Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2

by Patrick Logan

  This was something he couldn’t let happen. Even if the girls managed to survive the journey this time, if the heroin laced with fentanyl derivatives made it onto US soil, the number of overdoses would be astronomical.

  He tapped the side of his coffee mug.

  Despite having the manifest in his hand, hard evidence that Bob was involved in this scheme, something still wasn’t adding up: the girls were found in a shipping container, not on a yacht.

  Beckett closed his eyes and thought back to his time in the Virgin Gorda when he’d first seen B-Yacht’ch.

  There were the models, the ones that Donnie DiMarco was taking photos of, and there was the skid of heroin. There definitely weren’t any shipping containers, though, at least none that he could recall. But Beckett didn’t completely trust his memory; after all, he’d been drunk half the time and high the rest.

  Could I have missed the shipping containers? Or was I just plain wrong about Bob? Was it all just a fucked up coincidence that the man had stolen a yacht that transported the girls? Maybe the manifest was something he just found on board. Maybe… maybe Bob wasn’t part of this at all.

  An image of Bob’s mangled neck flashed in Beckett’s mind and he swallowed hard.

  No, Bob was behind this… wasn’t he?

  He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts. The phone rang four times before a groggy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Screech, it’s your vacay pal, Beckett.”

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  “Let me ask you something… do you remember any container ships in the Virgin Gorda? Docked at the place we were staying?”

  There was a short pause.

  “No—there couldn’t be. Those things are massive, they can’t just pull up to a regular dock. It would be like parking an eighteen-wheeler in a cigarette ashtray.”

  Beckett’s heart sunk.

  “But… remember when Bob took us to St. Thomas?” Screech continued. “The mainland? We passed a tanker that was about a half-hour offshore.”

  Bingo, Beckett thought. That’s where they transferred the girls to the containers—offshore. Makes sense; then it would be one of hundreds or even thousands of containers, and much more difficult to find than if the girls were just on the yacht.

  How it got to the shore afterward was another issue altogether, but Beckett had the information he needed.

  And peace of mind; Bob was involved.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I’m just trying to work out the logistics of how the girls made it from Colombia to New York,” Beckett said, staring down at the manifest. “Listen, last time we spoke, you mentioned something about a Russian guy?”

  “His name is Boris… Boris Brackovich. Looks to be involved in high-end commercial real estate, but that’s all I’ve got for now. I sent his name over to Yasiv and Dunbar to see what they can dig up, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  Beckett’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the police officers, but before he could say anything, Screech continued.

  “But Drake… Drake found something. Something about the girls, how they weren’t just recruited to be prostitutes, but that they were going to be sold in an auction. And the girl who survived the journey? Mandy? She was with Drake, but he passed her off on Yasiv. But now he called and said she’s missing, that she just up and took off in the middle of the night. No one knows where she went.”

  Beckett tried to soak all this in, but Screech was speaking far too quickly for him to grasp everything.

  Mandy’s gone?

  “Slow down, Screech. Did Mandy run off or did someone—this Boris guy—grab her to tie up loose ends? And what are you talking about, an auction?”

  Screech broke it all down for him in a minute and a half. When the man was done, Beckett exhaled loudly. Then he pictured the surprise on Bob’s face when he jammed the scalpel repeatedly into his neck and throat.

  Yeah, Beckett thought with a modicum of satisfaction. Bob was a bad dude. A bad dude who got what he deserved.

  “And you guys are sure that they’re going to go ahead with another auction? Any idea when and where it’s going to take place?”

  “We’re pretty sure, yeah. Got a tip from someone who works the streets. But as for when or where, I—we—have no idea.”

  Beckett chewed the inside of his lip. It was clear to him now that even though he was confident that Bob was involved, he was low down the food chain. After all, they’d spent time together on the yacht and while Bob wasn’t stupid, he wouldn’t have the connections or the foresight to put together an auction.

  Auction… selling girls as sex slaves.

  The thought was enough to send a shiver up his spine.

  Beckett checked his watch. It was nearly 8 o’clock; if he hurried, he could incinerate his bloody clothes and the balaclava back at the lab, file his preliminary report on Bob Bumacher, and still make it to the yacht before it set off.

  He had a feeling that the yacht would leave with or without the white hulk, and whoever was on that boat would be one step higher than Bob Bumacher.

  “All right, I’ll see what I can do for my end,” he said.

  “What you mean?” Screech asked, suddenly sounding accusatory.

  “Nothing. Just that if I hear or see anything in the morgue, I’ll let you know. And if anything comes up on your end, don’t be a stranger.”

  Another pause.

  “Okay,” Screech replied hesitantly. “Everything alright with you, Beckett?”

  A series of names flashed in Beckett’s mind.

  Craig Sloan… Donnie DiMarco… Ray Reynolds… Bob Bumacher…

  “I’m fine. I just want to catch these bastards.”

  “Yeah, if we can find them.”

  Beckett focused on the yacht manifest in his hand.

  Unlike Screech, he wasn’t worried about finding the men responsible, he was more concerned with what he would do to them once he did.

  Chapter 40

  Drake awoke with a start. At first, he didn’t know where he was, which was becoming an all too common occurrence for his liking. But as his vision began to clear, he realized that he was in Veronica’s second bedroom. He sat up and was startled to find Veronica sitting in a chair across the room, staring at him.

  “Wow, that’s creepy,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Veronica smiled and held a half-full glass out to him.

  Drake eyed the substance curiously. It was slightly viscous and had a mild yellow tinge to it.

  “Water?”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “Vodka. Sorry, but I’m fresh out of Scotch.”

  When Drake tried to bring the glass to his lips, he realized that his hand was trembling. He swallowed a mouthful.

  “Was I shaking in my sleep?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “Like a squirrel with Parkinson’s.”

  Drake took another big swig of Vodka. As he did, he recalled the last thing Veronica had said before he’d fallen asleep.

  “What about the auction?” he asked. “Did you find something out?”

  Any humor that had been in Veronica’s pretty face vanished.

  “Yeah, you should get dressed. We’ve only got a few hours.”

  Drake felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten and his liver burped.

  “A few hours? What—”

  “It’s almost seven o’clock, Drake. The auction starts at nine.”

  Drake turned his head to face the window, and even though the sheer curtains were closed, he could see that it was already starting to get dark.

  Seven o’clock? In the evening? Holy shit, Drake thought, I must’ve slept for nearly twelve hours.

  He rubbed his eyes.

  “Veronica, what are you talking about? What the hell is going on?”

  Veronica shook her head.

  “Get dressed, Drake. And then we’ll talk.”

  Drake looked down at him
self and was surprised to see that he was only wearing his boxers.

  What the fuck is going on?

  He was confident that he had gone to bed fully clothed. In fact, he remembered just collapsing on the bed and passing out.

  Drake turned his eyes back to Veronica.

  “Why am I half naked? Did we…”

  Veronica rose from the chair and started for the door.

  “You wish, Drake. You wish.”

  ***

  “They’re desperate,” Veronica said as the three of them, herself, Drake, and Mandy, sat at the kitchen table. Drake had switched out his vodka for a cup of coffee, while Mandy and Veronica sipped glasses of ice water. “I was on the street for less than an hour last night before I was approached by a man asking us if we wanted to be ‘safe’—the same thing that they told Nancy a couple of years back. He handed me the business card you see there on the table.”

  Drake’s eyes drifted down to the black and pink card on the table. In the center was the picture of the legs. The only other thing on the card was a telephone number.

  “I wouldn’t bother trying to trace the number or anything like that. I can guarantee that it just connects to a burner phone. Speaking of which,” Veronica slid Drake’s cell phone over to him and he picked it up. When it wouldn’t turn on, he raised an eyebrow. Veronica handed over the battery next. “We took the battery out; I’m pretty sure as soon as you plug it back in, the cops are going to be all over it.”

  Drake picked up both parts of the phone, debated putting it together, but then changed his mind and placed them back down.

  Veronica was right. DI Palmer would do anything and everything to bring him in. Tracing his phone would be a given.

  “So, are you gonna call these guys?” he asked.

  Veronica glanced at Mandy and then both of them shook their heads. There was something in that exchange that tipped Drake off and his eyes narrowed.

  “Not happening,” he said. “There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you do this.”

  As before when Veronica had dragged him into the adjacent apartment, her expression turned ugly.

  Drake decided to take a different approach.

  “This isn’t your fight, Veronica. It’s going to be dangerous and you yourself said that we shouldn’t get involved with these guys. Leave it to the pros.”

  Even as the words came out of his mouth, Drake cringed, expecting the backlash that was coming.

  “Pros?” Veronica repeated with a hint of a smile. “Pros like you? Like you, who was banging on my door at six-thirty in the morning begging to be let in? Rambling about needing to get away from the cops? Those kinds of pros?”

  Drake sighed.

  “Look, I’m just—”

  Veronica rolled her eyes.

  “You just what, dad? Want me to get a real job? Go to college, maybe? Rack up $120,000 worth of debt only to work at McDonald’s and spend the rest of my life paying it off to some rich assholes? No thanks, Drake.”

  “I’m—”

  “I don’t care what you do, Drake. But I know what I’m doing,” Veronica interrupted again.

  It was next to impossible to get a word in edgewise with this woman.

  “When you first got here and asked about the auction, you’re right: I had no interest in getting involved. But now that I know Mandy and I know what happened to her friends? Her family? I’m going to do whatever I can to help stop this, like I should have done when Nancy ended up in the dumpster. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why: because these aren’t just people. These are my people. And I will go to that auction tonight, and so will Mandy. If you try to stop me…” Veronica let her sentence trail off as she pulled the Taser from behind her back and crackled the leads.

  Drake sighed again, feeling the weight of the world slide off his shoulders, only to be repositioned on top of his head. There was no way to talk Veronica out of this. Absolutely no way.

  The only thing he could do was come up with a plan that would keep them all safe, keep them alive for at least one more night.

  And for once, Drake thought that he might be able to do just that.

  “Let me use your phone,” he said. Veronica hesitated, but eventually handed it over. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Without looking at her, he dialed a number. A man answered on the first ring.

  “Screech, I need your help. I need your computer skills.”

  “I’m listening,” his partner said.

  After outlining his plan to Screech, Drake hung up and immediately dialed another number.

  “Yasiv, it’s Drake. I know you’re probably losing your shit right now, but I think I found a way out of this for you, for me, for everyone. You just be ready…”

  And then Drake relayed the plan to the sergeant of 62nd precinct.

  “You do know what this means, don’t you?” the man asked when he was done. “For you, I mean.”

  Drake nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was well aware of the consequences of his plan.

  “Yeah, I know. Just be ready.”

  Drake hung up the phone and slid it across the table to a wide-eyed Veronica.

  “Does that work for you guys?”

  Mandy and Veronica exchanged a look and then turned back to him. They nodded in unison.

  “Now what? What do we do for the next two hours?” Veronica asked.

  Drake shrugged.

  “Well, for one, you can start with getting me more vodka.”

  PART III – Everything has its Price

  Chapter 41

  Veronica wiped the lipstick from the corners of her mouth and smoothed the front of her skirt. Then she looked over at Mandy, who was staring down the street, a far-off look in her eyes.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  Mandy turned to face her.

  “I’m fine. I just… I just wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for me. For my friends.”

  Veronica shrugged.

  “I’m doing it for us, honey. I’m doing it so that no one else has to die in a shipping container or get tossed into a dumpster like a piece of trash. The fact that we work in the sex trade has no bearing on our worth or value as human beings.”

  “I knew what we were getting into was dangerous,” Mandy started, eyes downcast. “We all did. But we never—”

  “Listen to me: charging money for sex is a transaction, that’s it. It doesn’t—”

  A gray cube van suddenly approached and Veronica went silent. It pulled up next to them and the window slowly rolled down. A man with a shaved head and gold incisor peered out.

  It was the same man who had approached them yesterday. Veronica put on her best fake smile and looked over at Mandy. She was surprised to see that the girl was doing the same. She might be young, but she definitely wasn’t inexperienced. And Veronica got the distinct impression that her timid exterior was just a front. In truth, Mandy appeared anything but scared, which was disconcerting to Veronica.

  Because she was downright terrified.

  “You girls looking for a good time?” the man with the Russian accent said with a chuckle. “Just kidding. Get in the back of the van.”

  Veronica’s eyes narrowed and she pulled her purse, which contained the Taser, closer to her body.

  “I thought you said—”

  “Yes, yes, yes. But my client… he is very, well, how can I say this… he is very rich. You need to get in the van, because you can’t know where he lives. Trust me, it’s safe.”

  I wouldn’t trust you with my pet gerbil, Veronica thought. I’d be gone for less than ten minutes before you had it halfway up your ass.

  “Okay, but I’ve got people looking out for me,” Veronica said. “If I’m not back in a few hours, they’ll come looking.”

  The man’s smile grew.

  “I’m sure you do, sweetheart. Just get in the van before I change my mind,” he looked at Mandy and gave her a wink. “You too, beautiful.”

  When Drake had fi
rst come up with this plan, Veronica had been concerned that one of the men involved in the auction might recognize Mandy. But now, seeing the way that the Russian man in the truck leered at her, it was clear that this wasn’t the case. Mandy wasn’t a person to them, she was a thing. A thing that they could play with, something with which to exercise their darkest, most sadistic fantasies. And when they were done with her? Out with the trash, and in with the new.

  “Okay,” Veronica said hesitantly. She looked at Mandy and then together they walked around the back of the van. As they approached, the doors swung open and two men stared at them. Unlike the driver, these men weren’t smiling. The one on the left held out a thick hand covered in wiry black hair.

  “Purse,” he said in an accent so thick that it was almost impossible to understand.

  “Excuse me?” Veronica asked.

  The man wiggled his sausage-like fingers.

  “Purse,” he repeated.

  When Veronica didn’t immediately hand it over, the other man stepped forward. Although he wasn’t smiling either, his demeanor was less harsh than sausage fingers.

  “It’s just for safety. We can’t have you taking selfies with the client. He is a very rich and powerful man. Once you’re done, you’ll get it back. I promise.”

  Veronica clutched the bag to her chest.

  She was playing a game, acting a role so as to not raise suspicion, but couldn’t imagine how anybody with any degree of common sense would enter the van with these two bozos.

  “Either you give me your purse or you go home. You can’t get in with your purse.”

  Veronica reluctantly handed it over.

  “Okay, but I know exactly what’s in there, and everything better be still there when I get it back,” she said.

  Her feigned naïveté was so saccharine that it was making her sick to her stomach.

  The man took the purse and nodded.

  “I promise,” he said again, reaching out and helping Veronica into the van. Sausage fingers did the same for Mandy.

  It reeked of stale cigarettes and sweat.

  “Where are we—” but before Veronica could finish her sentence, the van doors slammed closed. And then it took off, accelerating so quickly that she fell on her ass. “Hey, what the fuck! What are you—”