“You brought Suzan into this?” he hissed.
“Drake, let him go!” Chase shouted.
Drake ignored her.
“You fucking brought her into this?”
Beckett was grabbing at the hand wrapped around his throat, but he was no match for Drake and his grip.
A croak came out of Beckett’s mouth, and his eyes started to bulge.
“Why, Beckett? Why did you bring her into this?”
But Beckett couldn’t answer—he was being strangled.
A hand suddenly stung Drake’s face. It wasn’t a hard slap, but it startled him enough that his grip on Beckett’s throat slipped.
When he saw the look on Chase’s face, he let go completely.
Beckett coughed and spat, and then doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Drake grumbled. “Shit. Shit!”
Beckett still doubled over, held up a hand.
“It’s alright,” he said between coughs. “I’m fine.”
Drake looked over at Chase and saw something in her eyes that he had never seen before.
Fear.
She had been scared when Dr. Mark Kruk had kidnapped her and tied her up, put a gun to her head.
But now she was scared of him. Of her ex-partner.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated.
“It’s over now,” Chase replied, and then she proceeded to tell him about Suzan’s involvement, starting with her helping with Beckett and his forensic pathology exam to the messages that Beckett had read on the bulletin board less than an hour ago.
“And no one has seen her since?” Drake asked.
Chase shook her head.
“No. I had two friends in blue go by her house and ask around campus. Nothing. No trace of her. Her car is gone, but no one saw anything.”
“Fuck,” Drake said under his breath.
“Can Dunbar or Screech trace her cell phone? Her car?”
Again, Chase shook her head.
“It’ll take too long—she just vanished, Drake.”
Drake’s demeanor, after the outbreak with Beckett, had suddenly become calm, calculated. While he had previously been driven to stop a killer who had murdered six people, now his approach was more singular.
To get Suzan Cuthbert back.
To get her back alive.
“Does Jasmine Cuthbert know?”
Beckett answered this time, his voice hoarse.
“No, she has no idea.”
Drake jumped to his feet, and a pang of guilt struck him when both Chase and Beckett recoiled slightly.
“Find out who the fuck this guy is,” he snapped as he strode toward the door.
“Where are you going? What are you going to do?” Chase hollered after him.
“I’m going to speak to Dr. Moorfield again. This time she’s going to tell me what the fuck happened at the tribunal—she’s going to tell me, or wish she had.”
Chase step forward.
“I’m coming with you.”
Drake frowned.
“No way. You stay here, help Dunbar and Screech. If they find anything, I need you here to act quickly.”
Drake hurried toward the door, aware that his reality had acquired a dreamlike state that reminded him of his nightmares of the evening Clay Cuthbert had been murdered.
This can’t be happening.
His hand had just fallen on the doorknob when Beckett grasped his arm. He half expected the man to strike him, but when he saw the look of determination in his eyes, he knew that this wasn’t the case.
Beckett couldn’t believe that this was happening either, and now he shared Drake’s solitary goal.
“I’m coming with you,” he said. Drake stared at his friend for a moment, then nodded.
Chase couldn’t come with him, because she was still an NYPD Detective. And he feared that he might have to resort to ‘good ol’ fashioned police work again in order to extract information from Dr. Moorfield. Chase couldn’t be there for that; she couldn’t be a witness to it.
Beckett, on the other hand…
“Fine,” he snapped.
On the way past the reception area, Screech suddenly leaped to his feet, a piece of paper in hand.
“Drake, take this.”
“What is it?” he asked without breaking stride.
“The list of board members when Moorfield went to the tribunal.”
Drake snatched the paper and continued toward the door.
“Find her, Screech. Please, for the love of god, find Suzan Cuthbert.”
Chapter 59
Under normal circumstances, the drive from Triple D to the faculty club would have taken close to thirty minutes. But with Drake driving like a maniac, it took less than half that time.
They rode in silence. Twice Drake saw Beckett open his mouth to say something, before deciding better of it, which was fine by him. He had lashed out, warranted or not, and then apologized. It wasn’t the first time that he and Beckett hadn’t seen eye-to-eye, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
There was no time to be bogged down by sore throats and hurt feelings.
Drake double-parked directly in front of the doors to the faculty club and leaped from his Crown Vic while it was still running.
“Dr. Moorfield was too concerned with getting called out for what happened in the past to give me anything before,” he said as Beckett hurried to keep up with him. “She didn’t believe that I was telling the truth about the murders, thought I was just trying to pry information from her. Maybe now, though, now that the killer has Suzan, she’ll be more open. And if not, there are ways of making people talk. Even those as stubborn as Dr. Moorfield.”
Drake wasn’t sure if he was speaking to Beckett or just thinking out loud, but felt reassured when his friend chimed in.
“Yeah, maybe. I mean, Suzan was a medical student after all. I just… shit, the woman is just so damn obstinate.”
Drake nodded as Beckett scanned his keycard at the front door, gaining them access to the faculty club.
“And if we can’t get anything from her, I’ve got eight other names to look up,” he said, pulling the piece of paper that Screech had given him from his pocket and waving it in the air. “We’re going to find her, Beckett. We’re going to find her, and she’s going to be alive when we do.”
And yet, despite his reassuring words, images of Suzan filled his mind, flashing so rapidly that before he could completely grasp what he was seeing, the imaginary menagerie was onto the next. First, she was bent over her own neck, then in the bathtub, her eyes milky, her wrists slit. Next, she was hanging from the ceiling, shirtless, her tongue thick, followed by an image of her lying on her back, the top of her head rendered organic confetti. The penultimate image was of Suzan with burn marks on her shoulder and neck, her long brown hair frizzled, standing on end.
And then, finally, she was lying on the sidewalk, her throat opened in a crimson grin.
Drake shuddered.
“Let’s go!” he shouted suddenly, breaking into a jog. “Let’s go!”
As expected, the door to Dr. Moorfield’s office was open, just as he had left it not more than a few hours ago. But when Drake burst through, Beckett in tow, he was surprised to find it empty.
“Shit,” he swore, eyes whipping around. They fell on Beckett. “Where is she? Do you have her number?”
Beckett looked as if he was on the verge of breaking into tears.
“I don’t know… I don’t have her number.”
Furious, Drake moved around to the other side of the desk, scanning the messy top for any hints or clues as to where she might have headed.
“Fuck!” he yelled. With one arm, he swiped the contents off the desk in a fit of anger. As the medical journals, loose papers, and a stack of pens fell to the floor with a clatter, his eyes immediately focused on the burnished wood beneath.
“Beckett,” he said, his eyes locking in on the desktop. Beckett, who was busy
looking at his phone, presumably searching for Dr. Moorfield’s contact info, glanced up.
“What? What is it?”
Drake gestured to the desk.
“Look!” he exclaimed, eyes wide. “Look!”
Beckett hurried to his side. When he saw the words on the wood, drawn using the same soot or ash as the marks on the murder victims, Drake heard him suck in a tight breath.
“We have to go,” Drake said. “We have to hurry. He’s going to finish this—he’s going to kill Suzan and Dr. Moorfield tonight.”
He pulled the paper Screech had given him from his pocket as he said this, unwilling to take his eyes from the words on the desk: Two more.
The killer had been here. Within the two hours since Drake had last been standing in this very office, the killer had been here.
So close—I was so close.
Someone shouted in the hallway, snapping Drake out of his state of panic.
He unfolded the paper and quickly scanned the names for any that looked familiar. If he didn’t recognize any of them, he would start at the top, breaking down the doors of each until he found the information he needed, the information that would lead them to the killer.
When his eyes fell on board member five of eight, he felt his breath catch in his throat. Swallowing hard, he folded the paper back and jammed it into his pocket.
Then he turned to Beckett.
“Let’s go,” he hissed. “Let’s get out of here.”
An overweight security guard with a utility belt so jammed full of tools that Batman would be jealous, suddenly appeared in the doorway of Dr. Moorfield’s office.
“Halt!” he ordered, holding a can of pepper spray out in front of him in one chubby hand.
Drake didn’t ‘halt’; he kept on moving forward.
“Get the fuck out of my way,” he said, leveling his eyes at the man. The security guard faltered.
“Halt,” he said again, but his voice lacked the bravado of his previous command.
Drake balled his fists, prepared to strike the man if he didn’t move. But before he did, Beckett stepped forward and took control of the situation.
“NYPD,” his friend said. “We’re here investigating six murders and two kidnappings.”
“Wh—what?” the fat man said, lowering the can of pepper spray a few inches.
“Dr. Moorfield’s been kidnapped!” Drake shouted. “Now out the fuck out of the way!”
And then the man, driven by a combination of fear and confusion, slid to one side.
Drake didn’t give the security guard a chance to reconsider. He pushed by him and then broke into a sprint, hoping, but not checking to see if Beckett was following.
Chapter 60
By manipulating her jaw, Suzan managed to slip the gag down to her chin. Finally able to breathe properly without the risk of vomiting, she took a moment to better observe her surroundings.
The floor on which she sat was charred and burnt, and most areas that were salvageable had since been removed by looters, revealing a sooty subfloor. By the doorway she noted a single plank of hardwood, jutting up at an odd angle. It appeared wedged beneath the doorway trim, which had probably made it too troublesome to remove by the person that had taken the rest of the floor.
Think, Suzan. Think.
She had seen enough movies in her time to know that the masked man wouldn’t take long to return. And when he did…
Don’t think about that. Think about finding a way out.
With her hands and feet bound, she had to shimmy on her ass to move across the floor. Even though the binds on her wrists were tight, she still managed to push down with her palms, lifting her lower body before sliding it over. It was a painful process and after just a few of these awkward movements, the muscles in her arms started to ache. And with every thrust, the ropes cut deeper into her wrists. But by using this technique, Suzan moved quickly to the jutting floor plank.
It was dark inside the house, but with the full moon outside, and some of the plywood on the upper floor not aligned properly, she noticed that in the process of trying to remove the flooring, a piece of metal framing had also been exposed near the intersection of the floor and the door trim.
Suzan, sweat now mixing with the tears and ash on her face, made her way next to the exposed metal, and then spun around. With a deep breath, she lowered the rope between her wrists onto the metal.
Her first strike caused the fire weakened metal to fold over and she cried out in frustration. But after lowering the rope a second time, she realized that it was now anchored in the burnt subfloor, and the sharp edge was even more exposed. Suzan worked cautiously at first, making sure that she didn’t break the metal as she rubbed the rope against it. But as the seconds passed, she became more and more paranoid that the man in the mask was going to come sprinting up the stairs, and she started to work more furiously.
Every other stroke missed the mark, and she could feel blood running down into her palms as the metal sliced into her skin.
“Come on, come one,” she whispered as she worked.
And then, after it felt as if the entire night had passed, Suzan felt the rope give a little. With a tremendous grunt, she flexed and pulled her hands apart.
The frayed rope let go with a muted snap.
Yes! Her mind cried. Bringing her hands in front of her, she could see that they were covered in blood, and noted several deep cuts in the skin on the pad of her palm.
Ignoring the damage, she immediately started to tug at the rope around her ankles. She had only just started to figure out the knot when she froze.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway filled the hollow house.
“No,” she moaned. Working frantically, she tried to pull the rope from her ankles, but in her desperation, she yanked the wrong loop and it tightened.
“Please…”
But tears obscured her vision and no matter what she tried, the binding only seemed to pull her ankles closer together.
She heard a car door open, followed by an abbreviated struggle.
The sound of the plywood window covering being removed reached her next, followed quickly by footsteps on the floor below.
Suzan closed her eyes.
It was too late; even if she managed to free her ankles, there was no way that she would be able to run downstairs and get past the masked man.
Shaking her head, she grabbed the torn rope and scuttled back to where he had left her, putting her now free arms behind her back.
She heard the man on the stairs, but was now keenly aware that there was someone else with him.
And judging by the high-pitched nature of the muffled screams, it was likely a woman.
A weapon… if only I had worked faster, I could have grabbed a weapon.
Just as a shadow filled the doorway, Suzan realized that her filthy gag was still off, and she pulled it up over her mouth.
A bound and gagged woman was shoved in her direction. She tripped over the raised piece of flooring and collapsed to the ground, her thin body sliding to a stop only inches from Suzan, who cowered away from her.
The masked man entered the room next.
“I told you I’d be back,” he said with a chuckle. “And this time I brought company.”
Chapter 61
Drake pounded on the glass door with both fists.
“Open up!” he yelled. “Open the fucking door!”
He looked over his shoulder at the Crown Vic, and saw Beckett’s shocked expression staring back from the passenger seat.
“Call them!” he yelled to the frightened man. “Call Chase!”
Beckett seemed frozen.
“Just fucking call them!”
A light flicked on from within the lobby of the condo, and he turned back. The security guard with the oak-colored mustache sauntered toward him, moving with the pace of a funeral procession.
“Open up!” Drake yelled again as he continued to bang on the glass. The security guard’s eyes nar
rowed, and Drake saw him reach for something on his hip. At first, Drake thought he was reaching for the keys, but when he saw the man palm the butt of his gun, his heart sunk.
This was no university guard with a can of pepper spray.
“Please,” Drake said, changing tactics. “Open the door. I need to talk to him.”
The man moved closer to the door, but to Drake’s dismay, he stopped a safe distance away. As he neared, he squinted, and then, finally, recognition crossed his face.
“Detective Drake? Is that you?”
“Yes, it’s fucking me, now open the door?”
The security guard took a step backward.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’ve been—”
But a sound from behind him drew both of their attention. Drake peered over the man’s shoulder, but could only make out the outline of a second man. They exchanged a few words in hushed voices, then the security guard turned back to Drake.
This time he had his keys in hand and was frantically trying to open the door. A second later, Drake heard the familiar click of the lock disengaging, and he shoved the glass door open, knocking the security guard backward.
“Wait! You need to—”
“Never mind that, Stewart. Come with me, Drake,” the shadowy figure said, stepping into view.
Drake grimaced at the sight of the short, dark-skinned man with the wiry mustache.
“Raul, I need to speak to Ken. I need to speak to him now.”
Raul nodded.
“Jes, he knows you are here. Please follow me.”
Drake hurried after Raul, who had the elevator on call, the doors open and waiting for them. They stepped inside and Ken’s manservant used a small key to set the elevator on its course to the penthouse.
The express ride to the forty-eighth floor seemed to take much longer than Drake remembered when he had been here a few months prior. Eventually, after what felt like an age listening to Raul’s heavy mouth breathing, the elevator pinged and the doors started to open.
Drake pushed by Raul and stepped into Ken Smith’s opulent penthouse apartment.
“Ken!” he shouted. “Ken, where are you?”
Ken Smith, dressed in a crisp gingham dress shirt and navy slacks stepped into view, a drink in hand, a wry smile on his lips. As usual, his gray hair was slicked back, not a single strange out of place.
Cause of Death (Detective Damien Drake Book 2) Page 18
