Shadow Suspect

by Patrick Logan

  “Is this over?” Rhodes asked at last.

  Drake was smart enough to know that he wasn’t referring to the Butterfly Killer.

  “I’m not sure,” he replied flatly.

  Rhodes leaned back in his chair.

  “Your partner doesn’t seem to think so. She keeps asking questions, prodding areas that shouldn’t be prodded.”

  Drake scowled.

  “You mean Ken Smith—his relationship to Marcus Slasinsky and certain members of this department. About his upcoming mayoral run.”

  Rhodes held his hands out to his sides and his face acquired a smug expression.

  “I’m curious about that, too,” Drake said, his hand slipping off the badge in his pocket. “I might just go ahead and do some prodding of my own, maybe speak to a friend or two at the Times, see what they can dig up.”

  Rhodes offered a wan smile and pulled a folder out of the top drawer of his desk. He opened it, then spun two photographs around for Drake to see. The first was of him winking at the camera in the chrome elevator. The second was also of him, only now he was sitting across from Ken, a drink in his hand, a smile on the latter’s face.

  “Looks like you’re the one with a connection to the man in question. But nobody needs to know about what we do in our personal lives, do they, Drake?” he paused only long enough to let his words sink in. “Look, your partner has a bright future as a Detective. She’s good—smart, dedicated. She’ll go far, and maybe she’ll be sitting in this seat someday.”

  Drake squinted at Rhodes as he waited for the man to get to his point.

  “But,” he held a hand up, “but she’s made some mistakes. Some very serious errors that could jeopardize everything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Drake snapped.

  Rhodes’s eyes shot up.

  “Well, taking evidence, for one, destroying the chain of custody. This won’t go over well with the DA if Marcus or Dr. Kruk or whatever the fuck his name ever makes it to trial.”

  Drake could feel anger building inside him.

  “What evidence? What are you talking about?”

  Rhodes had the gall to smile at Drake, his face so dripping with contempt that it looked like a melting candle.

  “The cell phone for one. Thomas Smith’s cell phone.”

  Drake leaned backward.

  “What? I took the cell phone, not Chase.”

  Rhodes shrugged.

  “Who’s to say?”

  “I’m saying, that’s who. I took the damn cell phone.”

  “Someone also broke into Dr. Kruk’s office without a warrant. Now, the secretary—a nice woman, but old and forgetful—says that a detective tricked her to gain access to his office. She says that it was a man with an athletic build, closely cropped hair that’s getting a little gray at the temples. But I’m not so sure about her memory. I mean, I’m positive it was a detective who broke in, but it doesn’t have to be someone tall, does it? It could have just as easily been someone shorter—much shorter. Someone with brown hair and hazel eyes, maybe. What do you think, Drake?”

  Drake shook his head, realizing what the man was trying to do.

  “You bastard—it was me who broke into the office, you know that. I even told her my name.”

  “What I know is irrelevant. It’s not for me to know things, Drake; my job is just to present the evidence and for the DA to decide. Now, if a senior detective were to admit to some of these more benign transgressions, while at the same time handing in his badge, well that might carry some clout, don’t you think? That might take the guess work and memory problems out of the equation. Speaking in hypotheticals, of course.”

  Drake felt like leaping over the table and punching the pompous prick in the face. But he restrained himself.

  “And it would go over even better if said detective had a little chat with the newcomer, just a friendly conversation to let her know that the Butterfly Killer has been captured, and that the case is closed.”

  Drake chewed the inside of his lip.

  With a deep breath, he reached into his pocket and took out his badge. He stroked the ridges again as he stared down at the brass shield.

  “I’d ask you for your gun, but that’s in evidence, isn’t it?”

  Drake tossed the detective shield onto Rhodes’s desk. It bounced once, twice, and then landed in the man’s lap.

  Then he stood and started toward the door.

  “I’d say you’re going to be missed, Drake, but then again, I’m not a liar.”

  Drake’s hand hesitated above the doorknob. Then he grabbed it, a smile firmly etched on his face.

  EPILOGUE

  TWO WEEKS AFTER SHOOTING THE Butterfly Killer, Damien Drake found himself back at Patty’s Diner. Only this time he was clean shaven, his hair neatly coiffed, and he was wearing a fresh shirt.

  All in all, he felt pretty good—he felt alive again. The NYPD had sucked a lot out of him, and the idea that the pieces of his soul that had eked away with every case could never be replaced had proven wrong.

  Off the drink, Drake could see things more clearly now. He had even almost come to terms with hovering over Marcus Slasinsky, moving the gun a foot to one side before pulling the trigger.

  With how close he had come to murdering a man in cold-blood.

  Broomhilda strode over to him, a scowl on her face.

  “The usual?” she asked in a bored tone.

  Drake smiled and shook his head.

  “No, just black coffee and some of that spectacular Key lime pie.”

  The waitress grunted, then turned back to the kitchen.

  As he waited, Drake’s eyes drifted toward the door. The smile fell off his face when it opened and a man in a dark k-way jacket stepped through.

  And he didn’t look at all pleased.

  “I’m still waiting for my exclusive, Drake,” Ivan Meitzer said even before he had taken a seat.

  Drake had been dreading this encounter. Chase’s words started to echo in his head, the ones she had pleaded with him after he had told her that he was done with being a detective and that she should close the Butterfly Killer case.

  Please, I made a promise… to Clarissa Smith. Please keep her family out of this, Drake. I’m begging you.

  Drake smiled again, only this time it wasn’t quite genuine.

  “I’m sorry, Ivan. As you probably know, I’m not with the NYPD anymore.”

  The man scowled.

  “So?”

  “So, as far as I’m concerned my business with you ended when I left the force.”

  Ivan pressed his lips together and shook his head. Although clearly disappointed, Drake could tell that the man must have seen this coming.

  “I figured as much. You know Drake, you’ve burnt so many bridges over the past few months that you’re pretty much stuck on an island.”

  Drake shrugged.

  “I think I’m going to enjoy island life.”

  Still scowling, Ivan stood and as he did, he withdrew a yellow envelope and threw it on the table. There was something hard inside and it cracked loudly off the cheap plastic top.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ivan said, and then turned and left the diner.

  Drake stared at the envelope for a long time. It lay untouched even after Broomhilda had brought him the suspicious Key lime pie and had filled his mug with steaming tar.

  Don’t open it. Drake, don’t open it.

  And for a while, he thought he might be able to leave it—to just get up, exit the diner and never touch the envelope.

  But he couldn’t do that.

  After all, associated with the NYPD or not, Drake was still his imago.

  He slid a finger between the seal and the envelope and flicked it open. Then he reached inside.

  In addition to the hard object, there was also a sheet of paper inside. He pulled the paper out first, then grabbed the hard object, roughly the size of a dice, and squeezed it tightly in his palm without looking at it.

 
; On the paper was a single word: RESOURCES.

  Drake swore and he turned his head skyward. As he did, his eyes passed the television above the bar.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Ken Smith’s face filled the screen, and although the TV was muted, the banner across the bottom told him everything he needed to know.

  Kenneth Smith, father of victim Thomas Smith, formally announces his bid for New York City Mayor.

  Drake closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself staring at the object in his palm.

  It was a single phalanx, a gleaming bone from the end of a human finger.

  The Skeleton King’s calling card.

  Drake felt wetness on his cheeks, but did nothing to wipe the tears away.

  Broomhilda appeared at his side almost instantly.

  “Everything alright, mister?” she asked, her tone surprisingly compassionate.

  “Fine,” Drake said. “Just get me a Johnny Red. Make it a double, neat.”

  END

  ~

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ~

  SPECIAL THANKS GOES TO PIZZERIA Magpie, which is a real restaurant in Montreal… and one of my favorites. If you’re ever in town, hit up Magpies and let Boris know that you read about the place in Butterfly Kisses—I’m sure he’ll hook you up with something. And no, there has been no murders in the restaurant (as of yet), but the meatball pizza is amazing. Trust me.

  Butterfly Kisses is a bit of a departure from what I normally write—namely horror—and while it has horror elements, it fits squarely in the thriller genre. As a reader, I like to genre hop, and as I progress through this adventure that is writing, it seems to be following along this path as well. If you’re a hardcore horror fan of mine, don’t fret; plenty more horror novels on the docket. Up first, however, is the second book in the Detective Damien Drake Series—Cause of Death—which is already on pre-order at your favorite ebook retailer. There will be another Drake book to follow this one, as well. I’ve grown attached to the supporting cast of Butterfly Kisses the way a wart clings to a toe, so I’m excited to announce that both Chase and Beckett will be getting their own series this year. The latter focusing on Chase’s quest to become an FBI profiler, and the former of Beckett… well, being Beckett. That should be enough, shouldn’t it?

  I can’t always pinpoint where I get my inspiration from, but for Butterfly Kisses, I have been influenced by several TV shows, mainly The Fall and The Killing. Another massive influence for this book, and I suspect many to come, has been the podcast Casefile. The first few episodes sound as if they were recorded using a potato, but the stories… yeesh, the true crime stories truly are more sadistic and twisted than (almost) anything I can come up with. It’s on regular rotation on my podcast stream, sandwiched between Sam Harris and Joe Rogan.

  If you want to sign up to my newsletter to keep apprised of sales and new releases, please visit my Facebook page: www.facebook.com/authorpatricklogan. Comments? Suggestions? Did I miss a damn typo? Just drop me a line at patrick@ptlbooks. I reply personally to all emails, even if it is only to inform you of an impending restraining order.

  Keep reading and I’ll keep writing.

  Best,

  Patrick

  Montreal, 2017

  And now, for a sneak peak of CAUSE OF DEATH, the second book in the Detective Damien Drake series…

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  Cause of Death:

  The injury or disease responsible for initiating the morbid chain of events—whether brief or prolonged—that led to death.

  Cause of Death

  Detective Damien Drake Book 2

  Patrick Logan

  PROLOGUE

  The man poured two glasses of scotch. He added a splash of pure ethanol to one of them, stirred it with his finger, then made his way back to the table. As he approached his guest from behind, he forced a smile onto his face.

  “It’s real nice of you to bring me in,” the seated man said loudly. “It’s—”

  The man laid the two glasses on the table.

  “Aw, sorry, didn’t know you was back. I was sayin’ it’s real nice to bring me in. It’s colder than a witch’s tit out der.”

  The smile remained on the man’s face as he took a seat across from his guest in the torn trench coat.

  “Well, Trevor, I think that the drink might warm you up some. Don’t know about keeping the witches at bay, however.”

  Trevor was a dark-skinned man with a receding hairline, and a patchy beard that was interspersed with blotches of gray. He had wide-set eyes, which had a habit of darting about nervously.

  “Thank you, Mister,” Trevor said. “Wha—wha’d you say your name was, again?”

  The man smiled and took a sip of his own scotch.

  “I didn’t.”

  Trevor eyed him suspiciously, but the call of the drink was too great for him to heed any warning signs. He gulped greedily, wincing as he swallowed.

  “I ain’t the gay type… I—I—I ‘preciate the drink and warm house ‘n all, but I ain’t doin’ no gay shit.”

  The man chuckled.

  “Why is it that everyone thinks a kind gesture is expected to be repaid in some way?”

  Trevor took another sip, his eyes darting. Instead of answering the question, he cleared his throat, and said, “This be a real nice place you got. What are you? Some sort of doctor? Lawyer? I saw a place like dis once in a book, it was a rich lawyer’s house.”

  “Something like that,” the man said with a smile. He observed that Trevor’s glass was nearly empty, and even though he had just sat down, offered, “Would you like another?”

  Trevor seemed to consider this for a moment. The crystal rock glass was trembling slightly in his fingerless gloves, but it was unclear if this was from fear, hunger, or just the alcohol.

  With a slow blink, Trevor brought the drink to his lips and finished the rest of the pale gold liquid.

  “Sure,” he replied. When he went to put the glass back on the table, it banged loudly, as if he had misjudged the distance. “Is good shit. I’ll have another.”

  Another came out like anudder.

  “Yes,” the man said, taking a sip of his own scotch. “Yes, it is ‘good shit’.”

  Then he stood and started toward the kitchen. As he went, he said, “I see that your gloves have holes in them—the fingers are missing. Interested in a new pair?”

  When he made it to the kitchen, he made sure to make his guest’s glass with half ethanol and half scotch this time.

  “Why you doing this, man? What’s in it for you?”

  He sighed, and placed his palms on the marble counter top, closing his eyes as he did. His chest rose and fell with several deep breaths, then, after he had collected himself, he picked up the glass and the pair of leather gloves beside them. Tucking a sweater that he had laid on the counter earlier in the day beneath one arm, he made his way back to the kitchen table and placed all three items in front of his guest.

  Trevor did the shifty eye thing again, but this time he didn’t immediately grab for the drink.

  Ah, I thought it might come to this, the host thought. Sooner than I expected, but here it is. The hesitation before the fall—before total and complete acceptance.

  “Look,” he began slowly, pausing to have a sip of his own glass scotch. “I know this seems strange, and I bet it’s been a long, long time since someone has shown you this level of kindness, of respect. And you have every right to be suspicious—in fact, I doubt you would have survived on the streets for as long as you have without your instincts. But, I assure you, I want nothing in return for my hospitality.”


  Trevor grunted.

  “Then why you doin’ this?” he asked, his words slurred.

  The man smirked. Trevor was more astute than he had first thought. The others’ inquisitions had stopped at sidelong glances, pursed lips.

  It would all end the same way, however, but still…

  “Because I know what it’s like—I know what it’s like to be down on your luck. I was in your position once, a long time ago. But I got out. Built all of what you see around you with perseverance and dedication. And now I’m looking to pay it back.”

  Trevor squinted at him, his thin lids lowering over bulging eyes.

  “Go ahead, have a drink, put the sweater and gloves on. Keep warm. There are no strings attached here.”

  Suspicious or not, old habits die hard.

  And a free drink was nearly impossible to resist.

  Trevor gulped greedily at his scotch, and then tore his worn gloves off. He slid the leather gloves on, and then wiggled his fingers almost seductively.

  “Comfortable, aren’t they?” the host asked.

  Two drinks and twenty minutes later, Trevor could barely keep his eyes open, let alone stand. And yet he gave both a valiant effort.

  The host quickly made his way over him before the trench coat clad man toppled onto the table.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said. “You can stay here for the night. I have a spare bedroom.”

  Trevor mumbled something incomprehensible, and the man slipped an arm around his waist, taking the brunt of his weight.

  Holding Trevor upright, he led them to a bedroom with decor that more reflected a cheap motel than the rest of his house. Inside, there were two single beds, between them there was a peeling, particle board nightstand atop which stood a clock.

  The neon green numbers read 3:34 am.

  Trevor said something that could have been thank you, but could have just as easily been fuck you, as the host lowered him onto the bed.

  Without bothering to pull the cheap bedspread back, the host retreated to the doorway and observed the scene.