Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9)

by Patrick Logan

  “No,” he croaked. “No, not me, her.”

  The entire time, even after dropping to the ground, Patty Sheer was still draped over his shoulder. The weight was lifted by invisible hands, and Drake was lowered onto his back. In seconds, a mask was placed over his nose and mouth. He took three deep breaths, trying to get as much oxygen into his system in as short a period of time as possible.

  Then he sat up.

  “You need to come with me,” the paramedic instructed. “Just wait here, I’ll get a gurney.”

  Drake was having none of it. He used the man’s shoulder to push himself to his feet.

  “No, no, you need to—”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped. The impact of his words was lessened by the coughing fit that followed. After blinking the tears from his eyes, he turned his head in the direction he thought they’d taken Patty.

  He didn’t see her.

  “Where’s Patty?” he demanded. When the paramedic, who looked to be in his mid-twenties just stared blankly, Drake repeated the question. “Where’s the girl? Is she okay?”

  Instead of answering, the man tried to put a damn blood pressure cuff on his arm.

  “Get that shit off me,” Drake barked, shaking free. “Just tell me where she is… if she’s okay.”

  “You need to come with me—I’m going to take you to the hospital for observation. My van is just—”

  Drake dropped the mask and started to walk away.

  The van that the paramedic wanted him to get into was closer than he realized, parked in the middle of the road, its rear door open like some sort of gaping mouth.

  It was empty, which encouraged him to head to the second vehicle. This one was parked in the opposite direction and he had to push by two police officers to get to the back. They shouted something at him but didn’t pursue.

  It was chaos on the street, what with the NYPD trying to keep a dozen or so amateur vloggers at bay, the firefighters trying to put out the fire, and the goddamn animals… Drake didn’t know if there had been far more animals in the shelter than he’d first thought or if others had streamed out of the alleys in support of their brethren.

  Drake breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Patty lying in the back of the van, a mask identical to the one he’d been wearing on her face.

  A mask meant that she was still breathing.

  A mask meant that she was still alive.

  “Is she… is she going to be alright?” he asked the closest paramedic. The man said nothing, and Drake grabbed his arm and spun him around. “Is she going to be okay?”

  Despite being at least twice the age of the paramedic who had treated him, this one looked more frightened.

  “I think—I think so,” the man said hesitantly. It was obvious that he had no idea who Drake was but was simply deferring to authority. “Smoke inhalation and some burns to her arms, but mostly superficial. I’m taking her to St. Joseph’s. By the looks of it, you should be going there, too.”

  Drake had a dozen or more questions in mind, but he knew that the longer he stayed here, the more likely he’d be thrown in the back of one of these ambulances, irrespective of what he wanted.

  The only thing that mattered was that Patty was going to be okay.

  “Thanks.”

  Drake coughed, spat something dark onto the pavement, and then backed away from the EMT in search of another type of car with flashing lights: a cop car.

  Like with the EMT, he grabbed the first officer he saw by the back of the arm.

  “I’m looking for Detective Dunbar,” Drake said in a hoarse whisper.

  The man reached for his gun, but Drake beat him to it and seized the man’s hand.

  “I’m a friend. Where is Detective Dunbar?”

  The officer shook free and had a wild look in his eyes.

  Amped up as he was, Drake knew that he had made a mistake.

  “Drake? Drake?”

  He spun around and greeted Detective Dunbar who was hustling toward him. The first thing the detective did was to wave the junior officer away.

  How long is it going to take before you realize you’re not a police officer anymore, Drake? He scolded himself. You can’t just be running around grabbing people.

  “Jesus, Drake. What are you—was that—” Dunbar exhaled loudly. “Are you okay?”

  For the first time since emerging from the burning building, Drake looked down at himself. His shirt was streaked with sweat and charcoal-looking stains and his jeans were much darker than he remembered. Not only were his running shoes, which he’d worn for years, black as soot, but they were flatter, and the sole was wider than the upper.

  God only knew what happened to his jacket.

  Drake ran a hand through his hair, which felt normal, and then he looked at said hands.

  They were red, but he didn’t see any blisters.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good—now, what happened?” Dunbar asked desperately. “Drake, what the fuck happened here?”

  In his periphery, Drake saw a police officer get into his Crown Vic and drive it out of the way of the firefighter’s massive jets of water.

  Good thing I left the keys in my car…

  At times of high stress, the mind had a tendency to insulate itself by referring to normal situations.

  “Drake?”

  Drake shook his head and leveled his eyes at his old friend.

  “I have no fucking clue, Dunbar. All I know is that this fire? This fucking shit show? There was zero chance that this was an accident.”

  Chapter 49

  Chad was so excited that he couldn’t help but jump up and down, even though every time he landed, his forehead drooped even further. He was more than a little concerned that once his roommate came home, he wouldn’t even be able to see the man, let alone enact the rest of his plan.

  But goddamn it, he was on TV—national TV.

  Chad had since picked up the vodka bottle that he’d dropped and was pleased to find that there was still some liquid in it. He alternated drinking and splashing a little on a paper towel and dabbing his forehead. The first time he’d done this, Chad had shrieked. But now, everything from the bridge of his nose upward had gone numb.

  He could’ve stayed there all day; there was no question that the media would be running his face for the entire twenty-four-hour news cycle. And when they finally figure it out and linked all his videos? Shit, maybe national exposure was thinking too small.

  What about global?

  But Chad had work to do, things to prepare.

  He had to get ready.

  Chad went back to the bathroom and grabbed his bandanna. It was damp and while it smelled better than before, it was still ripe. He splashed some vodka on it, then carefully tied it around his head. This proved challenging: too tight and he’d be paralyzed again, too loose and his face would look like that of one of the Shar-peis he’d tried to burn alive.

  Breathing heavily, he eventually found the perfect balance and then gathered himself by placing his hands on either side of the sink and staring at his own reflection.

  What a fucking beauty.

  Next, he set about arranging the perfect shot. The first thing he did was pull down the black felt that hung from the ceiling in his bedroom and repositioned it in the family room. After setting a stack of towels inside the new shelter, he spent the next ten minutes arranging lamps and other light sources to make sure that there were no shadows when he started filming.

  No blind spots.

  Not only was the lighting perfect, but the black background was both mysterious as well as oddly comforting.

  Then there was him.

  He was perfect, too. His smile was perfect, his profile was perfect, everything was perfect.

  Chad was giggling as he made his way to the kitchen.

  Just one more thing… one more thing and I’ll be all set.

  In one of the kitchen drawers, he found two large knives: a butcher’s knife and a chef’s knife. The for
mer was dull—he couldn’t even draw blood by tracing a line along his index finger—but the Chef’s knife was razor sharp.

  Still, they both had their unique purposes and Chad decided to take both of them.

  “These will work,” he sang. “These will woooooork.”

  Finally ready, Chad pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. He debated just waiting for Kenneth to come but he elected to be proactive.

  Time to take matters into his own hands.

  I don’t need Jan Dewalter… she needs me.

  Chad passed Kevin’s name, then Mr. Maldrim, then Dr. Alex, before landing on his roommate.

  Typing furiously, barely able to get the words out on account of his hands shaking from laughter, Chad fired off a text message.

  Kenneth, come home! I’ve got all your money! And I have a surprise for you!

  Chapter 50

  “So, she called you? After you’d had a drink and were heading back to your office?” Dunbar asked.

  Drake coughed and spat, then nodded.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  Dunbar was staring at him intently as if he didn’t believe him.

  “What?”

  “Well, I mean, it just seemed to happen so fast. You drop her off, then drive away, then get called back. You sure you didn’t go anywhere in between?”

  Drake closed his eyes and pictured the guard at the psych facility, his hand on his gun, ordering him to back his car up.

  “No, I was just driving around.”

  The detective continued to lock eyes with him.

  “Dunbar, if you’ve got something to say, just say it. I don’t like games.”

  “It’s just—shit, Drake, I know you had nothing to do with this, but it just seems that trouble follows you around. I asked you to lay low… to stay out of trouble.”

  “You think that this—” Drake gestured at the burning shelter behind them. “—is about me? You think that someone did this to punish me?”

  “I have no idea.” Dunbar was becoming exasperated now. “Who out there has a vendetta against you?”

  Drake’s upper lip curled.

  Mackenzie Hart, Officer Kramer, Jimmy, most of 62nd precinct, Raul’s son… and the list went on.

  “It would be quicker to tell you the names of the people who don’t want to hurt me.”

  Dunbar opened his mouth to speak, but Drake’s phone buzzed and he immediately answered it.

  “Drake, you okay?”

  It was Screech.

  “Well, I’ve had a pretty eventful day, let me tell you.”

  “Shit, I’m just glad you’re okay, that you aren’t burnt to a crisp. That was—”

  “Wait, how did you know about the fire?” As he asked the question, Drake looked at Dunbar, who had a confused expression on his face.

  “You’re all over the news, man. I mean, so far as I know they haven’t found out who you are yet, but I saw your car and your ugly mug.”

  Drake glanced at his feet.

  So much for keeping a low profile.

  “Yeah, well, like I said, it’s been one hell of a day. I’m fine though, had worse hangovers than this.”

  “What happened?”

  “Long story; was looking for that damn cat. Speaking of which, any progress on that video I sent you?”

  Screech paused during which Drake could hear the man typing away on his computer.

  “Not on the video itself, exactly. Still can’t trace it.”

  Drake frowned.

  “C’mon, Screech, if you have something—”

  “I managed to zoom in on the background,” the man continued quickly, “and got a pretty good idea of exactly where it was filmed.”

  Drake’s ears perked.

  “And?”

  “Here in New York, just as we thought. I managed to—wait, is Dunbar with you?”

  Drake was surprised by the question but then realized that Screech must have known that the detective would come to speak to him after the fire.

  “No.”

  “You’re a shitty liar.”

  “What did you find out, Screech?”

  “Well, I managed to… access some of the cameras around the neighborhood.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Screech, Dunbar’s not going to give a shit that you hacked into some ATM cameras.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t there?”

  “Screech—”

  “Okay, okay, I tried to follow him after the cat incident, but no dice, so I worked backward. None of the cameras I managed to access—an ATM, a convenience store security camera, a camera outside a church—had any good shots of him, unfortunately. But then I went further and what do you know, someone’s doorbell camera caught him.”

  A doorbell camera is suggestive of an affluent neighborhood, Drake thought..

  “Tell me you’ve got a good shot of his face.”

  “Good shot, no. It was dark and he was walking down the middle of the road. But I do have something: the man who was wearing that stupid bandit mask on his face was wearing it on his forehead before. I think he was trying to cover up some sort of tattoo. It’s hard to make out, but I’m pretty sure that’s what it is.”

  “Huh. And where is this neighborhood?” Drake asked with a sigh. This already long night was destined to become an all-nighter, it appeared.

  “East Manhattan; sent the details to your phone. I also managed to get a list of homeowners from that neighborhood, which I also forwarded to you. I took a quick look, but nothing popped out at me. Could do with another set of eyes.”

  “Sounds good, I’ll give it a once over. Keep looking for more videos of this guy with the forehead tattoo. The cat probably wasn’t his first.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Drake hung up the phone and looked at Dunbar.

  “What was that all about?”

  “Official PI business.” Drake looked down at his phone and started to scroll the list of homeowners that Screech had sent him. “Dunbar, I’ve already told you everything… if it’s all the same to you, I think I’m going to take off. Don’t want the media to get a good look at my face.”

  He purposefully neglected to mention what Screech had told him about already being all over the news.

  “Yeah, that’s a good idea. As I said before, you need to stay out of the spotlight, Drake.”

  Drake nodded and started toward his car that was now parked seventy or so feet from where he stood.

  “Please, just stay out of trouble, Drake. For both our sakes,” he heard Dunbar whisper, likely to himself.

  Drake was halfway to his car, and a third of the way through the list of names when he came across one that was strangely familiar.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” he said out loud. “You’ve got to be fucking shitting me.”

  Drake jumped into his car, grabbed his gun off the passenger seat, and hightailed it to pay an old friend a visit.

  Chapter 51

  Chad awoke to the sound of keys jangling in the lock. He was both startled and confused, a state that only increased when his eyelids refused to rise more than halfway. When the doorknob started to turn, panic set in.

  Everything around him was dark and suffocating. Chad, realizing that he was sitting, reached out in front of him intending to push off the table to rise. Instead, his hand brushed up against something cold and hard.

  It was a knife and based on the weight of it, it must have been of the butcher’s variety.

  Everything came flooding back now, and he grabbed the knife and scrambled to his feet. His phone was propped up on the counter and Chad hurried to it. He was about to press record when he remembered that his face was uncovered.

  Moving quickly, he pulled his headband down. This proved unwise; not having taken proper care of his condition, Chad’s legs wobbled, and he thought he was going to drop. The only thing that kept him standing was the notion that if he did fall, Kenneth would take one look at him, at the knives, the setup, an
d would bolt.

  There were no second chances here.

  Just as the door opened and cheap yellow light from the hallway crept in, Chad’s faculties returned and he smashed the record button.

  Standing off to one side, he watched Kenneth enter the apartment and instinctively reach for the light. The man’s thin fingers flicked the switch up and down, but nothing happened.

  Chad had removed the light bulbs.

  Kenneth sniffed loudly, said something in Mandarin, and reached into his pocket. Even now, Chad remained as still and silent as possible, which was difficult.

  All he wanted to do was pounce, to make sure that everyone who was tuning in didn’t switch off on account of not seeing anything but darkness and hearing nothing but the grumblings of some strange Asian man.

  But it wasn’t time… not yet.

  Soon, so soon… oh, yes, oh, yes, soon.

  Kenneth turned the flashlight on his phone on and sprayed light throughout the room. His hand stopped moving when he saw the dark fabric hanging from the ceiling.

  “What is this?”

  Just as he started to turn in Chad’s direction, Chad switched the power bar in which all the lamps and lights he’d set up were plugged.

  Instantly blinded, Kenneth dropped his phone and covered his face.

  “What is this?” he cried, stumbling backward.

  “It’s your surprise, Kenneth.”

  The man continued to backpedal, unwittingly moving in the exact direction that Chad wanted.

  “Tobin? Tobin, is that you?” His voice was desperate.

  Chad giggled.

  “Tobin’s dead… there is only Chad. Chad42819.”

  “Wh-wh-wh-who?” The confused roommate asked.

  When he was directly beneath the black fabric, Chad revealed himself.

  “Someone famous. Someone real famous,” he said with a grin. He held up the knives, one in each hand, now. “And guess what, Kenneth? My surprise is that you’re going to be famous, too.”

  Chapter 52

  After making a quick call, Drake drove to the address on the list that Screech had given him. The house was large and impressive, with a long front walk. Still feeling the effects of the fire, Drake stifled several coughs as he made his way to the door.