Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9)

by Patrick Logan

  Drake turned to look at the man in uniform standing beside his car. It took a moment to realize how sketchy he must have appeared: parked in a beat-up Crown Vic staring at the psychiatric facility with a glazed-over look in his eyes.

  He rolled down the window, keeping his other hand firmly on the butt of his gun. Years of training in the NYPD meant that he didn’t consciously need to look for signs of danger, he just seemed to absorb them.

  The security guard was young and green, but impressively built. And like Drake, he was also gripping his gun.

  Drake didn’t have time to come up with a story, a lie, that would get him inside without violence.

  “Sir? I’m going to have to ask you to back your vehicle up, continue on the main road.”

  The issue was that the security guard had positioned himself in such a way, clearly on purpose, that Drake couldn’t open his car door.

  “Who’s your boss, son?” he asked mostly just to give himself some time to figure out what to do next.

  It didn’t work.

  “Sir, please move your car.”

  Fuck…

  “I—uh, can I speak to your supervisor?”

  “You may not. If you would like to speak to someone in charge, you can call the facility directly. But first, you need to move your car back onto the road.”

  Drake grimaced.

  This was going to prove tougher than he’d first thought. Sometimes, dealing with a green officer was a good thing—they were inexperienced and only followed the book. When the situation didn’t reflect anything they had studied, they were easy to overtake. Other times, Drake would have preferred to deal with a jaded veteran who occasionally let his guard down.

  Unfortunately, this man seemed to toe the line between both worlds, despite his apparent inexperience.

  “Move your car, or I’m going to—”

  Drake’s phone started to ring. Grateful for the distraction, he held up one finger, then took his hand off his gun to reach for it on the passenger seat. It wasn’t as if he was just going to shoot this poor guy, anyway.

  “No, no, back your car up then answer the phone. You’re not—”

  Drake ignored him and looked at his phone.

  Calling me back already?

  He answered it.

  “Patty? Now’s not a good time. I’ll—”

  A scream cut him off.

  “Patty? What’s wrong?”

  “Please back your—”

  “Patty?”

  “Sir—”

  Drake glared at the man.

  “Shut the fuck up—just shut the fuck up!”

  The man recoiled and bit his tongue.

  “Patty, what’s wrong?”

  There was ambient noise coming through the receiver, some sort of crackling that made it difficult for him to hear and understand.

  “Drake? Drake, I’m trapped… I’m at the shelter and someone… Jesus, Drake, someone started a fire and I’m trapped!”

  “Hang tight, I’m coming!”

  Drake threw the phone on the passenger seat and put the car into reverse. The Crown Vic’s tires squealed when he hammered the gas and the security guard had to leap back to avoid being run over. As he tore down the road, his eyes were drawn toward the psych facility.

  I’ll come back for you, Suzan. That’s a fucking promise. But right now, you’re safe… and Patty most definitely is not.

  Chapter 45

  The fire grew even faster than Chad could’ve ever dreamed of. It was as if someone had doused the SPCA shelter in gasoline before he’d dumped the flaming bucket of paper inside. Within five minutes of him running and crouching behind a tree far enough away not to be noticed, but without compromising the video quality, the entire front lobby area was ablaze.

  At any moment, Chad expected the sprinklers in the building to come on and to watch all his hard work go down the drain.

  But they never did, and this made him giddy.

  The roar of the fire was getting louder with every passing second, as was the sound of wood splintering, but you could still hear the animals. A dog, probably one of those tiny rat-like things, was yapping incessantly and a hound of some sort was bellowing. It was like listening to the dueling death cries of a baritone and tenor.

  Within minutes, the first of what would become many sirens added to the cacophony of death.

  And all the while, Chad kept on filming. He repeatedly adjusted the angle, trying to make sure that while the burning building was front and center, his profile was still in the shot. As he crouched and rotated the phone, some beast of a car that looked straight out of a 1950s cop show rocketed down the street. The driver yanked the wheel hard and the vehicle shot over the curb and small berm that separated the SPCA parking lot from the road.

  “Yes,” Chad whispered, his voice trembling. “Yessssss.”

  A man jumped out and without even looking around, bolted into the flaming building.

  “Fucking yessss!”

  Chad wanted to keep filming, but people had started to gather now. Some were shouting, some pointing, others taking videos of their own. He knew that it was probably in his best interest to shut down his phone, to get the fuck out of there before the fire department, or even worse, the cops arrived.

  But he couldn’t help himself.

  Chad turned his phone straight ahead now, still locked on the fire but no longer with his face in the shot. With his free hand, he pulled the makeshift bandanna from the bottom point all the way up over his head and then tucked it into the knot at the back. It was much easier to pull it up than it was to ease it down.

  Next, he walked briskly toward several spectators who were cautiously standing on the opposite side of the road. One of them heard him approach and turned to face him. He had the build of an old-timey mechanic and the thickened hands to match.

  “Shit, this is brutal… there are animals trapped inside,” he exclaimed pointing back toward the shelter.

  Chad did his best not to smile.

  “Oh, yeah, fucking terrible. Just awful.”

  Then, as he started to back away, Chad laughed. He hadn’t meant to but he couldn’t help it.

  The mechanic glared over his shoulder at him, a disgusted look on his lined face.

  “You think this is funny? Hey, buddy, you think this shit is funny? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  Chapter 46

  It was never a good idea to run into a blazing inferno, but to do so with a loaded gun on your person was even crazier. Drake paused only for long enough to pull his pistol out and toss it onto the passenger seat, then he jumped out of his car.

  The irony of coming from the psych facility where Suzan was being held to a burning building wasn’t lost on Drake. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d rescued Suzan from a situation very much like this.

  Minus the howling dogs, of course.

  Drake leaped through the smashed window, shielding his mouth and nose with the crook of his elbow.

  The sound of the fire was loud but the sound of the animals was louder.

  “Patty!” he shouted. His words were first chewed by his arm then swallowed by the fire.

  Drake pushed onward, noticing that the flames were mostly confined to the front of the shelter. This confused him as standard building code meant that there had to be a rear door here somewhere, which begged the question: why was Patty stuck in the back? Did whoever start the fire block the exit?

  And why the fuck weren’t the sprinklers going off?

  Even through the thick smoke, Drake could see the glinting metal heads embedded every few feet in the ceiling above.

  “Patty!” he yelled again, this time pulling his arm away from his face.

  Thick smoke filled his nose and lungs.

  Drake continued forward, almost slipping on a massive pile of what looked like melted blue crayons. He didn’t see Patty in the front, nor did he see her down the hallway where the animal cages were.

  “Patty!”

&
nbsp; “I’m right here!”

  Drake was startled by how close the sound was. He turned to his right and spotted Patty on all fours, struggling to open one of the drawers on the desk near the back of the lobby. The desk itself was just starting to catch on fire. He ran to her, grabbing her beneath the arms and pulling her away from the fire.

  At least, that was what he tried to do.

  Patty resisted.

  “What are you doing?” Drake pleaded. “We need to get out of here! The whole place is—”

  “I can’t leave them, Drake! I can’t!”

  Drake suddenly realized what was happening.

  “Shit—move aside, move aside,” he instructed.

  When Patty didn’t immediately get out of his way, he pushed her, and she fell on her ass. Drake assumed her position and grabbed the metal handle. He cried out when the skin on his palm sizzled, but he didn’t let go. Drake pulled and the wooden drawer flexed but refused to open.

  “Fuck.”

  He wrapped his other hand around his first and pulled again, this time arching his back with the effort.

  It still didn’t open.

  Drake didn’t understand how such a shitty drawer, weakened by fire, could be so damn strong.

  “I can’t leave them,” Patty whined.

  And I can’t leave you, Drake thought.

  He knew how much Patty cared for the animals, but Drake also knew that if he couldn’t open this drawer in the next five seconds, he was going to grab Patty, throw her over his shoulder, and hightail it the fuck out of here.

  Drake adjusted his grip and pulled again.

  There was a crack, which he thought came from the drawer and not the fire, and the it gave a little. Patty touched his shoulder, but he shook her off.

  “Fucking drawer…”

  He heaved again, harder still, and this time the wood splintered, and the drawer flew open. Drake himself was launched backward. Patty crawled over him, coughing from the smoke, and started rifling through the drawers’ contents.

  “I got it!” she yelled a second later, holding up an old-fashioned key ring. “I got it!”

  Before Drake could grab her, she was scrambling on all fours, heading toward the cages.

  “Patty! Patty, get back here!”

  But she was already gone.

  Drake hurried after the woman but was completely lost after just a few feet.

  “Patty! Pa—”

  He broke into a coughing fit, doubling over at the waist in order to try and squeeze more of the caustic air out of his lungs. Drake was in the process of standing up straight again when a dark shape bounded past him, nearly knocking him to his knees.

  It was a black Doberman.

  “—the fuck?”

  Another dog, a shaggy breed he didn’t recognize, clipped his left ankle, and this time he went down. What happened next was like something out of a Dr. Seuss book: three dogs, two cats, one bird, and a hamster galloped, bounded, glided, and scurried past.

  But none of them walked… none of the now dozens of animals that desperately tried to escape the burning building did so on two legs.

  “Patty! We gotta go!”

  He couldn’t pull in a full breath and it felt as if his lungs themselves were on fire.

  Waving his hand in front of his face, Drake started against the flow of traffic. The fire had spread around the perimeter of the building and now, as it started to run out of fuel, was growing inward.

  Please, Patty, where are you?

  And that’s when he heard it.

  The sound of metal on tile—the sound of keys falling to the floor.

  Drake knew that he should leave, that doing anything but leave at this time would more than likely mean he’d end up on the floor with Patty. And if the fire department took their time, that would be it—that would be the end of both of them.

  But all he could think about was Suzan… Suzan tied to a two-by-four… Suzan watching Beckett die… Suzan locked up in a fucking psych ward.

  Drake pulled his jacket off and used it to cover his face, then he ran deeper into the fire.

  Chapter 47

  “Ken!” Chad shouted into his apartment. “Ken! Turn on the news!”

  There were various takeout containers strewn across the counter, but Chad was pretty sure that they’d been there before he’d left on his adventure. Similarly, a quick glance into Kenneth’s room through the smashed door revealed it to be in the same state of disarray that he’d left it in.

  Disappointed, Chad went to the bathroom and inspected his appearance. Aside from being pale and his eyes red, he didn’t look half bad. The smell, on the other hand, was a different story. He could smell fire and sweat but underlying it all was the distinct odor of rot. Chad reached behind his head and untied the bandanna. His appearance took a drastic turn the second he pulled it free.

  Chad’s brow sagged so dramatically that he had to actively lift his upper eyelids to see, if see was what he wanted to do.

  Which, given the state of his forehead, was still up for debate.

  The fibrous stitches were still in place, but now they seemed to be a necessity rather than something to ensure a cosmetically pleasing result. In some sections, the incision was gaping, while in others, a thick, green mucus kept it tightly sealed. Grimacing, Chad reached up and ever so gently touched the skin right above one of his eyebrows.

  He hissed as a thick, foul-smelling liquid seeped from the wound.

  Lowering his eyes, Chad soaked the bandanna, wrung it out, then hung it over the shower rod. He then addressed his wound, soaking a washcloth in cold water and applying it to his forehead. Careful not to use any pressure at all for fear of losing control of his body, he cleaned the incision for a grand total of thirty seconds.

  He would have kept going—the cold water felt nearly orgasmic against his scalding flesh—but he had more important things to take care of.

  “Ken!” Chad chirped, throwing the soiled cloth into the garbage. “Kennnnnnnnetttttthhhhhhhhhh.”

  There was no answer, of course, but this didn’t deter him from continuing to say the man’s name like some sort of Children’s song.

  He opened the medicine cabinet and rooted through its contents, knocking more than half the bottles into the sink. Eventually, when there was barely anything left inside, he found a couple of painkillers and an old container of antibiotics. He popped the tops and tossed a half-dozen of pills from each bottle into his mouth. Still chewing the tabs, he left the bathroom in disarray and went back to the kitchen.

  In the freezer, he found a bottle of vodka and pulled it out.

  Then he made his way over to the couch and flopped down.

  As he opened the bottle and took a swig, Chad turned on the TV

  It was all over the news; nearly every local TV channel was covering the fire.

  He laughed and took another gulp of vodka. It felt cold and smooth going down.

  Behind the talking heads, was a live or nearly live video of the shelter.

  Chad couldn’t believe it; the place was still burning.

  “Our lead story tonight involves the SPCA shelter on Fletcher Street,” a blond woman began, her expression grim. “At approximately eleven-forty-five this evening, the entire place erupted into flames. Authorities are still investigating, but arson is believed to be the cause. At the time of the fire, there was one employee still inside the building, as well as nearly two dozen animals.”

  Vodka sprayed from Chad’s lips.

  An employee? Not just animals but an employee?

  His eyes went wide, momentarily counteracting his floppy brow.

  “An electrical malfunction kept the sprinklers from coming on. If it weren’t for an innocent bystander who risked his life, we might be talking about not only the death of countless animals tonight but an innocent person, as well.”

  The background changed from the fire to a pixelated shot of a man emerging from a beige car. Even though the quality of the photo was poor, Cha
d could see that the ‘hero’ stranger had dark hair and eyes, and a ten o’clock shadow.

  He grunted.

  “Fuck—just my fucking luck.”

  His fans didn’t want a near catastrophe. The cat didn’t miraculously land on its feet after breaking its neck, and the squirrel didn’t worm away after its limbs had been torn clean off its body.

  They wanted death. They wanted murder.

  They wanted pain.

  “Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  Nobody wanted just half a blow job, or for you to only stick the tip in, no matter what the religious nutballs said.

  Chad reared back intending to throw the vodka bottle at the screen when the image behind the blond woman changed once more.

  “No way,” he gasped.

  It was him; it was Chad42819. He recognized the bandanna covering most of his face, the discolored forehead.

  “Authorities believe that this man, who live-streamed the video of him starting the fire, is responsible. If you have any idea who Chad42819 is, we urge you to contact your local police immediately at any of the numbers scrolling at the bottom of your screen now. Under no circumstances are you to approach or confront this man.”

  The woman kept on talking, but Chad didn’t hear her anymore.

  He rose to his feet and the bottle slipped from his hand.

  “I did it,” he whispered. “I really fucking did it.”

  This time, when Chad started to laugh, he was crying, too.

  All of his dreams had suddenly come true: he was on TV. He was a fucking star.

  Chad slipped a hand into the front of his jeans and started to rub himself as he stared at his own image. All the while, he was thinking about his next video.

  Just as he came in his underwear, Chad knew what that video was going to be.

  And why it was going to be his best one yet.

  Chapter 48

  Coughing and sputtering, Damien Drake emerged from the burning animal shelter.

  He could barely see, and he’d breathed in so much smoke that his mind was swimming.

  Drake resorted to his NYPD training and stumbled toward the flashing lights. He slipped off the curb and fell to one knee. Paramedics were on him instantly.