Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1

by Patrick Logan

  When the man across from him still didn’t move, Drake stood and walked over to him. He placed a hand under Raul’s arm and helped him to his feet.

  This act finally elicited a response. It wasn’t so much a recoil from his touch as it was a tremor of surprise.

  “Come on now,” Drake patronized, “I’m not going to hold your hand.”

  Raul rose to his feet and turned toward the door.

  “Go on! This isn’t a trick.”

  Raul walked slowly into the hallway. He started to turn right, but Drake rushed up beside him and gently guided him the other way.

  “This way,” he said with a smile. “Head this way; one of the detectives can drive you home.”

  The man took three or four steps, then finally broke his plea of silence.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said calmly. “I can take a cab.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Drake pressed. “It’s no big deal. I’d drive you myself, but I have a sock drawer to rearrange.”

  As he spoke, Drake encouraged Raul forward. He took several more steps, and they passed the open door to Interrogation Room 1. Raul peered inside, meeting Veronica and Chase’s gazes.

  “I’ll just take a cab,” Raul said, turning back.

  “You sure? Because—”

  “A cab will be fine.”

  Drake shrugged and pointed back the way they had come.

  “This way then, I’ll walk you out,” he said with a smirk.

  Chapter 40

  “Tell me you saw that,” Drake said when he and Chase were once again alone in the conference room.

  “As soon as Veronica saw Raul, her jaw clenched and she glanced away. What do you think it means?”

  Drake made a hmph sound.

  “It means we have been duped, my good partner.”

  Chase made a face.

  “Duped? How so?”

  Drake turned back to the board.

  “We thought bringing in Raul would make Veronica more likely to talk, make her think that Raul was going to spill the beans, cut a deal. Fucking stupid—we played right into their damn hands.”

  Chase sat and sighed heavily.

  “I’m not following you, Drake,” she said.

  Drake moved the strings on the pegboard around so that a string went from Weston Smith to Raul then to ‘V’. He then made one string go from ‘V’ to Neil and one from ‘V’ to Thomas. He was about to do the same to Chris, but hesitated.

  That didn’t feel quite right.

  “Drake, you wanna clue me in here? Tell me what the hell is going on? I have a press conference in an hour.”

  Drake cleared his throat.

  “We played right into their hands,” he said absently.

  “Who?” Chase demanded, clearly becoming frustrated. “Whose hands, Drake?”

  Drake jabbed Weston Smith’s face with the pad of his index finger.

  “This man’s—or maybe his father, I don’t know,” he looked at Chase. “When I was following Raul, I was forced to pass him twice and…” Drake suddenly burst out laughing. “Goddammit, these guys are good!”

  Chase was at her wit’s end.

  “For god’s sake, Drake! Tell me what the hell is going on?”

  Drake took a deep breath.

  “I was at the cemetery when I saw Raul. He was putting flowers on a gravestone, which I thought was his mother, maybe—heard him say madre. But that row, the row he was standing in, was for fallen servicemen. Does Raul have a family member in the service? His mother? I think not.”

  “What are you saying? That this was all a setup? Why?”

  Drake nodded, his grin slipping into a frown.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Raul knew I would see him at the cemetery, and knew that I would follow him. He also knew that if I saw him with Veronica I bring her in. You know… when I was being pummeled by those street thugs his car was still there. I bet Raul was the one who had called the cops, to make sure they didn’t kill me.”

  “And bringing him here? What was that all about?” Chase asked when Drake paused to take a breath.

  “Shit, he knew we’d do that too. And you saw how Veronica reacted when she saw him. She was terrified—he wanted to be here, just to make sure she didn’t open her mouth.”

  Chase’s face suddenly brightened with the characteristic glow of understanding.

  “What about the envelope, the money?”

  “I bet it was all real. I think the money was also part of the deal, a little insurance to make sure Veronica kept her mouth shut. But here’s the thing, Veronica said but two words in the interview room, scared shitless that Raul would tell Weston or his father. But when I mentioned Chris’s name, just once, she said, who? She didn’t say ‘who’ about Thomas, even though back at the apartment she was adamant, and lying, that she didn’t know him. Same when I mentioned Neil. But with Chris, she said, who.”

  Chase thought about this for a moment.

  “You think she was seeing Neil and Thomas?”

  Drake nodded.

  “I do. I think she was seeing both of them, and I think the text messages support that. But I also think that she has no idea who Chris is, let alone sleeping with him.”

  Chase stood and walked over to the board.

  “So Weston wants to keep Veronica quiet, presumably about Thomas, but also about Neil, because he doesn’t want this business about his son seeing a prostitute to come out. Makes sense. But I still feel we’re missing something. What’s the connection between Chris and Thomas?” Chase said.

  “The high school connection.”

  Chase shook her head.

  “I don’t buy it. What happened back then that would take twenty plus years to surface?”

  Drake shrugged.

  “There’s still the psychiatrist and the teacher to interview,” he said, his eyes moving across the board. “And the other Smith’s.”

  “Fat chance of that happening.”

  Drake reluctantly agreed.

  “Any word from Detectives Simmons or Yasiv?”

  “Not yet. Should be checking in soon,” she sighed. “I’ve got a press conference to get ready for. You going to go talk to Dr. Kruk?”

  Drake grimaced.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Well too bad, I’m in charge. Go check him out, see if you can get any information about Thomas from him. Make it brief; as I said before, he’s likely to jump into the confidentiality speech faster than you can fold rockets with four to a flush on board. But maybe you can startle him with your knowledge of Thomas seeing the high-priced call girl,” she shrugged. “I don’t know. Just try. If nothing comes out of that or the interview with the teacher, we’ve got nothing that will satisfy Rhodes.”

  Drake blew out of his mouth, making his lips vibrate.

  Fucking psychiatrists.

  “Fine,” he said petulantly.

  Chase slapped him on the back, and he winced as new pain shot up from his bruised, probably broken ribs.

  “Cheer up, we’ll have all night to chat, remember? We’re relieving Detective Gainsford at ten.”

  Drake did remember, and he wasn’t happy about that either. If he was with Chase, he was going to have to remain relatively sober.

  “Yeah, sure, good times.

  “What about the girl?” Chase asked.

  “Let her go,” Drake said. “She’s not going to help us here. Maybe the whore will grow a conscience and talk to us later on.”

  “Sure, and I’m Monica Seles.”

  Chapter 41

  “A loss of any loved one—a child, a spouse, a parent, a friend—is always difficult. If you also work with this person, things can be even more difficult. When a parent dies, say, your instincts might be to head back to work, to use work as a vehicle to take your mind off the loss. Clearly, this won’t work if your job reminds you of your loved one. When this happens, I think it’s best to ask yourself why you want to go back to work. And remember, Drake, everythin
g you say here is confidential. But it’s more than that, this place is also a judge free zone. I’m here to help you recover from this terrible loss, nothing more. So please, be honest with me, but most importantly be honest with yourself.”

  Drake closed his eyes, not bothering to wipe away the tears that started to stream down his cheeks.

  “I want to do right by him, by Clay. He deserves as much.”

  “Can you be more specific, Drake? What do you mean by do right by him? Remember to be honest.”

  Drake’s breathing hitched.

  “I want to make sure that his death wasn’t in vain.”

  He heard the psychiatrist scribble something on her ubiquitous pad of paper.

  “Can you be more specific? Be honest.”

  “I mean, he was dedicated to taking murderers off the street.”

  “More specific, be honest.”

  “Clay would want me to stay on, to continue in his memory.”

  “Specific. Be honest, Drake. Be honest.”

  “He was a—”

  “Be honest, Drake. Honest. Be honest.”

  “I—”

  “Honest, Drake, be honest. It’s important to be honest… honest. Be honest!”

  “It’s—”

  “HONEST! BE HONEST! BE FUCKING HONEST!”

  “I want to catch the fucking bastard that killed Clay! I want to find him and I want to put a fucking bullet right between his goddamn eyes!”

  Drake was overcome by sobs, the word honest repeating over and over in his mind.

  “I want to kill him.”

  More scribbles.

  “But you did kill him, Drake. You killed the man who murdered Clay Cuthbert. His name was Peter Kellington and he was the Skeleton King. Clay was his eighth victim.”

  Drake’s eyes snapped open and he caught sight of his reflection in the rearview mirror. His cheeks were soggy with tears, his eyes bloodshot.

  “It wasn’t him,” he sobbed, his hand reaching for the glove box. He popped open and he pulled the miniature of Johnny out. “It couldn’t have been him. I saw someone else there.”

  Drake snapped the top off and finished it in one swallow. Then he wiped the snot from his nose with the back of his hand.

  Then he closed his eyes. An image of Clay’s face—Bearded NYPD Homicide Detective is the Skeleton King’s final victim—flashed, and his eyes flew open again.

  Startled by the vividness of the image and the messy collaboration of fact and fiction with respect to his interview with the NYPD psychiatrist, Drake ground his teeth and pulled himself out of the car.

  The pain that shot up from what he was positive were broken ribs was actually a relief; at least that pain had a tangible source, a physical injury that had caused it.

  Something that he could focus his efforts on, distract his mind.

  Squinting, he made out a plain white sign amidst many colorful others—Booster Juice, Subway, Audex Accounting of all things—which read: Dr. Mark Kruk, Psychiatry.

  Drake made a hard right into the parking lot, and then pulled his Crown Vic close to the white sign out front of the very last unit of the seven or eight-unit strip mall. After another quick look in the mirror—he still looked terrible, the right side of his face turning a sickly gray, punctuated by a smattering of red from burst blood vessels—Drake stepped out into the failing sun.

  Dr. Mark Kruk’s unit was the only one in the building with the blinds drawn.

  Drake walked up to it and grabbed the door handle, but hesitated and took several breaths before pulling it wide. For some reason, he felt a strange foreboding sensation wash over him, as if he was going to see the NYPD psychiatrist—Dr. Stacey Weinager—standing in the entrance, her beady eyes wide, her mouth twisted into a scowl as she shouted in his face.

  “BE HONEST! BE HONEST! BE HONEST!”

  How she had passed him, he would never know.

  Maybe it was his indubitable charm. Or maybe it was because he slept with her.

  Even though there was zero chance that he was going to do the same with Dr. Mark Kruk, his heart fluttered in his chest nonetheless. He just couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that he was a blind mole entering a den of vipers as he pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  Chapter 42

  “Adams,” Chase said as she adjusted the buttons on her blouse. The reply on the other end of the cell phone was muted. “Detective Simmons? That you? I don’t have much time to talk now. Going live in five. You got something for me?”

  The connection was poor, and she had to concentrate to hear what the man was saying. A uniformed officer popped his head into the dressing room told her that the press was waiting for her.

  She waved him away briskly.

  “Frank, you’re breaking up. Speak clearly.”

  “…hold on a sec…” Detective Simmons replied.

  As Chase waited for him to return, the uniform reappeared.

  “Everyone’s out there, Detective Adams. Rhodes is—”

  Chase covered the mouthpiece of her cell phone.

  “Just give me a damn minute!”

  The man’s face went red and he left the changing room.

  One minute… is that too much to ask for?”

  She brought the phone back to her mouth.

  “Frank you really have to—”

  “Detective Adams,” Frank said, his voice clear now. “I’ll be quick. The first two teachers, Mrs. Plouffe and Mr. Swanson barely remember Thomas and Neil. They remember Chris because he was a twin, and only then because they thought it was strange that they never met the brother—he must have gone to a different school. Mr. Urso, on the other hand, he remembers all three of the vics well. Taught ‘em math. Says that they got into some trouble, but nothing serious, just ‘kid stuff’.”

  Chase’s heart sunk. Another dead end.

  “Okay, thanks, Detective Simmons. I have—”

  “But there is one thing that you should know about. It’s Mr. Urso’s car.”

  Chase perked up.

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  “I’m not sure if it means anything, and if it weren’t for Henry, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I want to—”

  “Frank, spit it out. I have to go!”

  “Okay, okay, sorry. It’s just that Mr. Urso had a new Audio S8 in his driveway.”

  Chase’s eyes widened.

  “An S8? You sure?”

  “Pretty sure. Henry knows about cars more than I do. Says with the sport package he has on it, it must have cost at least six figures.”

  Chase thought for a moment.

  A retired high school math teacher driving a one-hundred-thousand-dollar car?

  Her mind turned to the envelope that Drake had seen Weston pass to Raul, which later found its way to Veronica.

  “I think that—”

  “Gotcha, Frank. I’m thinking the same. I’m going to head to the news conference now, and then Drake and I are relieving Detective Gainsford. Take the rest of the day off, get some rest. We’ll meet again tomorrow in the AM.”

  ***

  “We appreciate all the help that the public has provided, and we are working diligently to investigate each and every one of the tips that has been made to our call line,” Chase squinted into the warm afternoon sun, which cast the reporters outside 62nd Precinct in gold halos. “We would like to extend our deepest condolences to Neil Pritchard’s family. Like Thomas Smith, Neil was also a pillar of our community, creating and establishing many jobs for fellow New Yorkers.”

  Chase paused and as expected, a reporter filled the space with a question.

  “Is this Butterfly Killer now considered a serial killer? Why—”

  It was a power play, and she held up a hand to silence him. Unfortunately, Sergeant Rhodes, once again standing to her right, felt the need to step in and speak for her.

  “Please hold your questions until the end.”

  Chase shot him a look. So far her time at the NYPD exceeded every expe
ctation. When she had first transferred from Narcotics in Seattle to Homicide in NYC, she had expected that it would take two to three years before heading a major investigation. From there, she hoped that it would only be a couple more before she could get some eyes in the FBI profiling department to give her a look. But it hadn’t taken her years; her first case was the Butterfly Killer, which was starting to garner national news. Chase wasn’t naive; she knew that this was mostly Drake’s doing, or, more appropriately a result of his undoing, but that didn’t matter. People had underestimated her before, had put her in positions where she couldn’t possibly succeed.

  And yet she had.

  Her presence on the podium at this very moment proved as much.

  “Right now we are treating Neil Pritchard and Thomas Smith’s murders as related. At this juncture, I would like to avoid using buzzwords like ‘serial killer’. We ask that the media and general public be respectful of the privacy of the families and realize that they are mourning the loss of their loved ones.”

  She cleared her throat.

  “I will now answer just a few questions.”

  Every one of the twenty or so reporters raised a hand. Some even raised two, Chase saw. She felt something like a teacher posing an easy question to her students and having every one of them grunt “oh, oh, oh,” and stretch their arms so high that they were dangerously close to dislocating.

  Chase pointed at a young man in the front row.

  “Did Neil and Thomas know each other?” he asked.

  “At this time, we are moving forward with the assumption that they at least knew each other during their childhood. It is unclear whether they have associated since.” She pointed at a woman in the middle of the throng next. “Yes?”

  “What about Chris Papadopoulos? Is he really the Butterfly Killer’s third victim?”

  Chase cringed internally at the mention of Chris’s name, but when she answered her voice was even as ever.

  “Right now, we are working on solving the two murders here in New York City.”

  “But is he related? Is the FBI—”

  Chase expertly deflected the follow-up question by pointing to a man wearing a k-way jacket off to one side.