No need to interact with others.
“Yes,” Dwight said and then sighed dramatically. Colin was beginning to think that the man would be better off teaching the art of over-acting rather than writing. “I imagine that your books have titles?”
Colin shook his head.
“No? All three are untitled?”
His cheeks were so hot now that he wouldn’t be surprised if they suddenly burst into flames.
“No… what I mean is, I write under a pen name.”
Dwight tilted his chin skyward.
“Ah, a nom de plume,” his eyes suddenly narrowed and he leveled a finger at Colin’s chest. “Wait a second, are you self-published?”
Sweat broke out on his forehead and he glanced around nervously, feeling the eyes of the other students on him like laser points.
“Y-yes,” he admitted.
Dwight’s face underwent a series of expressions that looked to Colin like the iterations of a man undergoing a stroke in slow-motion.
“Self-published?” Dwight repeated, his face finally settling on something that was a cross between fury and pure, unadulterated disdain.
“Yes,” Colin said again, this time with more confidence. “I self-published all three of my books.”
Dwight stared at him for a moment, without saying another word. Then he rose to his feet, picked up his bag and made his way toward the door again. This time he didn’t turn around.
“I was wrong about you guys,” he said over his shoulder. “There isn’t one writer in the room. There are none.”
Chapter 9
Drake adjusted his hat, pulled his gloves on tight, and then stepped out of his Crown Vic. He approached a police officer leaning up against the side of his car, a flutter in his stomach. It was strange for him to feel this way, especially given how little he had cared when the entire 62nd precinct wanted him gone following his expose in the Times. Now, however, after what had happened with Craig Sloan, and how he had saved Suzan Cuthbert’s life, Drake had heard inklings that tensions and harsh feelings toward him had lessened somewhat.
And yet Drake knew that they would never dissipate completely. So long as Clay Cuthbert remained dead, there would always be some contempt toward him. But that was to be expected.
He felt the same about himself.
What’s with the butterflies, Drake?
With an unintentional scowl, Drake approached the officer by the car. He was staring at his cell phone, the top of his hat pointed at Drake.
“Hey, Sergeant Adams around?” Drake said as he stomped through the snow.
The man looked up and Drake immediately recognized him, but couldn’t recall his name. He was confident that this was one of the officers that Drake had approached during Chase’s press conference for the Butterfly Killer—someone who had ignored him completely.
The officer nodded at him.
“Detective Drake,” he said crisply. “Good to have you back.”
Drake’s scowl became a frown.
Back? I’m not back, and I’m sure as hell not a detective. Not anymore.
But rather get into this argument, he said, “Just Drake, please. And I’m only here to help.”
The man nodded again.
“Sergeant Adams is in the barn,” he replied, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.
Drake thanked him, then walked sideways down the embankment from the road to what was a farmer’s field of some sort. As he did, he breathed in deeply through his nose, the bite of the frigid air temporarily numbing the anxiety he felt in the pit of his stomach.
And with that, he started to piece together the crime scene in his mind.
The killer didn’t come from the road. He couldn’t risk his car being seen even in a place as desolate as this.
Drake’s eyes lifted to the small forested area behind the barn that was cordoned off with yellow police tape.
There; he came from there—through the forest.
He made a mental note to ask if there were any car tracks in the forest.
Detective Henry Yasiv stood by the side of the barn, smoking a cigarette, a far-off look his eyes. As he approached, Drake called out to the man.
“Detective Yasiv?”
The young man lifted his eyes, stared at Drake for a moment, and then something strange and unexpected happened.
Detective Yasiv smiled at him, and Drake found himself smiling back. Henry Yasiv was a young detective, in his late twenties, and although he hadn’t been around when the Skeleton King had taken out Clay, the pervasive hatred at the precinct to Drake had extended to him as well.
But Drake didn’t hold it against the man; after all, as a new detective, it was hard to make friends, and being kind to Drake would have made that near impossible.
But Chase… Chase hadn’t succumbed to that pressure. Chase had treated me well, given me the benefit of the doubt.
Drake held his gloved hand out, and Hank shook it excitedly.
That wasn’t fair, though; it did no good to compare people to Chase. She wasn’t just a different animal, she was like a goddamn alien species.
Detective Yasiv flicked his cigarette into the snow, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and then grabbed Drake by the arm.
“I’ll take you inside,” he said. “Bring you up to speed.”
As they ducked under the tape across the door, Drake said, “I didn’t know you smoke.”
“I don’t. At least not according to my wife.”
The inside of the barn smelled musty, an indication that the doors had been closed for a long period of time before their killer arrived.
“I only smoke at the scene, never at…” Detective Yasiv continued, but Drake found his mind drifting elsewhere.
The barn felt very much like the one described in the book Red Smile, and his heart did a strange flutter in his chest.
Not now. Don’t bias yourself. Just take in the facts.
But instead of focusing on the scene, his eyes landed on Chase as she spoke to a man Drake didn’t recognize, her back to him.
For some reason, the sight of his ex-partner caused his heart to skip another beat. Drake subconsciously reached up and touched the area below his left ear, the spot that was a still discolored and rough from where the fire had scarred him.
The last time they had spoken was in his hospital room when she had brought his clothes and had begged him to stay.
He swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat that refused to go down.
“Chase? Or do I just call you boss again?” he said, trying to keep things light.
Chase turned her head, her dark brown hair moving with her. Their eyes met, and then her pretty mouth broke into a smile. He was holding his hand out to her, but she ignored it. Instead, she embraced him tightly, and he hesitated.
It was unprofessional, sure, but what profession was he representing? Triple D? He wasn’t on the NYPD payroll anymore—hadn’t been in some time, actually.
He hugged her back.
“So glad that you can give us a hand,” Chase said as they disengaged.
Drake nodded.
“Just here to help.”
He raised his eyes to the man who Chase had been speaking with when he had stepped into the barn.
“FBI Agent Jeremy Stitts,” Chase said, “meet Special Consultant, Damien Drake. Shake hands, hug it out, then let’s get to work.”
Drake smirked and leaned forward to shake the man’s hand.
Special Consultant? I sound like a goddamn henchman.
And given the work he was doing for Ken Smith, henchman almost seemed like a more appropriate description.
Chapter 10
The Writer’s Circle—capitalized, likely by Dwight himself—was silent for a good three minutes after the professor stormed out.
A woman with short red hair eventually followed, but the other five students, six including Colin himself, just sat there.
Colin debated packing up and leaving as well, but he wasn’t sure where he would
go. He didn’t want to go home just in case Ryanne was still there, and he had a lot of time to kill before picking up his girls.
I can just sit here and write, he thought, and was about to pull out his laptop when the woman next to him turned and addressed him.
“What are your books called, anyway?” she asked. It was an innocuous enough question, but because the room was completely silent, all eyes were once again on him.
Colin was sick and tired of blushing, but it wasn’t something that he could control.
“They’re part of a series, I’ve just—”
“You just put ‘em up online? That’s it?” a rough looking man in his mid-forties hollered across the room. Colin turned to face him.
“Yeah, I mean I had them edited, then I just—”
“Why don’t you stand up and tell us?” the first woman, whose face was punctuated by multiple piercings, asked. She had a sparkle in her dark brown eyes and was indicating the front of the class with her chin.
Colin was confused at first, but quickly realized that she wanted him to teach.
He shook his head.
“Oh, no. I can’t—I came here to learn. I mean, I—I just put the books up there, they don’t really sell that well. I haven’t sold—”
“If you’re gonna keep on talking, do it up there!” another member of the group interrupted.
Colin felt claustrophobia begin to sink in.
“I can’t I—”
The woman with the piercings and black hair that was shaved at the sides leaned in close.
“Don’t be a fucking pussy. Go stand at the front of the class.”
Colin wasn’t sure if it was the curse that made him stand, or if it was because the woman was ordering him around like Ryanne. Whatever the reason, he stood and before he truly realized what was happening, he was at the front of the class, staring at the five other students.
He bowed his head and took a deep breath. Blowing the air out slowly, Colin raised his eyes and looked at each of the students individually before speaking.
“If there is only one thing I’ve learned about writing, is that you need write about what you know. You need to experience things in order to write about them. That is probably the only universal truth to literature.”
Chapter 11
Drake leaned down to get a better look. The woman’s arms were a mess, slashed so deeply in some spots that he could see gleaming bone peeking through. But the most disturbing aspect was that some of the wounds were old enough to have started to heal.
This wasn’t a crime of passion. This was deliberate. This was torture.
And that said nothing of the dark smear on her lips.
“This likely wasn’t his first kill,” Drake said quietly. He hadn’t meant to say the words out loud, but when he did, they shocked him a little. He glanced up, and his gaze fell on Agent Stitts. The man was older than Drake, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes suggested as much, but by how many years, he couldn’t tell. Whereas Drake’s idea of a good time was a bottle of whiskey and a slice of Key Lime pie, Jeremy Stitts looked like the type of guy who enjoyed pumping iron and being fitted for custom suits.
“How do you know?” Stitts asked. His voice was light and friendly, making it clear that it wasn’t an accusation, and yet Drake resented the question.
He rose to his feet.
“Because some of the wounds on her arms have already started to heal—she was held captive for a couple of days, at least. A first-time murderer doesn’t hold people captive. He gets nervous, doesn’t want to get caught. Kills them, dumps the body. Usually far from their home or the place they killed them.”
“Ninety-eight percent of abducted children end up dead if the aren’t found in the first twenty-four hours,” Agent Stitts offered.
Drake frowned.
“The number isn’t that different for adults.” He turned to Chase. “And first-time murders don’t do two at a time. Where’s the second body?”
Chase stepped out of the stall and made her way to the last one on the right.
“We found this one beneath the hay; didn’t even know she was here.”
Drake walked over to the woman. Unlike the first victim who was propped up, this one was almost completely covered in hay.
Does this mean she’s more or less important than the other victim?
One thing was clear: they both sported the macabre lipstick.
“We can’t disturb the hay—might be trace evidence in it. Sweat, hair, etc. Need to wait for the ME and CSU to get here.”
Drake, remembering Chase’s comment about Beckett, said, “And Dr. Campbell’s definitely not coming?”
Chase’s eyes darted nervously over at the FBI Agent, and it looked as if her breath hitched.
Drake had heard about what happened, of course, about how Craig Sloan had blasted his way out of his trunk. About how Beckett had struck him in the head with a rock before Craig could turn the gun on him.
Killed him dead.
Drake hadn’t shed any tears for the man, that’s for sure.
Not after Craig had gotten people he loved involved with his killing spree.
“No, he’s on vacation,” Chase said, repeating what she had told him earlier.
“A Junior ME is on the way.”
Drake chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling over everything that he had put together since he had parked his car and walked over to Detective Yasiv.
“Doesn’t matter. I doubt we’ll find any trace evidence here.”
Agent Stitts stepped out of the way to allow Drake to enter the main corridor, nodding as he did.
“The killer hasn’t been here before. This is his first time, and I doubt he’ll be back.”
Drake narrowed his eyes at Agent Stitts as he passed. Although he shared the man’s opinion, he wasn’t too keen on him stealing the words from his mouth.
Why is he here, anyway? There’s no evidence that the killer crossed state lines. Why did Chase bring him in?
Drake shook the feeling away and started toward the front door. Chase, an annoyed expression on her face, hurried to keep stride.
“Okay, boys, time to come clean… clue the little ol’ Sergeant in on your telekinesis, would you? How do you know that the killer’s never been here before?”
Drake looked to Agent Stitts, then to Chase.
“Because if he had known, he wouldn’t have put the bodies here,” he said.
Chase made a face.
“And why not?”
It was Agent Stitts who answered, and Drake’s frown deepened.
“Because if he had been here before, he would have known that Mr. Dolan had abandoned it years ago, and, more importantly, he would have known that this barn is often used by homeless people and drifters when the weather gets really cold.”
“And this killer didn’t want the bodies to be found. Not yet, anyways,” Drake chimed in.
“And why not?”
Drake’s answer was so immediate that it surprised even himself.
“Because the final chapter has yet to be written. The killer is going to strike again, and soon.”
***
Eventually, Drake found himself back in the conference room at 62nd precinct where he and Chase had once strung up images of Thomas Smith and the other Butterfly Killer victims.
“Sheriff Roshack of Larchmont County or Village or whatever the hell it is pretty much signed the entire case over to me,” Chase said. Drake was barely paying attention; he was too focused on the new images on the board, the photographs that Chase’s team had printed of the two dead girls from the barn. “But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want this wrapped up quickly. Fact is, there’s a lot of pressure to get this thing under wraps with as little media attention as possible. And I think we can all guess why.”
This last sentence peaked Drake’s interest, and he looked around briefly to see if others picked up on Chase’s insinuation.
Detectives Yasiv and Simmons were noddi
ng subtly, but Agent Stitts was staring stone-faced at Chase at the front of the room.
So that’s why he’s here, Drake thought.
…a lot of pressure to get this thing under wraps…
Drake wondered if Ken was the one applying said pressure.
It wouldn’t surprise him. Fact is, mayoral front-runner Ken Smith seemed to have his thumb pressing down firmly on all the NYPD-related buttons.
And it’s only going to get worse, if—when—he becomes mayor.
What had Screech said?
Whoever’s backed by the NYPD wins, or something like that.
And Ken Smith didn’t so much as have the NYPD’s backing as he was their back.
“Drake? You okay?”
He shuddered and took a sip of his own coffee.
It tasted like burnt charcoal.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Chase nodded and then continued with her preamble. As she spoke, Drake reached into his coat that he had thrown over the back of the chair, and fondled the e-reader within. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t mentioned the story, but something about the timing just seemed off.
Besides, he had driven straight from the barn in Larchmont to 62nd precinct and hadn’t had a chance to read the end of it.
“Did the ME clear the body yet?” Detective Yasiv asked when Chase finally finished.
Chase nodded.
“Yes. Cause of death looks to be a combination of blood loss and the cold.”
“Any idea how long the victims were held captive? Any missing person reports?” Detective Simmons asked.
Chase shook her head.
“We’ll know—”
The door to the conference room opened, and Officer Dunbar entered.
He was young, although not quite as young as Detective Yasiv, and had put on considerable weight since Drake had seen him last. Drake liked the guy; he was friendly, helpful, and kind. There wasn’t much to dislike, actually.
But he could also see why the man was stuck down in Records instead of being out in the field.
Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 55