When he was done asking his questions, Diego let out a deep breath.
“That’s messed up.”
“No kidding,” Beckett replied. “And if—when—they ask, I was never here.” He waved his hands across his face.
“I’m a ghost.”
Diego smiled.
“Sid Vicious’s apparition.”
A chuckle rose in Beckett’s throat and an idea popped into his head.
“You think you can wrap up here anytime soon? My flight’s not until ten, and I’ve been dying to see what the evening night life in Montreal is like.”
Now it was Diego’s time to titter.
“Oh, I can show you a good time,” he said, shutting off the computer monitor. “Up for a little danse contact?”
Chapter 34
“Keep on walking,” Drake instructed Veronica.
The woman looked ridiculous, her hands were cuffed behind her, forcing her chest forward. The nightgown that he had thrown at her was some sort of blue and teal princess dress with snowflakes on the front.
Veronica spat curses at him every few minutes, some graphic enough to make a sailor brush, but made no attempt to run even after they exited the apartment complex.
Drake squinted in the bright sun and looked around briefly to orient himself.
“Make a right, I’m parked down the alley just up ahead.”
Another curse, but the woman did as he ordered.
It was either a bribe, he thought, Weston using Raul to hand over cash to Veronica so she would keep her mouth shut about Thomas’s extracurricular activities—which to this point she had done, or it was something even more sinister.
Drake was beginning to entertain the very real possibility that Veronica, along with Raul and Weston Smith, were involved in the three murders.
He pondered this as they made their way toward the alley. It seemed unlikely, and there was the issue of coming up with a shared motive of people from very different walks of life. And yet in Drake’s experience, most of the murders that weren’t spontaneous were usually committed by someone close to the victim.
Clarissa, then? Could she be involved somehow? Maybe she found out about her husband’s infidelity and took a hit out on him?
But that wouldn’t explain why Weston was involved in the cover-up. He could understand Raul, but not Thomas’s brother.
Love triangle, perhaps? Clarissa was sleeping with Weston and…
Drake shook his head, trying to stem these runaway thoughts.
What about Thomas’s parents? Ken Smith? Could they be so ashamed of their son, of him seeing a prostitute, and so concerned that their reputation would be scarred by his actions that they would go as far as to kill him?
This seemed equally unlikely, given that he was the poster boy for their philanthropic side. Even considering Thomas’s not-so perfect juvi record, the Smith’s had simply thrown money at people before, so why not now?
And what in God’s name was with the butterflies? How did that fit in?
Drake grunted in frustration.
“Here; turn here,” he instructed.
Veronica did, but then when she saw his car, instead of cursing, she laughed.
“I know it’s old, but—” Drake started, but then realized that she wasn’t laughing at his Crown Vic.
She was laughing because there was a man sitting on the hood. The same man who had warned Drake that this ain’t the place for you, whiteboy.
Drake reached out and grabbed the handcuffs and pulled Veronica close.
“I think you’re a little confused; this isn’t your usual stoop,” he said. “Too much of that donkey piss, I think. Why don’t you just slide off and find another? And, please, be careful not to scratch the paint.”
The man smiled and Drake smirked back at him.
He gently guided Veronica off to one side, telling her to stay put. Then he took a step toward his car.
“All right, no more games,” Drake said. “Get off the car.”
“Or what?” the man asked. As he spoke, two other black men appeared from behind the Crown Vic. While the stoop kid was thin and wiry, these two were heavily muscled, shoulders bulging from identical wife beaters.
The man on the right had a wooden baseball bat slung over his shoulder.
Drake reached into his front pocket, and the thug not holding the baseball bat moved a hand to the butt of a pistol jutting from his belt.
“Easy now,” Drake said, holding his other hand in front of him. “Just getting my ID.”
The man squatting on his car squinted at the mention of the word ID.
Drake flipped his detective shield and held it out to them, hoping that they could make out the embossed letters NYPD at the top even from more than a dozen feet away.
“I’m a detective,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble, I just want to take this girl down to the station and ask her a few questions. That’s all. You guys turn around and walk away, and I’ll forget you were ever here.”
The man slid off the hood and Drake thought that maybe his luck was changing. That he might get out of this jam unscathed.
He was in no mood for a fight. What he needed was a drink.
“You? A detective?” the man glanced at the Crown Vic, and then at the man with the baseball bat. Without exchanging a word, the latter reared back and swung the bat, shattering the rear taillight and spraying the concrete alley in red plastic. “I’ve never seen a detective that drives such a piece of shit car.”
Drake shook his head.
What’s with people today? First the fucking peanut vendors, and now this… do I look that bad?
“I’m a detective,” he repeated, hoping to finally break through to these guys.
“If you 5-0, then I’m Donald Trump,” the leader said.
And with that, bringing up the president’s name, Drake knew what little luck he might have had had run out.
Where before he wanted to avoid a fight, Drake found himself wondering if he was going to come out of this alive.
The most surprising thing was that this realization didn’t affect him as he expected it to. What did he have to live for, anyway? Everyone at the precinct hated him, maybe all of New York, and his late partner’s wife and daughter loathed him.
I should be dead, he thought, a grimace forming on his face. Not Clay—it should have been me lying on the ground, a bullet hole in my chest.
“I’ll tell you what, cracka. Let the girl go and get into your car and get the fuck out of here. You have one chance.”
Drake couldn’t believe his ears. Death wish or not, there was no way he was going to listen to an ultimatum from a street thug.
“I’ve got a better idea,” he said. “Why don’t you and your boyfriends go get another coupla forties, get drunk, and feel each other up? How about that?”
The second he finished his sentence, the skinny black man sprinted at Drake. He was awkward, and perhaps a little drunk, and Drake easily side-stepped a looping right hook. As he stumbled past, Drake drove his fist into the man’s side, hearing him grunt as the air was forced from his lungs.
Drake stepped over his hunched form and reared back, intent on delivering a blow to the side of the man’s head next.
Only he never got a chance to throw the punch.
Just as he was about to thrust his fist forward, the baseball bat struck him in the side.
The only thing that saved Drake a collapsed lung, or worse, was the fact that he was leaning backward at the time of impact. The baseball bat landed just above his right hip, and as soon as Drake felt contact, he went with the blow. Propelled by the momentum of the bat, he was sent spinning like a top, dispersing some of the impact.
A flash of searing pain shot up from a spot just above his hip, and he grunted.
Knowing that another strike was imminent, Drake tried to straighten, but found he couldn’t; his right side refused to do anything but curl protectively.
The muscular man with the baseball bat
stared down at him, smiling with bright, almost florescent teeth.
Drake groaned in agony, then reached for the baseball bat. To his surprise, he managed to grab it. The man yanked it backward, but Drake refused to let it go, knowing that if he did the next blow might be to the back of the head.
“Get the fuck off me,” the man grumbled. He pulled his other hand back and in a lightning flash his thick knuckles rapped off the right side of Drake’s face in a rabbit punch.
Stars filled his vision and Drake had no choice but to let go of the bat.
Coughing, which caused agony to shoot up his right side, Drake could only just make out the silhouette of the baseball bat as it was hoisted into the air again.
“Do it then,” he said, spitting blood onto the ground. “Just fucking end it, put me out of my misery.”
Drake closed his eyes in expectation of the finishing blow, thinking about Clay and how he had died.
But it never came.
Instead, he heard the familiar squawk of a police siren, followed by a car screeching to a halt.
“Fuck! Run! Run!” Someone yelled, and Drake opened his eyes.
A portly police officer with horseshoe hair leapt from the squad car, gun drawn.
“Freeze!” the officer hollered. “Freeze!”
Predictably, the thugs did not oblige. Instead, they turned and sprinted, bolting past Drake’s Crown Vic and deeper into the alley. Even the man whose ribs Drake had cracked seemed to heal and channel his inner Usain Bolt.
With the side of his face pressed against the concrete, Drake watched their feet—a blur of Nike Technicolor—all but disappear. He sighed and closed his eyes. There was no way that Officer Donut was going to be able to catch them, and he couldn’t exactly drive after them with Drake’s car blocking the alley.
With tremendous effort, Drake somehow managed to push himself to his knees, then to his feet. The agony in his side was still flaring, but the pain in his face had already become a dull throb.
“I said, Freeze!” the officer repeated.
“They’re gone, dumb ass,” Drake muttered.
“This is your last chance! Freeze!”
It was only then that Drake realized the officer was talking to him.
What the hell?
Drake turned slowly in his direction, arms raised. As he did, he noticed Veronica, who didn’t appear to have moved the entire time he was getting pummeled, slide two steps to her right.
“I’m a detective,” Drake said, keeping one eye on her. “Detective Damien Drake, 62nd Precinct, Badge Number 09813. My shield is right there on the ground,” he nodded toward the shield that he had dropped when he had broken the stoop man’s ribs.
“Damien Drake, I recognize the name,” the officer said.
Great, Drake thought, half expecting the man to just shoot him right then and there. But then the officer shrugged.
“Sounds familiar, anyway. Okay I’m going to grab the shield and check it out. Don’t move, okay?” his voice was calmer now.
As he did, Drake saw Veronica start to slide even more quickly along the wall.
“This is my suspect—I’m bringing her in for questioning. For Christ’s sake, don’t let her run.”
“Just a sec,” then to Veronica, the officer added. “You stay put, miss.”
When the man bent down to pick up the shield, Veronica made a break for it.
Oh, no you don’t, Drake thought. Pressing his right arm protectively against his side, he started after her.
“Hey!” the officer shouted, but Drake ignored him.
Shoot me if you want, but I’m not letting her get away after all this.
Despite the pain in his ribs and his throbbing face, he managed to catch the girl in only a few strides.
“Friends of yours?” Drake whispered in her ear as he pulled her roughly toward his car. He opened the door and threw her in the back seat and slammed it closed. Then he turned back to the officer.
“Can I have my shield back?”
The man looked up and swallowed.
“Yes, I’m sorry Detective. I didn’t know, I thought—”
“Whatever,” Drake grumbled. He swiped it from the man’s hand.
“You okay? Your,” he waved a finger in a circular motion around his temple, “face is pretty swollen.”
“Fine,” Drake said, turning his back to the man and making his way to his car. He coughed once and spat a phlegmy wad tinged with red corners.
“Hey, you want me to go after them? Call in some backup?”
Drake shook his head.
Backup? They’re long gone by now.
Drake shrugged and got behind the wheel of his car. Then he leaned out the window.
“Are you going to move your car, or are you going to make me reverse all the way back to 62nd?”
The man’s eyes bulged and he quickly hurried to his squad car.
“I’m sorry—sorry.”
As the officer started to back out of the alley, Drake spotted a black Range Rover drive by.
Maybe I wasn’t as stealthy as I thought.
But when he finally managed to drive out of the alley, the Rover was gone.
As he passed the police officer, the man hollered after him, “Detective Drake! Your tail light’s broken!”
Drake looked up to the mirror and saw that a horrible swollen lump was already starting to grow around his right eye and temple.
“Give me a fucking ticket,” he grumbled, then sped off.
Chapter 35
Detective Chase Adams passed several uniformed officers on the way to the boardroom, all of whom eyed her strangely.
Chase stared back, but bit her tongue.
What the hell is wrong with everyone? Is it Drake? My association with him?
It was obvious that some of the more experienced detectives, especially those who had worked with Clay, were not happy that she treated Drake without disdain or anger. She also knew that they gave her a little leeway because she was new.
Or pretty.
Maybe both.
But now she was wondering if giving Drake another chance had been the right decision. After all, he was teetering on the edge—even she could see that. He was so close that a strong fart might push him over. And yet she meant what she had said to him that first day.
Chase could handle the heat coming off of him, but she wouldn’t set herself alight. If push came to shove, and she really, really hoped it didn’t—the fact was, she felt for Drake, and what he had been through—then her hands were poised and ready.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Drake’s number once again.
Still no answer.
Chase swore and raised her eyes just in time to see a young officer in full uniform walk by and look her up and down.
“What are you looking at?” she snapped.
The man blushed and shook his head.
“Nothing… sorry,” he said as he hurried past.
Chase pulled the conference room door open, and breathed in the cool air, thankful for at last having a moment to herself. She placed a folder on the table and opened it, sifting through the photographs she had downloaded from the Internet.
Then she started putting them on the cork board with Thomas, Neil, and Chris, marking the connections with lengths of thread from one photograph to another. When she was done, she stepped backward and stared at her work.
Too many damn question marks, she thought with dismay.
The door opened and Detectives Yasiv and Simmons stepped into the room.
Henry’s eyes went to the board first.
“Jesus, what is this? John Gotti’s family tree?”
Chase frowned.
Simmons, however was only staring at her, his eyes bulging slightly more than usual. Henry followed the man’s gaze, and his expression quickly matched that of the much older man beside him.
Chase took a deep breath.
“I get it, you all hate Drake. But you know what? I
don’t give a shit. Whatever you think of him, whatever you think he did, he is still a detective and a damn good one. All that matters is the case… all that matters is finding the killer before he strikes again. So just fucking deal with it, okay?” she spat, and then immediately regretted her words. She was angry; angry that they were no closer to the killer despite her crochet work on the board, angry that if the killer’s pattern stayed true, he was going to strike again in another day or so and they had no clue who his next victim was.
Chase swallowed hard, trying to enact her poker face.
Henry shook his head.
“What? What is it, Detective Yasiv? You couldn’t stop running your mouth at Mrs. Pritchard’s place, so please don’t hold back now.”
The man’s eyes darted to Frank and then back again.
“It’s just…”
“Oh, for Christ sake,” Chase cried. “Spit it out!”
To hell with the poker face.
“It’s your outfit,” he said at last. “You look like a dark-haired Geni Bouchard.”
“A what?” Chase exclaimed. She glanced down at herself and her heart skipped a beat. And then it flooded her system with blood, especially her cheeks and ears. Chase wasn’t one to embarrass easily, but for the first time since her superior had caught her with a needle still poking out of her arm back in Seattle, she was mortified.
She was still wearing her white tennis outfit, the tops of her breasts still damp from sweat, the hem of her skirt barely covering her upper thighs.
Chase took three deep breaths, scolding herself for being so careless with each one, and then addressed the detectives.
There was nothing to do but own it now.
“Alright, get over it. I was playing tennis with Clarissa Smith and didn’t get a chance to change.”
The two men continued to gawk.
“You guys okay? You want to go to the bathroom and work the wood out of your peckers? No? Okay, then let’s get started.”
She turned, trying to will the blood from her cheeks when the door opened again.
“Oh, sorry I thought Detective Adams…” Officer Dunbar’s sentence trailed off when Chase spun around again. “Oh, I, uh…”
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 15