Drake had to resist rolling his eyes.
“Just reaching for my badge, man, relax.” The officer’s raised voice drew the attention of his partner and the coroner, who had been in the process of removing a stretcher from the back of the van. “My name’s Damien Dra—”
He didn’t even get a chance to finish his name let alone flash his PI badge.
“Sergeant Yasiv’s expecting you,” the officer informed him. He reached for his arm, intending on guiding him forward and into the gallery, but Drake elected to stay out of reach. It wasn’t just the fact that he found this gesture condescending—he wasn’t a child, nor a greenhorn police officer—but he was weary of the NYPD after their messy divorce. “Sorry,” the cop apologized quickly. “The sergeant is waiting for you inside.”
Drake wanted to take the lead but fell in behind when the gallery loading dock door opened and two men lowered a rather stiff-looking body bag onto the awaiting stretcher. Drake waited for two other bags to join the first, but the coroner moved as if he expected this to be the only one.
Curious, Drake lowered his head and peeked inside the gallery, but didn’t see the missing body bags anywhere.
“Drake? Yasiv’s in here,” his guide said, gesturing toward the door beside the loading dock. But Drake wasn’t interested in seeing Yasiv just yet.
He wanted to see the bodies first.
The coroner saw him approach and immediately unzipped the bag without instruction.
No matter how many corpses Drake had observed, and there had been many, he still needed to take a moment to steel himself before looking inside.
And he was glad he did.
Drake was expecting a woman with a bullet in her head or perhaps a collapsed skull from blunt force trauma—the two most common causes of death in women he’d seen during his time on the force.
He saw neither.
In fact, it took several seconds for Drake to figure out what exactly he was looking at. And even then, he wasn’t sure he understood.
Gnashing his gum between clenched teeth, Drake cocked his head to get a better look and gestured for the coroner to move to one side—the man was blocking the light that spilled into the parking lot from the half-open loading dock door.
More light helped… a little.
Drake was staring at something that reminded him of a face, only it was incomplete. The eyes had been torn out, and while this in and of itself was disturbing enough, it was what he didn’t see that was even more off-putting: there was no blood or organic matter of any sort in the sockets. There was only a blank, smooth surface. The mouth was equally as unnerving, a gaping orifice that lacked lips or teeth or anything that was distinguishably human.
The worst part, however, was the stitches that ran down the center of the face, splitting into an upside-down Y beneath the nose.
It was as if someone had taken pieces of a face, torn them apart, and then stitched them back together again in a triptych tapestry.
“Jesus,” he sighed. Thinking that he was done, the coroner started to zip the bag up again. Drake grabbed his hand and held firm. Then he leaned in even closer, trying to understand what he was seeing. Evidently, he’d taken too long because the coroner spoke up.
“Mannequin… the skins are draped over a mannequin.”
As bizarre an explanation as this was, it helped Drake make sense of what he was looking at.
“Yeah,” he said dryly, nodding his head. “I’m done.”
He let go of the coroner’s hand and the man zipped the bag up. As he loaded the stretcher into the van, Drake hopped onto the ledge and followed the officer into the gallery. He’d taken two steps inside the building when a familiar face appeared before him.
“Drake, the body just—”
“I saw it,” he said flatly, glad that Yasiv hadn’t bothered with any niceties. There was no point pretending that everything between them was fine.
“Yeah, it’s fucked up, I know. But Drake—”
“Human skin draped over a mannequin?” Drake closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning the sutures down the center of the patchwork face.
“Drake, we—”
“Three women, you said?”
“Three,” Yasiv confirmed. “But listen, Drake, we have to hurry. You need to sign here.”
Drake opened his eyes and was surprised to see that Yasiv was holding a piece of paper and pen out to him.
“What? What is this?”
“You need to sign quick. As soon as—”
“Sergeant Yasiv!” A booming voice resounded throughout the entire art gallery. “I’m looking for Sergeant Yasiv!”
Drake tensed and grabbed the piece of paper from the sergeant.
It didn’t take long to see who was yelling: the big man was coming toward them, surrounded by a cadre of uniformed officers.
“Shit,” Yasiv grumbled. He moved in front of Drake. “Sign it. You need to sign it now.”
“Sergeant Yasiv, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” The newcomer demanded, aiming a finger at Yasiv’s chest. “You think you can keep—” The man stopped in his tracks and his face, previously a bright red that matched his tie, suddenly went pale. “Damien Drake?” he said, uttering the name like a curse. And then he swore for real. “What in the fuck are you doing here?”
Chapter 7
District Attorney Mark Trumbo stepped in front of the police officers whom he had brought along with him. Based on their previous interactions, Drake knew the man to be brash, loud, and anything but subtle.
Tonight was no exception.
It was the man who approached from their left whom Drake was more concerned about, however.
“Drake? What the hell are you doing here?” Detective Dunbar hissed. Unlike Trumbo, there wasn’t just anger in the man’s face, but something else.
Disdain, perhaps.
“I invited him,” Yasiv replied loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Now, DA Trumbo, this is a crime scene, so I’m going—”
Trumbo hurled his body forward, shifting his weight from side to side with the dexterity of a much smaller man, stopping only inches from Sergeant Yasiv’s face.
“Let these people go,” the DA ordered. “You let these people go right now.”
Drake looked past the angry man and the police officers. In what appeared to be some sort of waiting area, he spotted many well-dressed individuals, their eyebrows raised, their eyes staring back. And in that instance, Drake knew why he was here, and why Yasiv had called him in, of all people.
“Mr. Trumbo, I think—”
Drake immediately took charge, cutting Yasiv off mid-sentence.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mark,” Drake said with a cocky grin. He raised his palms, indicating their surroundings. “Much better than a hotel bar or a hotel room, wouldn’t you say?”
Trumbo backed out of Yasiv’s personal space and seethed at Drake. There was a pasty white substance clinging to the corners of his lips that made a smacking sound with every word.
“This is no place for a civilian,” the DA warned. His eyes were so tightly squinted that Drake doubted the man could see. Drake, on the other hand, was wide-eyed, and well aware of what was going around him, least of all the fact that the DA’s massive hands weren’t balled into fists, but his fingers extended as if he intended on strangling someone. And he could do it, too; the man was no doubt physically strong enough to squeeze the life out of Drake and Yasiv, and his rage was sufficiently intense.
But the man had a career to worry about and not just as the District Attorney for the state of New York. By all bar graphs, pie charts, and mail-in surveys, Mark Trumbo was going to be the next mayor of New York City.
“Well, technically I’m a Private Investigator, not a civilian. And this here,” Drake held up the paper that Yasiv had him sign, “is a contract. Looks like I’m a—” Drake turned the page around and pretended to read it, “—Special Consultant to the NYPD. Huh. Nifty.”
“Bullshit
,” Trumbo spat.
“See for yourself.”
Drake held the paper out, but when Trumbo went to swat it away, he pulled back.
“Doesn’t mean shit. I’ll have the chief nullify whatever bullshit the sergeant here whipped up.” Trumbo turned to Yasiv. “And then I’ll have him put you back in the goddamn computer room where you belong.”
“I was never in the computer room,” Yasiv shot back, his eyes darting to Dunbar who looked most uncomfortable of them all.
“You think I give a fuck where—”
“You could do that,” Drake said, speaking loudly. “But how would that look to your donors? Huh?” He indicated the foyer behind them. “How would that go over?”
“I doubt they’d—”
Drake raised his voice even further.
“What would they think if I told them that there were three dead women, all stripped of their skins like some sort of cattle, and put on display here? How would they feel—”
“Okay, okay.”
But Drake wasn’t done yet.
“—how would they feel if the sergeant brought in a special consultant with more experience than the entire fucking department to solve this thing and you had him fired?”
“I said—”
“How would that help your campaign, Mark?”
“Fine,” Trumbo seethed. “Just keep your fucking voice down.”
Drake suppressed a smile. What did men obsessed with power fear most?
Losing said power.
And donors—losing donors was always a concern.
“Where are the bodies?” the DA asked, his tone softening somewhat.
“They’re already on their way to the coroner’s office,” Dunbar replied, speaking up for the first time. It was clear that he wanted to correct the DA—skins, not bodies—but that wouldn’t have gone over well.
“Then get these people out of here,” Trumbo hissed.
“After I interview them, they’ll be on their way,” Drake said.
It looked like Trumbo’s head was going to explode.
“You can’t—”
“Okay,” Drake relented, allowing some of the tension to release from his shoulders. “Okay, I’ll let them go. I just need to speak to whoever is in charge, whoever put on this event, then everyone can go home.”
Matching looks of surprise appeared on everyone’s face, but only Sergeant Yasiv voiced his dissension.
“Drake, I don’t think—”
Drake shook his head.
“It’s fine. We’ll have the grunts collect their information and speak to them in the morning.”
Yasiv remained unconvinced.
“But they’re flight risks and—”
“Flight risks?” Trumbo interjected. “What’s wrong with you? These are—”
“I said I’d let them go.” Drake waved the sheet of paper again. “Unless, of course, you would like to tear this up, too, Yasiv?”
He was taking a large gamble, but Drake had already decided that it was worth the risk. Give a little, make the DA think he won something here, and Drake would have more leeway to find out what happened to those girls.
More autonomy to make sure it didn’t happen again.
Yasiv wasn’t impressed, but they all knew that he’d brought this upon himself. The sergeant had dug a hole the second he picked up his phone and dialed Drake’s number. And now he had to crawl in it and hope that nobody was high above him, throwing dirt on his head.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Drake.”
“Me, too,” Trumbo echoed as he stomped off. Something told Drake that while he might have won this battle, the DA wasn’t just going to lie on his stomach and bite a pillow for the rest of the war.
“This is ridiculous,” Dunbar grumbled, but Drake ignored him. The man was still angry about the whole Lucas Lionelle debacle, the setup that Drake and his crew had orchestrated without NYPD consent, and he couldn’t blame him. Drake would give the detective ample opportunity to air his grievances, but only so long as it didn’t slow down the current investigation.
“I need to speak to whoever put the event on. I also need a tape recorder.”
Yasiv bit his lip, then shrugged and gave in entirely.
“Yeah, okay, it’s a couple—the Fairchilds—and they’re in there.” The sergeant pointed at a door halfway down the hall. “I’ll see if I can dig up a recorder from somewhere.”
The man turned to leave, but Drake called him back.
“Here, don’t forget this,” he said, offering the paper. As Yasiv took it, Drake finally got a good look at what was written on the page. “By the way, you’re paying too much for car insurance. Way too much.”
Chapter 8
“Who are you calling?” Sergeant Yasiv asked.
Drake scowled.
“You hired me, so let me do my job.” He hadn’t meant to be so sharp with the man, but he was still severely hungover. “Look, I’m sorry—just tired. I appreciate you calling me in, but I can’t do this on my own.”
Yasiv accepted the apology but the confusion remained on his face.
“What do you mean, alone? I gave you the reins.” The sergeant looked around, nodding at a uniformed officer standing in front of a closed door not ten feet from them. “Aside from Trumbo’s men, you can have anyone you want from 62nd. At least for now. If they give you a hard time, just let me know.”
Drake considered this for a moment. There was no denying the fact that he was not a well-loved man in the 62nd precinct or the NYPD in general, but his experience commanded respect. The only person he thought might have a problem with him, one that required active solving, was Officer Kramer. But so long as Drake steered clear of Kramer, he didn’t think this would be an issue. And if it was, he’d just deal with it as he’d done before.
Or perhaps even more permanently.
“I know,” Drake said, taking a deep breath. At some point during the altercation with the DA, he must have swallowed his gum. H popped a fresh piece and allowed his eyes to drift to the foyer where a group of officers, and the DA, were busy talking to some of the patrons. “But I need more than your men—I need mine. If you want me to stick around, I need to call in my people.”
Yasiv put up no resistance. If anything, Drake thought he saw relief in the man’s face.
“Good. Now see if you can find that tape recorder for me.”
Yasiv sighed.
“Yeah, sure.”
Drake waited for the sergeant to be out of earshot before he turned his attention back to his cell phone. His first thought was to call Hanna, as he assumed she was the most likely to be awake at this hour, but went with Screech instead.
“Drake, you okay?” the man answered, sleep in his voice.
“I’m fine.”
“What is it then? Is it Leroy?”
Leroy?
Drake made a face.
Why would Screech be asking about Leroy? The man could take care of himself… he’d proven as much on many an occasion.
“No, not Leroy. It’s Yasiv.”
“Yasiv? The fuck does that guy want? I’m too tired for this, Drake.”
“Well, you’re about to be a helluva lot more tired. Grab some coffee and meet me down at the Royal Art Gallery in Manhattan.”
“What are you going on about?” Annoyance usurped sleepiness in the Screech’s voice.
“We’ve got a new case. Yasiv called me in, couple of murders, three women stripped of their skin.”
Saying the words out loud brought a new level of horror to what Drake had seen and it took a considerable amount of willpower to force images of the mannequin from entering his mind.
“What?”
“Just round up the others and meet me here as soon as you can. Royal Art Gallery. Manhattan.”
Drake hung up before Screech could ask him any more questions that he either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer.
Yasiv had since returned with an old-fashioned-looking tape recorder in one h
and. Before Drake could ask where the man got it from, Yasiv handed it over with frowned.
“Here. Just take it.”
“Alright. The Fairchilds? Is that what I heard you call them?”
Yasiv nodded.
“Norm and Lisa. Don’t know much about them, other than this is the sort of thing that they like to do: host lavish parties and sell some weird-ass costumes. I’ve gotta warn you, though, this Lisa…”
“What about her?”
Yasiv’s frown deepened.
“She’s a piece of work.”
“Good thing I pretty much have a PhD in dealing with class A assholes.” He tapped the tape recorder against his palm. “Let me know when my crew gets here. And if the DA gets antsy, remind him that I have a direct line to the Times. That should buy us a little more time.”
“Speaking of time—how much do you think you’re going to need?”
This benign comment triggered the image he was so desperately trying to bury: the torn eye holes, the thick, almost shoelace-like sutures. A shudder ran from Drake’s tailbone to the crown of his head.
“As long as it takes,” he grumbled. “I’m going to take as long as I need to find out what the hell happened to those women.”
Chapter 9
“Who the hell are you? Where’s the DA? My husband told that police officer who reeks of cigarettes to call the district attorney,” Lisa Fairchild chirped the second Drake stepped into the room. He’d been expecting some sort of office, and while it appeared as if it might have served this purpose—there was a stack of files on the floor and a small desk off to one side—it was more of a glorified closet. “Hello? Excuse me? Helloooo?”
Rather than answering, Drake played with the recorder while observing Lisa and her husband. A small, petty display of power and control.
Lisa was short, though based on her long dress and high heels, Drake suspected that she made every effort to hide this fact. And the way she squinted at him, combined with the creases on the bridge of her nose and lack thereof by the corners of her eyes—Botox, no doubt—suggested that her eyesight was less than perfect. Everything about her husband, from the neatly combed silver hair, the wide brown eyes, and the defensive posture, suggested that he was a beta. To Drake, this implied that the man’s money, evident by his bespoke suit and monogrammed shirt cuffs, had been inherited rather than earned.
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