Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  Drake’s eyes narrowed and he felt adrenaline flood his system.

  He instinctively checked under his armpit for his gun, but it wasn’t there; it was inside the apartment. Moving quietly, Drake eased the door open even further and peered inside.

  Nothing seemed out of place, at least not at first blush. But when Drake fully stepped into the apartment, he noticed a particular smell.

  The smell of cigars.

  “Hello?” He said into the darkness. “If there’s anybody—”

  A man stepped out of the shadows, a short man with a bristly mustache.

  “Hello, Drake. It’s been a long time.”

  “Raul? What the fuck do you want?”

  Chapter 39

  Beckett stared at the skeleton of a man he had once known: Detective Frank Simmons.

  It was strange seeing the body laid out like this, a person reduced to a bleached skeleton. And yet, Beckett was impressed by the killer’s handiwork.

  Without thinking, Beckett reached out and stroked the side of the skeleton’s head. The bone was so smooth that it almost felt wet to the touch, and—

  “Dr. Campbell?”

  Beckett retracted his hand and spun around to face a young lab technician.

  “Tony, I hope you have the results for me,” he said sternly.

  “It’s actually Trevor, and, unfortunately, there was no match in any database,” the man looked down at a piece of paper as he spoke. “I don’t know who the finger bone belongs to.”

  Beckett swore and snatched the paper from him before dismissing the man with a wave of his hand.

  “Go scrub a beaker,” he hissed.

  After confirming what Trevor had told him, Beckett balled up the piece of paper and tossed it into the trash bin. He was about to turn back to Simmons’s skeleton when the door opened and the same man, Trevor or Tony or whatever his name was, leaned in.

  “I thought I would tell you—”

  “More good news? What?”

  The man swallowed hard and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

  Beckett watched as CSU pushed a gurney down the hallway. On the gurney was a thick black bag, which could only mean one thing.

  Beckett immediately started toward the door, pushing his way past Tony as he did.

  “Hey, wait up,” he hollered.

  ***

  The inside of the body bag was filled with an organic soup.

  There was so much blood and intestines and other bodily fluids inside the thick plastic that it was difficult for Beckett to reach inside without risking sending the mess cascading to the floor.

  But he was looking for something specific.

  The man’s left arm was broken, a nasty spiral fracture that sent a splinter of bone jutting from his forearm, but this was of no interest to Beckett. While several of the residents now gathered around, including Trevor, each and every one of them swallowing hard to prevent from vomiting, Beckett felt all the way down to the man’s hand. As he did, the contents of the bag sloshed and came perilously close to spilling out the other side.

  And then Beckett started to smile.

  He held up the hand for the other people to see, flopping the wrist to form a macabre hand wave.

  “Say hello,” Beckett said in a high-pitched voice. “Say hello to my little friend… who just happens to be missing a finger.”

  Chapter 40

  “No way,” Drake said wagging a finger at the man across from him. “I’m not doing this. I did what you said, I found dirt on Dr. Kildare, and Ken was elected mayor. But that’s it, I’m done with this.”

  Raul smiled his creepy little smile and folded his hands in front of him.

  “I’ve done some redecorating of your coffee table,” he said quietly. “Why don’t you go and take a look.”

  Drake glanced around the man and looked at his coffee table. It was difficult to see with the lights off, but there were clearly photographs strewn all over the top of it.

  “Yeah, I’m not interested in your last Grinder date, buddy. I would advise you to get the fuck out of my house before I make you get out.”

  Raul didn’t react to the threat; he simply indicated the table once more, this time with his chin.

  “I think you should take a look.”

  Drake took several steps forward, making it look like he was going to the table. But at the last moment, he lunged to his left and reached for Raul.

  He had forgotten how fast the little guy was.

  Raul easily sidestepped the attack. And then, as Drake stumbled, he sprang into action, driving his interlaced hands into Drake’s side.

  Drake grunted and protectively bent in the direction of the strike, which was precisely what Raul wanted him to do. The man separated his hands, then grabbed Drake’s opposing shoulder and spun him around, while at the same time driving his knee into the side of Drake’s leg.

  Again, Drake cried out and tried to get to his feet, but he could barely move. Raul had some sort of strange hold on him, gripping his collar and his opposite elbow. He had no choice but to shuffle forward on one knee when Raul applied pressure.

  “You motherfucker,” Drake hissed. His side was roaring with pain, and it felt as if his hip bone had been reduced to gelatin.

  “Drake, look at the pictures.”

  At first, Drake refused. But Raul pressed his wrist against the back of Drake’s head and, fearing that his face would be smashed against the glass tabletop, he finally relented.

  The first photograph was an image of him breaking into Dr. Kildare’s campaign office. More of these followed, including ones of him setting up the cameras, which he had done at Ken Smith’s behest. The last image was of the finger bone lying in the center of the office with Drake in the foreground.

  “You fucking took it. You took that bone and you gave it to Simmons. But why—”

  Raul drove his wrist into the back of Drake’s head again, quieting him.

  “Look again.”

  With gritted teeth, Drake turned his attention to the next series of photographs. These were taken on a yacht, one that looked oddly familiar to him. And when he saw the name of the boat, he knew why: B-yacht’ch. He had known that there was something up with Bob Bumacher, but he hadn’t thought that he was also in bed with the Mayor. The next picture was of a crate full of plastic white bags filled with yellowish powder. On the top of each was the symbol for ANGUIS Holdings, which was also the same as the tattoo on Raul’s forearm.

  “What the—” another shove and Drake’s attention was directed at the final photograph.

  This one was of a man, a man that Drake had never seen before, submerged in water. He was stretching toward the surface, but it was clear by the way his eyes were blank and his mouth slack, that he was already dead.

  And there was a man hovering over the dead, someone Drake knew quite well.

  Dr. Beckett Campbell.

  “What is this? What is this shit?” he growled.

  Raul released his grip and stepped back. With a groan, Drake rose to his full height and turned.

  He was still trying to wrap his mind around the pictures, but there was something else that was bothering him. Something that had been nagging him ever since Ken Smith had first approached him more than a year ago.

  What the hell did a man like Ken Smith, on his way up, destined to become mayor, want with a washed-up NYPD detective?

  Sure, he had helped get Ken elected, but based on the polling results even before Drake’s intervention, it was clear that the man was well on his way without his help.

  “What the hell do you want from me?” he asked at last.

  “These are pictures of you and your friends,” Raul said with a smirk. “And we have more.”

  Drake threw his arms in the air.

  “What the fuck do you want from me?”

  Raul shook his head.

  “No, Drake. It’s not what we want from you. It’s what you want from your brother.”

  Chapter 41

>   “My brother? Dane? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Raul, his hands once again clasped in front of him like a pauper, nodded.

  “Mr. Smith has a keen interest in your brother. But he is a difficult man to get a hold of. We need you to reach out to him and set up a meeting.”

  Now Drake was certain he was dreaming.

  Dane? What the fuck did they want with Dane?

  “Hey bud, I don’t know where you’re getting your intel, but I haven’t spoken to Dane in… what? A decade? Maybe more?”

  As he spoke, Drake’s mind drifted back to the last time he had seen his brother, how scared they had all been.

  “I’m sure you can find a way to reconnect,” Raul said. “After all, blood is thicker than oil.”

  “It’s—” Drake stopped himself from correcting the man and closed his eyes. His side was aching, as was his head.

  Why can’t you just leave me alone?

  All he wanted at that moment was for his pain and anger and frustration to just go away.

  “One more thing, Drake. I need you to stop your investigation into the Skeleton King. Aaron Walsh is your man. No need to dig any deeper. Palmer will help you out with the details.”

  Drake scowled.

  “Palmer, that weaselly fuck. I knew—”

  “You have one week, Drake. One week, before we release these pictures.”

  Drake didn’t reply, didn’t even open his eyes. He knew what Raul meant by releasing the pictures; he hadn’t forgotten what had happened to Ivan back at the warehouse.

  And if they ran in the Times? That would crush Jasmine. It would ruin Screech and destroy Beckett.

  The latter would probably end up in prison.

  Dane… They want Dane? What in God’s name is going on here?

  “Last I heard, Dane was somewhere in South America,” Drake said as he opened his eyes. “He was—”

  Drake stopped speaking when he realized that Raul was no longer in the room. He stood and glanced around, but the man had vanished.

  Finally alone, Drake walked over to the bar and grabbed himself a bottle of Johnny black. He filled a tumbler nearly to the top and then collapsed onto the couch. After a satisfying gulp, he rested the glass on his stomach and closed his eyes, trying to will away the headache and the confusion that washed over him.

  The drink slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor as Drake fell asleep for the first time in what felt like forever.

  ***

  “Come on, Drake. You need to have my back on this one. Peter Kellington’s our guy. Shit, his hair was found on the skeleton and we tapped his phone.”

  Drake stared at his friend from the passenger seat of his car.

  Clay was looking out the window as he spoke, his back to Drake. As Drake stared, he realized that there was something wrong with his hair—it just seemed a little off to him.

  “I don’t think he’s our guy at all. Someone who kills these people, strips them of their skin, and leaves a nearly perfect skeleton? This suggests intelligence, planning. Our janitor Peter Kellington doesn’t fit the bill.”

  “Just have my back, Drake. You’re my partner, you’re not supposed to second guess me. You’re not supposed to sleep with my wife. And you’re definitely not supposed to get her knocked up.”

  Drake recoiled.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Clay slowly turned to face him only it wasn’t a smooth, natural movement. It was ratchety, all clicks and joints.

  And it soon became apparent why.

  Clay Cuthbert had no face at all. He was a gleaming skull with a terrible wig placed haphazardly on his head.

  The skull started to laugh, the lower mandible vibrating up and down, the perfect teeth clanking together. Drake threw himself against the door, trying to put as much space between him and the skeleton as possible. If the window had been open, he would’ve climbed out of it. But it wasn’t, and the door was locked.

  All he could do was listen to Clay’s maniacal laughter.

  The wig slowly slid off the skull and Drake moaned.

  “No,” he managed, his stomach lurching.

  “What’s wrong, Drake? Have you never seen a finger before?”

  Clay laughed again as Drake stared at the crown of bones that wrapped all the way around his head.

  With more of the awkward movement, Clay moved his hands into view and wiggled his fingers.

  All eight of them were missing the last joint.

  Drake screamed.

  Chapter 42

  Drake awoke with a start. He sat bolt upright and then was greeted by a wetness on the hem of his shirt and the front of his pants. At first, he thought he’d pissed himself, but after smelling his shirt, he realized that it wasn’t urine, but scotch.

  He felt dizzy and had to expend considerable effort to avoid slinking back down to the couch. A quick glance at the window revealed that it was now dark out. He reached for his phone, which was swimming in the sea of blackmail photographs, and checked the time.

  It was just past midnight.

  Jesus, I slept for ten hours… which means we’ve got fourteen until the next body shows up, he couldn’t help but think.

  As his vision cleared, he realized that he was staring at the photographs. With a grunt, he scooped them into a big pile and then made his way over to the sink. After popping several Aspirin and choking down a glass of warm water, he found a book of matches in the cutlery drawer. Then he set the photographs on fire and threw them in the sink.

  “Fuck you, Raul. And fuck you, Ken Smith.”

  Despite his anger, Drake knew that he was in a bind. If he didn’t do as Raul asked, not only would his life be ruined, but so would the ones he loved. But if he did comply, if he somehow managed to get a hold of his brother and risked bringing him into this whole mess, when would it end? What would be the guarantee that Ken would stop using him, that the blackmail would ever stop?

  Drake shook his head and watched as the colorful flames drifted up to meet him. When the images turned black, he turned on the tap and extinguished the fire.

  You have one week, Drake… end the investigation into the Skeleton King and set Mayor Smith up with your brother…

  He rubbed his eyes.

  One thing was for certain. There was no way that he was going to stop looking for the real Skeleton King.

  I’ll deal with Raul later, he thought. Right now, I have to figure out how the hell ANGUIS Holdings is wrapped up in all this.

  Something told him that if he managed to unravel this mystery, then it would be Ken Smith coming to him, and not the other way around.

  Drake slowly made his way to the bathroom, peeling off his soaked shirt and pants as he went. Then he hopped into the shower.

  The warm water was blissful against his skin, and he turned it progressively hotter until it was just shy of scalding.

  As the water cascaded over him, he was reminded of the day when he and Clay had gone to Peter Kellington’s house in the rain.

  His partner had been adamant that Peter was their killer; he was absolutely certain of it. But the thing was, Clay was usually the more analytical of the two, and yet, in this case, it was Drake who was finding holes all over the story, huge gaps in the narrative spun in Sergeant Rhodes’s tale. Holes big enough to make a block of Swiss cheese jealous. And yet Clay was having none of it.

  Drake shut his eyes, and when he did, he saw a flicker of the skull from his dream and they snapped open.

  “Why the hell were you donating to a weird church that is owned by the same company that owns Ken Smith’s building, Clay? Why the hell did you get involved in all of this?”

  There was no answer to his queries.

  Drake scrubbed his hair and then washed the rest of his body as the questions flowed over him like the burning water.

  After getting out of the shower and drying off, he went back to his phone and picked it up.

  What he wanted to do was to dial J
asmine’s number, to apologize to her, to say how sorry he was for not calling her, not letting her know that he was okay. That he was still alive. And to ask her if Clay ever went to church.

  And, maybe even more importantly, if Jasmine had ever gone with him.

  But Drake couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he scrolled through his contacts and stopped at Beckett’s name.

  The man answered on the first ring.

  “Drake, my man. What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “I need your help, Beckett.”

  “Well, if you’re looking for a sweet, sweet release, then look elsewhere. That was only the one time. In college. And I was very drunk.”

  Drake was in no mood for jokes.

  “Things have escalated, Beckett. This killer… and the guy that got smeared by the truck—”

  “Wait—that roadkill guy, Captain Spaghetti intestines, that was your guy?”

  “Yeah… I’m surprised no one told you. He claimed to be the Skeleton King before he jumped in front of the semi.”

  “Huh. Well, that would explain why his missing finger matched the one glued to Simmons’s head.”

  Drake nodded. This was what he had expected all along.

  “But he wasn’t the Skeleton King, and neither was Peter Kellington. They were just pawns in a much bigger game.”

  “I’m here for you, Drake. Just tell me what you need.”

  “Can you meet me at Triple D in the morning? In a couple hours?”

  “Just need time to shit, shower, and shave and I’ll be right over.”

  Drake was about to hang up when a thought occurred to him.

  “Great, but there’s something I need you to do first.”

  Chapter 43

  Drake grabbed a coffee at home, sans bourbon or scotch this time, and arrived at triple D before the clock turned five.

  He didn’t even have time to sit before both Dunbar and Screech burst into the room.

  “Turn on the TV,” Screech ordered.