nearly impossible to resist.
Trevor
gulped his scotch greedily and then tore his worn gloves off. He slid the leather gloves on and then wiggled his fingers almost seductively.
“Comfortable, aren’t they?” the host asked.
Two drinks and twenty minutes later, Trevor could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stand. And yet he gave both a valiant effort.
The host quickly made his way over him before the trench coat-clad man toppled onto the table.
“Here, let me help you,” he said. “You can stay here for the night. I have a spare bedroom.”
Trevor mumbled something incomprehensible, and the man slipped an arm around his waist, taking the brunt of his weight.
Holding Trevor upright, he led them to a bedroom with decor that more reflected a cheap motel than the rest of his house. Inside, there were two single beds, between them there was a peeling, particle board nightstand atop which stood a clock.
The neon green numbers read 3:34 am.
Trevor said something that could have been thank you, but could have just as easily been fuck you, as the host lowered him onto the bed.
Without bothering to pull the cheap bedspread back, the host retreated to the doorway and observed the scene.
“Sleep well, my friend,” he said as Trevor started to snore. His smile broadened. “Don’t worry about anything… you’ll be safe here. I promise.”
And then he started to laugh.
Part I – Natural Causes
Chapter 1
“How can you be so sure, Mrs. Armatridge?” Damien Drake asked with something akin to a sigh.
The woman across from him fiddled with the pearls that hung loosely around her neck like a rosary. Her heavily mascaraed eyes narrowed.
“I know, trust me, I know.”
Drake leaned back in his chair, tucking his hands behind his head.
“I need a little more to go on than a woman’s intuition, you understand. I get that you’re upset, but I have a business to run. I can’t go off and pursue every woman who thinks that their maid is stealing silverware. It wouldn’t do me any good to harass people for no reason.”
The woman scowled, and then started rooting around in her purse. This made Drake uncomfortable, and he unlaced his fingers and leaned forward in his chair. He slid his right hand under his desk and placed his fingers loosely on the butt of the gun that was taped beneath.
“Mrs. Arma—”
“Here,” she said, pulling out a checkbook.
Drake relaxed and took his hand off his pistol.
She scrawled a number on the check, signed it, and tore it off. Drake reached out and took it from her, his eyes scanning the figure.
He tried not to gawk.
“Maybe this will make you reconsider harassment, Damien. As you can tell, I’m serious about this. Very serious. I want proof that she’s stealing, and then I want her arrested.”
Drake nodded quickly, and then put the check in the top drawer of his desk, sliding it beneath the half-empty bottle of Johnny Red.
“I understand your concerns, Mrs. Armatridge, and I can see that you are a woman of conviction. I have no issue moving forward with our professional relationship. But to do so, I’m going to need more than a check.”
A razor-thin eyebrow extended high up her forehead. Drake tried to suppress a smile. Mrs. Armatridge’s eyebrow looked like a paperclip trying to find solace in her white perm.
“Such as?”
“I’m going to need a set of keys, and codes to any alarms that you might have. I also need a complete itinerary and schedule—for you, your husband, and the maid. To the minute. I want to know when you guys are home, but more importantly, I need to know when you aren’t going to be there.”
The woman fiddled with her necklace again. Despite her previous gesture, and the check, Drake could see that she had become nervous.
And that had been his intention—to let her know just how serious things were about to get. Spying on people, even those you loved, family, had a tendency to end in strife.
“Why do you need keys?” she asked.
“I need to set up surveillance—cameras and what not.”
Drake expected to surprise the woman with this comment, but if anything it seemed that the opposite was true.
It seemed to offer comfort.
“And you’ll show me everything you record? Everything?”
Drake nodded.
“Of course. I’ll show the tapes to you, and only you. And when—if—we see anything illegal, we’ll inform you immediately. I have to admit, though, that these things don’t always work out as planned. If, after two weeks, we don’t see anything out of the ordinary, we’ll pull the cameras and then sit down and have another chat.”
The woman nodded.
“Good.”
“But,” Drake began hesitantly, “sometimes with these cameras, we pick up things that are… how can I say this delicately… not just theft. Things that are outside the realm of what one might consider ordinary. Before we move forward, you need to be aware of this and let me know what you want me to do with such videos, should they be recorded. Of course, at Triple D Investigations, you can be assured of our complete discretion.”
The woman smiled, and Drake suddenly felt slimy. He had a sneaking suspicion that Mrs. Armatridge wasn’t only concerned with missing spoons and forks. There was something else that she wanted to catch on video.
“Show me,” she said quietly. “I want to see everything.”
Be careful what you wish for, Drake thought. With a nod, he stood, offered the woman a tired smile and shook her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Armatridge. Please provide Screech with the information and keys I requested before you leave.”
The woman thanked him back and then left his office.
“And close the door behind you, please!” he shouted, and the woman obliged.
When she was gone, Drake reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the check. He could barely believe it.
Ten grand for a job like this? It had to be some sort of joke.
Leaving the NYPD and starting the small PI outfit, first on his own and then with Screech whom he had found online, had been meant as a stop-gap measure, a way to earn some petty cash while things cooled off at the precinct.
Before he could apply to be a detective again.
After all, Sergeant Rhodes couldn’t be around forever, could he?
He held the check up to the light, confirming its legitimacy.
But with money like this…
Drake chuckled, put the check back, then retrieved the bottle of whiskey and poured himself two fingers.
If anything deserved a celebration, it was this.
While he sipped, his mind wandered back to his bug-eyed ex-boss. Instead of searching for Sergeant Rhodes, however, when he turned on the computer, it was his own name that he Googled.
Two articles came up, both written by the same man: Ivan Meitzer.
The first was the Skeleton King expose that he himself had been the informant for, which despite being more than a year old was still the top hit, and the second was the one that Ivan had published shortly after they had captured the Butterfly Killer.
Drake had promised Chase that he wouldn’t do the expose despite the debt he owed to Ivan, but it hadn’t mattered; someone had gone ahead and spilled the beans, and it had predictably painted Drake in a less than favorable light. When Screech had first brought the article to his attention, he had gone on a rampage wondering who had been the source—Detective Simmons? Yasiv? The bastard Sergeant Rhodes himself? Chase?—but after his rage fizzled, he came to realize that it didn’t matter who had broken their silence. It was out, and that’s what counted.
Drake read the headline for what felt like the thousandth time.
Veteran NYPD Detective breaks all the rules in pursuit of the Butterfly Killer.
He shook his head.
Drake resisted the temptation to read the article again, and instead found himself searching for “NYPD Det
ective Chase Adams”, as was his habit.
One of the first results was Chase smiling broadly, a plaque held in both hands. Standing behind her was Sergeant Rhodes, his weasely eyes poking out from behind round spectacles.
Detective Chase Adams makes First Grade detective in record time, the heading beneath the photo read.
Drake smiled.
After everything that they had been through together, he was happy for her. And a little proud.
He was staring at her image when the door to his office opened, and Screech burst in. Tall, thin and wiry, Steven Horner aka Screech, was in his mid-twenties, but acted as if he had just entered his teenage years. His hair was shaved on the sides with a swooping pompadour on top, which made his face appear even more narrow. His thin goatee didn’t help him look any less like a Planter’s peanut, either.
“Well, that shit was interesting,” Screech said as he bounded toward him.
Screech also had a problem with walking; he simply hadn’t seemed to master the art of it. He either bounded, skipped, sprinted, or sauntered.
He never walked.
Drake raised an eyebrow and deliberately peered around him.
“Don’t worry, the GILF is gone,” Screech said. “Listen, you really want me to set up cameras in her house?”
Drake didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into the drawer and grabbed a second glass, filling it with a splash of scotch and motioning for Screech to grab it.
As he did, Drake laid the check on the desk in plain view.
“For ten grand, we’re going to videotape her cat taking a dump, if she so desires,” Drake said. Screech laughed, a high-pitched, irritating noise from which Drake imagined that his nickname had been borne, and then he took a sip of his scotch.
“Salud,” Screech said after he was done tittering. They clinked glasses and both of them drank.
***
Screech left shortly after Mrs. Armatridge with instructions to set up the cameras in her home the following morning when the maid was out doing groceries, the Mr. was out getting his car serviced and the woman herself was at church service. Drake, feeling more than a little buzzed, was just locking his office door, when a shadow appeared in the entrance to Triple D Investigations.
“You forget your dental dam, Screech? Because—”
Cause of Death Page 1
