Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1

by Patrick Logan

  The one act that proved to Marcus that his mother loved him after all.

  As if on cue, Marcus popped the top of the container off. Chase’s eyes locked on the wriggling caterpillar, her lips mumbling no, no, no, no repeatedly. She didn’t see Marcus’s other hand, the one with the gun that slowly rose toward the back of her head.

  Drake didn’t think, he just acted. His right foot shot out, colliding with the flat side of the butterfly case. The sound of cracking and then shattering glass drew Marcus’s attention and he spun in his direction.

  Drake remained completely still, arms still out, hoping that he had smashed the case this time. When no butterflies fluttered in front of him, however, his heart sunk.

  “Please, Marcus. She’s done nothing to you. Let—”

  And then, just as he was about to give up hope, a flutter of movement caught his eye.

  A butterfly lazily took flight, it’s wings unfurling as if they had been damp and only now started to dry.

  “Wha—” Marcus started, but as he noticed the butterfly, he gasped and stumbled backward.

  And then, in an instant, two dozen butterflies were suddenly airborne, the moonlight changing their orange wings into shimmering shades of blue.

  Marcus screamed, and when that sound faded, Drake heard something else.

  The sound of Chase crying.

  Drake didn’t hesitate, he reached behind him, pulled the pistol from his belt and then strode forward, firing two shots in rapid succession.

  The first bullet missed, tearing through the foliage behind both Marcus and Chase.

  The second, however, struck Marcus in the side, just above his left hip. The force of the impact sent him reeling, the pistol— Drake’s pistol—flying from his hand.

  He went down, hard, a cry of his own on his lips.

  Drake sprinted forward, ignoring Chase’s moans. In a matter of seconds, he was hovering over Marcus’s fallen body.

  The man’s mouth was open, his eyes rolled back in his head. The caterpillar and the gun were gone, and he was holding his side. Blood leaked through his thin fingers.

  “Just make the crying stop,” Marcus sobbed, in a high-pitched voice. “Please, just make it stop forever.”

  For a brief moment, Drake felt sorry for him.

  Beaten by his father, forced to live with his dead mother’s corpse for nearly a month. And if that wasn’t enough, tormented by bullies to such a degree that he had fallen into a coma.

  But then Drake remembered his partner, Clay, and the way he had been murdered.

  That was someone who deserved pity. Not this man. This man was a cold-blooded killer.

  Drake straddled Marcus Slasinksy.

  “You killed my partner,” he hissed.

  Marcus’s eyes flipped forward, and they were boy’s eyes again, eyes that had seen torment and horror well beyond their eight years.

  “You killed my partner,” Drake said again, this time more forcefully. “You killed my fucking partner!”

  He raised the gun and aimed it directly at Marcus’s face.

  “You—”

  “I’m not dead!” Chase screamed from somewhere behind him. “I’m not dead, Drake! I’m right here! I’m right here! Please!”

  Drake ground his teeth and drowned her out.

  “You killed my partner,” Drake said again, only this time his voice was low, almost a whisper. “You killed Clay.”

  And then he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 81

  Drake watched from the audience as Detective Chase Adams slid in behind the array of microphones sporting the same white blouse that she had been wearing when she had addressed the media a few days prior.

  “Good morning,” Chase began. Drake thought that she looked pretty good, given what she had been through and how little sleep—next to zero—she had gotten. “It is with a heavy heart that we mourn the loss of another one of our own: last night, Tim Jenkins, thirty-eight years of age, was murdered by the same man who took Thomas Smith, Neil Pritchard, and now we are fairly certain a Montreal restaurateur Chris Papadopoulos from us.”

  Drake had to smile; after all this time, Chase finally got his name right. His smile faded when a reporter in the audience, a man standing directly beside Drake called out.

  “Is the Butterfly Killer dead?”

  Chase held up a hand as if to say, one moment please, and then continued.

  “Although we continue to mourn the loss of good men, of true New Yorkers, we will also sleep a little easier tonight knowing that their murderer has been apprehended.”

  A small cheer, demure, but audible, rippled through the crowd.

  Chase held up a hand again, and this time Drake thought he could make out red marks on her wrist from where Marcus Slasinsky had bound her.

  “Is he dead? There are rumors that he was shot,” someone yelled.

  This was followed quickly by more shouts.

  “Who was he? What’s his name? What link does he have with the victims?”

  Chase shook her head.

  “During the apprehension of the suspect, the suspect, Dr. Mark Kruk, nee Marcus Slasinsky, was shot and is now being treated in critical care. He is, however, expected to survive.”

  “Was Dr. Kruk Thomas Smith’s psychiatrist?” someone yelled, and this seemed to stun Chase for a moment. But she quickly regained her composure.

  “That will be all for now,” the crowd groaned, but Chase pressed on. “I want to thank the city of New York, its proud citizens, and NYPD’s finest for all their hard work in putting an end to the short but violent bout of terror inflicted on our beautiful City. Thank you all.”

  With that, she turned and left the podium, Sergeant Rhodes at her heels.

  Drake started to disperse with the crowd, to head toward the entrance of 62nd precinct, when his eyes met those of a man with dark brown hair and thick grooves around his mouth.

  Ivan Meitzer nodded at him, and Drake bowed his head and hurried toward the station.

  ***

  Drake rubbed his fingers over the relief pattern on his detective badge, feeling solace in the texture, the familiar pattern of the shield, of the letters.

  He would miss it, of that he was certain. But it was also his only choice.

  A chance to start over.

  The door opened behind him, and he slipped the badge into his pocket.

  “Detective Drake,” Sergeant Rhodes said flatly as he crossed behind him and then took a seat at his desk.

  Neither man said anything for several moments, both eying each other up as if waiting for the other to crack.

  “Is this over?” Rhodes asked at last.

  Drake was smart enough to know that he wasn’t referring to the Butterfly Killer.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied flatly.

  Rhodes leaned back in his chair.

  “Your partner doesn’t seem to think so. She keeps asking questions, prodding areas that shouldn’t be prodded.”

  Drake scowled.

  “You mean Ken Smith—his relationship to Marcus Slasinsky and certain members of this department. About his upcoming mayoral run.”

  Rhodes held his hands out to his sides and his face acquired a smug expression.

  “I’m curious about that, too,” Drake said, his hand slipping off the badge in his pocket. “I might just go ahead and do some prodding of my own, maybe speak to a friend or two at the Times, see what they can dig up.”

  Rhodes offered a wan smile and pulled a folder out of the top drawer of his desk. He opened it, then spun two photographs around for Drake to see. The first was of him winking at the camera in the chrome elevator. The second was also of him, only now he was sitting across from Ken, a drink in his hand, a smile on the latter’s face.

  “Looks like you’re the one with a connection to the man in question. But nobody needs to know what we do in our personal lives, do they, Drake?” he paused only long enough to let his words sink in. “Look, your partner has a bright future as a D
etective. She’s good—smart, dedicated. She’ll go far, and maybe she’ll be sitting in this seat someday.”

  Drake squinted at Rhodes as he waited for the man to get to the point.

  “But,” he held a hand up, “but she’s made some mistakes. Some very serious errors that could jeopardize everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Drake snapped.

  Rhodes’s eyes shot up.

  “Well, taking evidence, for one, destroying the chain of custody. This won’t go over well with the DA if Marcus or Dr. Kruk or whatever the fuck his name ever makes it to trial.”

  Drake could feel anger building inside him.

  “What evidence? What are you talking about?”

  Rhodes had the gall to smile at Drake, his face so dripping with contempt that it looked like a melting candle.

  “The cell phone for one. Thomas Smith’s cell phone.”

  Drake leaned backward.

  “What? I took the cell phone, not Chase.”

  Rhodes shrugged.

  “Who’s to say?”

  “I’m saying, that’s who. I took the damn cell phone.”

  “Someone also broke into Dr. Kruk’s office without a warrant. Now, the secretary—a nice woman, but old and forgetful—says that a detective tricked her to gain access to his office. She says that it was a man with an athletic build, closely cropped hair that’s getting a little gray at the temples. But I’m not so sure about her memory. I mean, I’m positive it was a detective who broke in, but it doesn’t have to be someone tall, does it? It could have just as easily been someone shorter—much shorter. Someone with brown hair and hazel eyes, maybe. What do you think, Drake?”

  Drake shook his head, realizing what the man was trying to do.

  “You bastard—it was me who broke into the office, you know that. I even told her my name.”

  “What I know is irrelevant. It’s not for me to know things, Drake; my job is just to present the evidence and for the DA to decide. Now, if a senior detective were to admit to some of these more benign transgressions, while at the same time handing in his badge, well that might carry some clout, don’t you think? That might take the guesswork and memory problems out of the equation. Speaking in hypotheticals, of course.”

  Drake felt like leaping over the table and punching the pompous prick in the face. But he restrained himself.

  “And it would go over even better if said detective had a little chat with the newcomer, just a friendly conversation to let her know that the Butterfly Killer has been captured and that the case is closed.”

  Drake chewed the inside of his lip.

  With a deep breath, he reached into his pocket and took out his badge. He stroked the ridges again as he stared down at the brass shield.

  “I’d ask you for your gun, but that’s in evidence, isn’t it?”

  Drake tossed the detective shield onto Rhodes’s desk. It bounced once, twice, and then landed in the man’s lap.

  Then he stood and started toward the door.

  “I’d say you’re going to be missed, Drake, but then again, I’m not a liar.”

  Drake’s hand hesitated above the doorknob. Then he grabbed it, a smile firmly etched on his face.

  Epilogue

  Two weeks after shooting the Butterfly Killer, Damien Drake found himself back at Patty’s Diner. Only this time he was clean shaven, his hair neatly coiffed, and he was wearing a fresh shirt.

  All in all, he felt pretty good—he felt alive again. The NYPD had sucked a lot out of him, and the idea that the pieces of his soul that had eked away with every case could never be replaced had proven wrong.

  Off the drink, Drake could see things more clearly now. He had even almost come to terms with hovering over Marcus Slasinsky, moving the gun a foot to one side before pulling the trigger.

  With how close he had come to murdering a man in cold-blood.

  Broomhilda strode over to him, a scowl on her face.

  “The usual?” she asked in a bored tone.

  Drake smiled and shook his head.

  “No, just black coffee and some of that spectacular Key lime pie.”

  The waitress grunted, then turned back to the kitchen.

  As he waited, Drake’s eyes drifted toward the door. The smile fell off his face when it opened and a man in a dark k-way jacket stepped through.

  And he didn’t look at all pleased.

  “I’m still waiting for my exclusive, Drake,” Ivan Meitzer said even before he had taken a seat.

  Drake had been dreading this encounter. Chase’s words started to echo in his head, the ones she had pleaded with him after he had told her that he was done with being a detective and that she should close the Butterfly Killer case.

  Please, I made a promise… to Clarissa Smith. Please keep her family out of this, Drake. I’m begging you.

  Drake smiled again, only this time it wasn’t quite genuine.

  “I’m sorry, Ivan. As you probably know, I’m not with the NYPD anymore.”

  The man scowled.

  “So?”

  “So, as far as I’m concerned my business with you ended when I left the force.”

  Ivan pressed his lips together and shook his head. Although clearly disappointed, Drake could tell that the man must have seen this coming.

  “I figured as much. You know Drake, you’ve burnt so many bridges over the past few months that you’re pretty much stuck on an island.”

  Drake shrugged.

  “I think I’m going to enjoy island life.”

  Still scowling, Ivan stood and as he did, he withdrew a yellow envelope and threw it on the table. There was something hard inside and it cracked loudly off the cheap plastic top.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ivan said, and then turned and left the diner.

  Drake stared at the envelope for a long time. It lay untouched even after Broomhilda had brought him the suspicious Key lime pie and had filled his mug with steaming tar.

  Don’t open it. Drake, don’t open it.

  And for a while, he thought he might be able to leave it—to just get up, exit the diner and never touch the envelope.

  But he couldn’t do that.

  After all, associated with the NYPD or not, Drake was still his imago.

  He slid a finger between the seal and the envelope and flicked it open. Then he reached inside.

  In addition to the hard object, there was also a sheet of paper inside. He pulled the paper out first, then grabbed the hard object, roughly the size of a dice, and squeezed it tightly in his palm without looking at it.

  On the paper was a single word: RESOURCES.

  Drake swore and he turned his head skyward. As he did, his eyes passed the television above the bar.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Ken Smith’s face filled the screen, and although the TV was muted, the banner across the bottom told him everything he needed to know.

  Kenneth Smith, father of victim Thomas Smith, formally announces his bid for New York City Mayor.

  Drake closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring at the object in his palm.

  It was a single phalanx, a gleaming bone from the end of a human finger.

  The Skeleton King’s calling card.

  Drake felt wetness on his cheeks, but did nothing to wipe the tears away.

  Broomhilda appeared at his side almost instantly.

  “Everything alright, mister?” she asked, her tone surprisingly compassionate.

  “Fine,” Drake said. “Just get me a Johnny Red. Make it a double, neat.”

  END

  Cause of Death

  Detective Damien Drake Book 2

  Patrick Logan

  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?”