Drug Lord- Part II

by Patrick Logan

  The man made a face, one that suggested he’d do nothing of the sort, before starting to close the door.

  “Please? Tell her it’s Screech, tell her that I work…ed for Triple D Investigations.”

  When the butler or whatever the hell he was didn’t even acknowledge this last comment, Screech became desperate.

  “Mrs. Armatridge,” he nearly shouted into the ever-narrowing opening. “Mrs. Armatridge! It's about Drake!”

  Just before the door closed completely in his face, a woman’s voice filtered through to him.

  “Let him in,” Mrs. Armatridge said, her voice completely devoid of emotion. The butler didn’t immediately open the door, but he did stop closing it, which was something. When Mrs. Armatridge repeated the order, his face turned sour, and he reluctantly pulled the door open and stepped aside.

  “Thanks, Jeeves,” Screech grumbled as he stepped inside the estate.

  He'd been here once before with Drake, setting up surveillance equipment to spy on the woman’s husband, but that had been so long ago that he’d forgotten just how majestic it truly was.

  The walls were adorned with gilded paintings, the ceilings extended into the stratosphere, and the wainscoting on the walls looked to have been carved from the bones of some prehistoric beast. Screech was just trying to take this all in when a voice challenged him from his right.

  “What about Drake?”

  Screech put on a placating smile and turned his attention to Mrs. Armatridge, who was seated in a suede loveseat just inside the front door. The woman was wearing a soft pink blouse, with some sort of paisley cravat covering her throat. The left ankle of her white slacks bulged slightly, successfully disguising the ankle monitor hidden beneath.

  “Yes, Mrs. Armatridge, I'm sorry that I—”

  The woman waved a hand adorned with a half-dozen rings of varying sizes.

  “Get on with it. What is this about Drake?”

  Screech took a deep breath, a clear stall tactic as he tried to segue into the real reason why he was here.

  “Ah, I see; you lied,” Mrs. Armatridge said, immediately cluing into what was going on here. She turned to Lurch and gave him a curt nod. “Darren, can you please see our guest out?”

  The butler was much quicker than his age suggested, and his subsequent grip on Screech’s shoulder was strong.

  “No, wait; I'm sorry. I just… I just, uh, I need your help.”

  Mrs. Armatridge raised a finely penciled eyebrow and nodded at Darren. While the butler didn't release Screech’s shoulder completely, he loosened his grip.

  “The only reason that I allowed you to enter my home is because you’re a friend of Drake's. What I’m confused about, child, is why you are asking me for help, when, instead, you should be offering to do something for me.”

  Screech was tired and still a little hazy from all the Johnny Blue he’d consumed back in their new headquarters, and the woman's words confused him.

  “I don't know… I'm not sure what…”

  The woman teased up her trouser leg and displayed the ankle monitor.

  “Based on the money that I've paid you for your services, as well as the clientele that I’ve sent your way, one would safely assume that this is a house call—that Triple D or whatever you call yourself is checking up on me to see if there’s anything I need? Anything at all?”

  The woman's piercing blue eyes darted down to the ankle monitor then back up to Screech’s.

  Things suddenly became clear; Leroy had debriefed him about Mrs. Armatridge’s case—she was under indictment for murdering her husband—but it was the woman’s careful choice of words that gave her away.

  All her wealth was tied up in lawyers and bail and she needed someone, someone to do her dirty work.

  In short, she needed someone like Screech.

  “I would like to be rid of this tacky thing, as I would like to be rid of these ridiculous charges that are hanging over my head.”

  Screech nodded.

  “You're right, Mrs. Armatridge; you were instrumental in helping Drake and I form our practice. And I do believe that we owe you. But this… the charges you are facing are serious.”

  Mrs. Armatridge rolled her eyes.

  “Yes, of course, they are serious—don’t be simple with me. We both know that if it weren’t for the DA desperately trying to save his job, none of this nonsense would ever be happening. Still, you’d think that he had more important things to focus on than to sic an old helpless lady with trumped-up charges.”

  Old lady you may be, Mrs. Armatridge, Screech thought, but helpless you are not.

  And yet, he found his eyes drifting to a wheelchair located not far from where Mrs. Armatridge sat.

  He couldn’t remember her needing that before. Mrs. Armatridge must have noticed his gaze because she addressed the issue immediately.

  “See? I’m basically wheelchair-bound, and they claim that I pushed poor Armand up the stairs? Ridiculous.”

  Screech assessed the woman for a moment before continuing.

  His previous thought held true; wheelchair-bound or ambulatory, this woman was far from helpless.

  “Ok, fine. Enough games. I have a few friends I can speak to about your charges, about the case. But there’s something I need in return.”

  Mrs. Armatridge frowned.

  “If it’s money you seek, your request will have to wait until after this legal nonsense is resolved.”

  “No, it’s not money. It’s something else. A sensitive matter.” Screech cast a glance over his shoulder at Darren the butler.

  Mrs. Armatridge dismissed the man with another nod.

  “Well, get on with it. If not money, what is it that you want?”

  “I need a ticket,” Screech said without hesitation.

  Mrs. Armatridge's frown deepened.

  “A ticket? What kind of ticket?”

  “Why, a ticket to the ball, of course. A very prestigious and exclusive ball.”

  Chapter 26

  Time had a way of dilating and contracting when your senses were occluded and being drugged just exacerbated this effect. Which was why, when Drake finally awoke with a splitting headache reminiscent of one of his more epic hangovers, he had no idea how much time had passed.

  What he was certain of, however, was that he was no longer in a vehicle. At some point, his captors must have carried his limp body somewhere else. Drake now found himself in a seated position, propped up against a wall. It was thankfully cool here, and that, combined with the fact that he was inundated with the smell of earth, suggested that he was in some sort of basement.

  Or dungeon; he could be in a dungeon, for all he knew.

  His hands and ankles were still bound, but Drake was surprised that his liver had since taken a break from its revolution. It appeared as if whatever Diego and his crew had injected him with also had an analgesic effect.

  What a bunch of nice guys… just stand-up, genuinely kind individuals.

  Drake grunted and shifted his head against the hard wall, trying to tease the hood off. But, to his dismay, he quickly realized that it was still tightly fastened around his throat.

  “Hello?” he croaked. “Anyone there?”

  Movement from his left drew his attention. He turned his head in that direction, only to have it locked in place by two strong hands.

  Drake knew better than to resist this time.

  He heard a snap, then felt pressure on his shins. Another snap.

  Whoever was in the dungeon with him had just severed the tie that bound his ankles and the one that held the bag on his head.

  Drake grunted as he stretched his legs, then the hood was yanked off him and he blinked rapidly.

  It took a few seconds for all the sweat and grime to clear from his eyes so that he could properly make out the figure squatting before him.

  It was Diego, and he looked about as happy as Drake felt in that moment.

  “I told you to be calm,” the man said as he jammed a set
of pliers into the pocket of his filthy jeans. “Calma.”

  Drake turned his head to the side and spat.

  “My bad,” he grunted. Every word he spoke seemed to inflate his head, ratchet the PSI in his skull up a few points. The drugs he’d been injected had stopped working when they’d reached his solar plexus, it seemed.

  Diego's mouth was a thin line.

  “I didn’t want to do this, el phantasmo.”

  Drake blinked more sweat from his eyes.

  “Why the fuck do you keep calling me that? Why do you keep calling me a goddamn ghost?”

  “Because at first, I thought you were him.”

  Drake shook his head.

  “What? Who?”

  “Dane… I thought you were Dane.”

  It suddenly all made sense to Drake. He recalled the way Diego had looked at him on the boat as if he’d seen him before. And then there was the maître d' on the Virgin Gorda, who had been overcome by confusion at his appearance.

  Diego called him a ghost because he thought he was Dane.

  And Dane was dead.

  “Well, I'm not him. Now, how about you let me go?”

  Diego suddenly rose to his feet and gestured down the hallway to someone that Drake couldn't see.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Drake, but you are even more valuable than your brother. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you on the boat… you see, I have a family, one that I wanted to see again. It’s… well, let’s just say that you are my ticket back. I am sorry, Drake, but as you know, family means everything.”

  Drake growled and spit again.

  “I have no fucking clue what you're talking about. As for family, I—”

  A shadow suddenly appeared at the entrance of the cell. One glimpse of the figure and Diego scrambled out of there without another word.

  This new man stood tall and, with his head blocking the single overhead bulb, his face was shrouded in darkness.

  “Great, another fucking ghoul. Hey, listen, so long as we’re going to be friends, how about you give me some more of that drug you injected me with in the van? Hmm? A little pick-me-up between friends. I mean, if I had some—”

  The man leaned down, and his features were slowly revealed.

  Drake suddenly pushed his back up against the wall.

  “What?” he gasped. “You? I thought you were dead.”

  The man held his hands out to the sides and stared directly into Drake’s eyes.

  “You thought wrong, Drake. You thought wrong.”

  Chapter 27

  “Well? How’d it go?” Hanna asked as soon as Screech stepped through the door.

  “It went… well, it was interesting, that's for sure.”

  When he offered nothing further, Leroy couldn't help but jump in.

  “And? Can Mrs. Armatridge hook us up?”

  Instead of answering, Screech pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on Hanna's desk. She quickly opened it and scanned the single sheet of paper within. With her lips starting to curl, she handed the envelope over to an eager Leroy.

  “Something tells me that I'm not gonna like this, am I?”

  Screech gave her a once-over.

  “What's not to like? Good food, good people, rich people, and you get to dress up. A win-win… win-win.”

  Hanna rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “No, I'm really not gonna like this.”

  Leroy shrugged.

  “I don’t get it. This is… what? An invitation to some sort of auction?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” Screech confirmed.

  Leroy screwed up his face.

  “What? It’s an invitation for Mrs. Armatridge, not—” the man's eyes suddenly widened, and he jabbed a finger in Hanna’s direction. “Ohhhhhhh, I get it now… you’re Mrs. Armatridge.”

  Leroy chuckled, and Screech nodded.

  “Yeah, well, Hanna makes a much more convincing Mrs. Armatridge than either you or I.”

  “Fuckin’ hell,” Hanna grumbled. “I hate fucking dressing up.”

  “Hey, don't worry about it, Cinderella. I'll make sure to get you something purty to wear to the ball.”

  Hanna groaned.

  “When is this goddamn thing, anyway?”

  “Saturday night, which will give us just enough time to figure out our part of the bargain.”

  “Oh really, there's more? What the hell did you promise the old crust bag, anyway? Your soul?”

  “I wish it were that easy. Mrs. Armatridge is in a little legal trouble and she needs our help to wrangle her way out of it.”

  “Oh, great, so to go along with a now-deceased sex and drug trafficker, Triple D—err, DSLH—is now enlisting a murderer as one of our clients,” Hanna remarked.

  “Alleged,” Screech corrected.

  “Yeah, just like Michael Jackson allegedly stuck his—”

  “Let’s just try to figure this out, shall we?”

  Leroy crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Well, I doubt that Sgt. Yasiv is about to stick his neck out for us, given how you told him off, oh, about an hour ago.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “What about your friend in the Coroner’s Office?” Hanna suggested.

  Screech chewed the inside of his lip. As much as he wanted to stay away from Dr. Beckett Campbell given his suspicions about the man, everything seemed to keep coming back to him.

  It wasn’t that he was afraid of Beckett, either, because he wasn’t. What Screech was really concerned about is what the man might do if it came to light that Mrs. Armatridge was responsible for her husband’s death.

  Would Beckett take care of her like he took care of Donnie DiMarco? Bob Bumacher? Boris Brackovich?

  Screech shuddered.

  “Yeah, maybe I’ll reach out to him. We’ve got a few days to think about it, anyway.”

  “Well, the good news is that I won’t be the only one dressing up,” Hanna stated, her frown transitioning to a grin.

  Screech turned his eyes to the invitation that Leroy still held in his hand.

  “No plus ones allowed; sorry, Hanna.”

  Hanna shook her head.

  “Oh, no, I wasn’t talking about the debutante ball, but dinner.”

  Screech’s first thought was that Hanna was asking him out on a date and his face started to flush.

  “I’m not sure—”

  “Oh, god, you’re like a horny teenager, aren’t you?” Hanna turned to Leroy. “And you, keep quiet. I’m not asking you out, Screech.”

  Leroy laughed.

  “Dinner, at my place,” he said.

  Screech’s confusion only grew.

  “What?”

  “Well, not technically my place, but my mom’s. Look, there was nothing I could do about it. She says if I want to work here, not only do I have to finish school, but she wants to meet you guys.”

  Screech looked skyward.

  The last thing he wanted to do was go to Leroy's mom's house for dinner; he had work to do. He had to figure out the Mrs. Armatridge situation, somehow entrap Steffani Loomis, find Drake, and win the lottery to pay Roger Schneiderman.

  He had a full plate in front of him, and yet Screech didn’t feel all that hungry.

  “Please,” Leroy pleaded, and Screech gave in. They were partners, after all.

  “Okay, fine, but Hanna’s coming with.”

  Hanna grinned.

  “But of course; you can be my plus one, sweetheart. But just a heads-up? You’re not getting past first base.”

  Chapter 28

  They'd only met a handful of times, and despite the fact that his hair was longer now, and his skin was deeply tanned, the man before Drake was undoubtedly Wesley Smith.

  “I don't know what all the fuss was about. When my dad said that he was going to use you to clean up all the loose ends, to make him a legend in New York City, I had my doubts, my reservations. I guess I was right. And look at you? Pathetic. Useless. Broken.”

  Dr
ake tried to rise to his feet, but Wesley wagged a finger in his face.

  “I wouldn't do that if I were you. You see, things aren't like New York here. In fact, even though I was forced to stay here, I kinda like it. Here, in Colombia, there's accountability. Back in New York, you could pretty much do whatever you wanted and the worst that would happen is that you might get a slap on the wrist, maybe a few months in a country club prison. But here? You see those guys down the hall that brought you in here?” Wesley hesitated. “No, I guess you didn't—you had a bag over your head. Anyways, all I have to do is snap my fingers and any one of them will jump at the opportunity to come over here and cut off some of your bits and feed them to you. Why? Because they know what’ll happen to them if they don’t listen.”

  “Where's my brother?” Drake demanded, ignoring everything that Wesley was rambling on about.

  “What's with you Drake brothers and slipping through the cracks, huh? I thought I’d dealt with you, even paid off the goddamn judge to make sure that you got jail time for your little stint with Officer Kramer. And your brother? Supposed to be dead, but he's a slippery, slimy bastard, just like you. I guess the rotten apple didn't fall far from the tree.”

  Drake heard only one thing during the entire diatribe: …supposed to be dead…

  Whether he’d intended to or not, Wesley had let it slip that his brother was actually still alive… somewhere.

  The fire on the yacht had clearly been staged to make it look like both Wesley and Dane had perished when both appeared to be alive.

  “Yeah, well I guess in your case, you and your brother are nothing alike,” Drake shot back.

  The smile slid off Wesley's face and his eyes went dark. He crouched even more and pointed a filthy nail at Drake’s face.

  “Don't you ever talk about Thomas,” he warned.

  Drake's brow furrowed.

  “What? Are you ashamed of what you and your dad did to him? That you had—”

  Wesley pulled his hand back and punched Drake directly between the eyes. The back of his head ricocheted off the cold wall behind him, and stars scattered across his vision. He swooned but somehow managed to remain conscious.