Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1

by Patrick Logan

  “You were a lousy student and a worse lover, Craig,” Tracey spat.

  Craig laughed.

  “You think so? Well I spent fifteen years working on my craft, my dear. Although the time for the latter has since past, perhaps I can impress you with the former.”

  He stepped forward with the knife outstretched and then crouched on his haunches.

  “And you’re going to help me.”

  Tracey scoffed.

  “Help you? Help you? You really are delusional. You were delusional back then, and your time in prison hasn’t changed that one bit.”

  Suzan’s eyes whipped from Tracey to Craig to the knife and back again. She was having a difficult time keeping up with this manic conversation.

  “Delusional? You ruined me, Tracey. I loved you, and you used that against me. Used it to ruin me. I lied for you… I lied for you at the goddamn tribunal to make sure you kept your job. And what did you do? You threw me under the bus, flunked me from your class. Tracey, I loved you.”

  “Loved me?” Tracey chuckled. “You may have loved me, Craig, but I never loved you. You were just a quick fuck, something to take my mind off my work. It’s not my fault you latched on to me like an Oedipus leech. Everything that happened to you… everything from getting expelled, to lighting my house—this house—on fire is your doing. You need to grow up and live with the consequences of your decisions. You were a child back then, and you’re still a child now.”

  Enraged, Craig leaned back and slapped the woman hard across the face. Suzan yelped, but Tracey didn’t make so much as a whimper. Her head flung to one side, and as the echo of the slap died down, she slowly turned back to face their captor.

  “Fuck you,” she said, and then spat in Craig’s face.

  Suzan found herself shaking her head subconsciously and mumbling to herself.

  What are you doing? Don’t piss him off!

  But Tracey’s words stung Craig more than her saliva. He calmly wiped the wetness from his face and then, to Suzan’s surprise, held the knife out to Tracey, handle first.

  “You ruined my life, and now it’s my turn to ruin yours.”

  “I won’t do it,” Tracey said, and for the first time since she had been shoved into the room, Suzan thought she detected fear in the woman’s voice.

  “Oh, you will, Tracey. Because here’s the thing: you remember the test? You remember one through six?”

  Tracey said nothing, and the man smiled broadly.

  “Of course you do, after all, you made the damn thing. You see, the cops are stupid, but they aren’t that dumb. I left a little hint, a little clue from this place at every scene. Every last one of them. And eventually, they’ll put the pieces together. When they do, they’ll know that you were behind it all. It’s just too bad that you won’t be around to witness it. I made a mistake with the folder—I didn’t know that you had changed offices. But it doesn’t matter; there’s still enough evidence to link you to all of the murders. And based on your track record, I doubt the police will have to stretch too far to accept that you’re the one responsible. I mean, doctors become a little strange when they’re no longer relevant, don’t they? Tucked away in an office, out of sight, working on some bullshit assignments. All alone in the dark, things can get lonely…”

  The photographs… Craig had left them on Beckett’s desk thinking that it was still Dr. Moorfield’s office. And then Eddie found them… and… and…

  Suzan’s breath hitched.

  Eddie was putting his nose where it shouldn’t belong… budding in when he should have just minded his own damn business.

  Tracey shook her head and then laughed out loud, a hideous, high-pitched cackle.

  “You think they’ll pin this on me? On me? You really are stupider than I thought. They are going to put it all on you, Craig. How can you not see that? After all, you spent fifteen years in prison for burning this place down. And you came to my defense at the tribunal? Really? You simple idiot, they couldn’t fire me even if they wanted to, I had—and still have—tenure. But me… I testified at your trial, told the defense that I was usually out on Tuesday nights, and that this is something that you would have known.”

  The man seemed to consider this for a moment, his smile fading.

  “It’s not true,” he said softly.

  Tracey laughed again.

  “Oh, it’s true. Think about it. If the judge thought you knew I was in the house when you set it on fire, you would still be in prison for attempted murder, Craig.”

  The kind expression in the man’s pale blue eyes returned, but this only lasted for a moment. He shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s almost over now, the test is almost through. And in my unbiased opinion, I think I’m about to pass with flying colors.”

  He held out the knife again, blade first this time.

  “Take the knife, Tracey. Take the knife and slit her throat or I swear to god that I’ll cut you slow. You may think you are tough, but I learned more than just pathology during my time in prison. I will make you wish you were dead ten times over.”

  With one deft slice, Craig released Tracey from the ropes that bound her wrists.

  “Take it,” he repeated, his eyes blazing.

  Suzan was crying again, and her sobs only increased when Tracey reached out and retrieved the knife from Craig’s hand.

  Kill him! She wanted to scream, but couldn’t manage the words. Kill him!

  Tracey stared at the knife for a moment, before raising her eyes to look at Suzan.

  Suzan saw the same gleam of hatred, of anger, of vile resentment in the woman’s face that mirrored their captor’s.

  “No,” she moaned. “Please don’t do this.”

  In her mind, she clung to the notion that this was a trick, that the old doctor was going to pretend to cut her, then reach out and drive the knife into Craig’s chest.

  But those eyes… she’s as batshit crazy as he is.

  Instead of moving toward Craig, Tracey slid closer to Suzan. Through tear-streaked vision, she looked to Craig in desperation, praying that he would finally come to his senses and just let her go.

  But when her eyes focused on the gun that had replaced the knife in his hand, the gun that was aimed directly at Tracey’s narrow chest, she lost all hope.

  “Do it, Tracey. Finish the test for me.”

  This can’t be happening. She can’t really be thinking about doing this.

  “No, don’t,” Suzan pleaded. “Please.”

  But the steel in the woman’s gray eyes made it clear that her mind was already made up. Before Suzan could get her arms out in front of her, forgetting up until this moment that she had freed them, Tracey lunged, driving the point of the knife into her throat.

  Suzan gasped and fell backward with the force of the impact.

  “Yes!” she heard Craig scream, but his voice now sounded far away. She felt blood start to flow down her neck, dampening her hair, and then Tracey was on top of her, her rail-thin body blocking Suzan’s view of Craig.

  The woman’s thin, wrinkled fingers went to work, moving the knife back and forth.

  Hesitation marks, Suzan thought absently. Just like in the photograph.

  She closed her eyes, and Craig’s laughter washed over her in waves.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  Then Suzan heard another sound—splashing liquid—followed by the caustic smell of gasoline.

  As consciousness faded, a bright light flashed behind Suzan’s closed lids, and she heard flames beginning to devour the previously scorched wood.

  Chapter 63

  “Drake? Slow down!” Chase said, pulling the phone away from her ear to avoid being deafened by Drake’s shouts. “Craig Sloan? How do you know this is our guy?”

  “I just met with Ken Smith—he was on the tribunal. Says that Dr. Moorfield was having a relationship with a student… Craig Sloan.”

  Chase nodded to herself, then turned to Dunbar.

  “Dunba
r, I need an address for Craig Sloane.”

  Dunbar whipped around, but Screech beat him to the keyboard. He hammered away on the keys for a few seconds.

  “Craig Sloan, expelled from pathology residency,” Screech said quickly, his eyes remaining locked on the screen. “Spent fifteen years in prison after being convicted of Class 1A arson for burning down his professor’s house—Dr. Moorfield, I presume.”

  Chase moved to get a better look at the computer screen.

  “Hold on, Drake,” she said into her phone. A strangled gasp escaped the man’s throat, followed by the sound of a car engine starting up. “Just hold the fuck on.”

  “Got out on parole eight months ago,” Screech continued.

  “Address, Screech. Give me a damn address.”

  “Working on it,” Screech said as he continued to type. Another image flashed on screen, this time of a still smoldering colonial, a fire truck in the foreground. “Shit, I can’t bring up anything recent.”

  “Lemme try,” Dunbar offered, squeezing in beside Screech. Screech lifted his hands, relinquishing the keyboard to the officer. Chase watched intently as Dunbar pulled up the NYPD server, then navigated to the button in the upper right-hand corner of the screen marked PAROLE.

  “Chase, you’ve got to hurry! There’s no time!” Drake shouted.

  “Working as fast as we can, Drake. Anything, Dunbar?”

  Chase watched as the man punched in credentials for an officer whose name she didn’t recognize, and then began his search for Craig Sloan. A moment later, an address appeared on screen.

  “What the hell?”

  “What?” Drake yelled through the phone. “What is it?”

  “He… he lives in a halfway house in Jersey,” Chase replied quietly.

  “Jersey? You sure?”

  “It says it right here—Craig Sloan, address in Jersey,” Dunbar confirmed.

  “No, that can’t be right,” Chase said, more to herself than to Drake or anyone else.

  It didn’t make sense. All of the murders had taken place in New York, and there was no way that he would risk taking both Suzan and Dr. Moorfield all the way to Jersey. Besides, if he grabbed Suzan this afternoon… did he take her to a safe place in Jersey first, then come back for Moorfield, only to go back again? Did he even have enough time to do all that?

  Unless he’s already killed Suzan…

  Chase shook the thoughts from her head.

  “Wait a second,” she heard someone on the other end of the phone say. “Drake, quick, give me the phone… Chase? It’s Beckett. There’s no way this dude’s in Jersey. He can’t—wait a second!” Chase heard him snap his fingers, and when he spoke again, his voice was tight, excited. “Goddammit, it’s the ashes! He’s at the house that he burned down—tell me the address for that house!”

  Chase tapped Dunbar on the shoulder.

  “Gimme the address of the house Craig burned down.”

  Dunbar’s fingers flew across the keys.

  “It’s in Lenox Hill.”

  “Lenox Hill? Did Dunbar say Lenox Hill?” Beckett cried.

  “Lenox Hill,” Chase confirmed.

  “Then that’s where he’ll be.”

  Chase heard an engine rev in the background.

  “I’m coming to meet you!” she shouted as she reached for her coat. “Be careful, for Christ’s sake!”

  But the line was already dead.

  Chapter 64

  Drake hammered his Crown Vic into drive and the car shot forward, clipping a chrome waste bin outside Ken Smith’s condo complex.

  “It’s on East 70th,” Beckett informed him out of the corner of his mouth. “You know where that is?”

  Drake nodded enthusiastically.

  “It’s not far.”

  He yanked the wheel to the right and peeled out of the parking lot.

  They had been driving for less than fifteen minutes before they saw the color of the sky change, transitioning from a deep navy to a caustic yellow.

  We’re too late, Drake thought. I’m too late.

  “Fuck!”

  He pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor, swerving to avoid slower moving cars that became a blur, their blaring horns melting into a drone.

  Drake pulled onto East 70th Street a few minutes later, the throaty growl of the Crown Vic now punctuated with a metallic sound, a tangible protest to having been pushed so hard.

  But Drake barely heard any of this; the blood roared in his ears like an oceanic high tide.

  Dr. Moorfield’s house suddenly loomed into view and a moan escaped his lips.

  “Jesus Christ,” Beckett muttered from the passenger seat.

  The entire second floor was ablaze, a kaleidoscope of intense yellow, orange, and red hues. The heat from the fire was so powerful that even from thirty feet away, the interior of the car suddenly felt like a sauna.

  Ignoring the heat, Drake pulled into the driveway and leaped from the vehicle. Vaguely aware that Beckett was struggling to keep up, he sprinted down the side of the house, his aim set for the shadowy figure that he had seen climbing out of a window.

  Heart thudding in his chest, Drake turned the corner just as he reached top speed.

  The man wearing black never saw him coming.

  Drake drove his shoulder into the unsuspecting man’s spine, sending them both sprawling to the ground. Drake, breathing heavily, flipped the man over while raising a fist above his head.

  “Where is she?” he bellowed.

  The man looked up at him with wide eyes and horror washed over Drake. He recognized this man, their killer: it was the same man who had helped him up when he had fallen outside Barney’s.

  What had he said?

  You should be careful out here, especially if you’ve been drinking… not everyone is as nice as I am.

  The felled man took advantage of Drake’s momentary confusion and shot a knee upward, into his groin.

  Drake grunted as searing pain shot up from the point of impact, and his body protectively curled into a modified fetal position. Through flashes of red and white, Drake saw the man struggling to scramble to his feet. With a guttural roar, he fought the pain in his crotch and at the last moment managed to unfurl himself.

  Drake’s hand shot out and latched onto the man’s ankle. Mustering all of his remaining strength, he pulled—pulled hard—and the man crashed back down. His hands went out to break his fall, but he was too slow and his chin bounced off the flagstones with a tremendous smack.

  Drake crawled on top of him, grabbing a handful of his brown hair.

  “Where is she?” he yelled again, feeling the heat from the burning house to his right beginning to scald his flesh.

  There was no answer; the man had been knocked out cold.

  Drake jumped to his feet and spun around, surprised to see Beckett standing behind him, a shocked expression on his face.

  “Grab him! Throw him in the trunk!” Drake yelled.

  Beckett, frozen in fear, just stood there.

  “Do it!”

  The second shout spurred Beckett to action and he strode forward, grabbing ahold of Craig Sloan’s ankles.

  “Where are you going?”

  Drake turned to the burning house.

  “Inside! I’m going inside! She could still be alive in there! Suzan could still be alive!”

  Without waiting for a response, Drake shielded his face from the blaze, and then pulled himself through the opening in the plywood that moments before the killer had crawled out of.

  Chapter 65

  Beckett watched his friend disappear into the flames. He wanted to stop him, to tell him that they were too late, that Suzan was gone, but he knew better than to waste his breath.

  Drake was going to find Suzan Cuthbert, or he would die trying.

  And it was all his fault. None of this would have happened if he hadn’t asked Suzan to be his TA, to help him look into the strange coincidences between recent suicides and the forensic pathology final exa
m.

  Tears streamed down his face, and Beckett ground his teeth. With a grunt, he dragged Craig’s limp body down the side of the house. The man was thin, but Beckett wasn’t used to this sort of physical exertion and within seconds, sweat mixed with the tears on his face.

  Everything that had happened was so surreal, so completely outside his reality.

  Puzzles… he liked puzzles, and most of the people he came across in his line of work were already dead. Heading to Montreal to inquire about a murder was one thing, but this… this was too much.

  Beckett eventually dragged Craig’s limp body to the front of the house. When he got to the Crown Vic, he reached inside and popped the trunk. Then he oriented Craig’s body close to the opening. With a deep breath, he leaned down and scooped up his body. He teetered and for a brief moment, he feared that he was going to topple. Grinding his teeth and driving his feet into the asphalt, he managed to right himself, and with a final thrust, he managed to drop the man’s body into the trunk.

  Craig’s body landed with a dull thud, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Beckett’s eyes locked on the man’s face, and it was suddenly the only thing that he could see.

  The fire in front of him was gone, and he was deaf to the sirens that had started to fill the night air.

  There was only him and their killer.

  “Wake up!” he screamed. “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!”

  He wanted—no, wanted wasn’t a strong enough word for what he felt. Beckett needed the man to atone for what he had done, for the lives he had destroyed, including his own.

  “Wake up!” he shrieked.

  Beckett was nearing hysteria now, and he might have lost it completely if it weren’t for the sound of splitting wood from inside the house.

  His eyes flicked up in time to see part of the roof collapse inward with an incredible shower of sparks.

  Beckett slammed the trunk closed, avoiding looking at Craig again for fear of what might happen, and then pulled out his cell phone.

  “Chase!” he yelled. “We need an ambulance and the fire department to Dr. Moorfield’s house in Lenox Hill now!”