Butterfly Kisses

by Patrick Logan

  Drake jammed his foot into the door a split second before Veronica closed it on him. He winced, wishing for once he had been wrong about the construction of the door; it was indeed solid core steel.

  “I just want to talk to you!” Drake pleaded.

  The woman didn’t answer; instead, she gritted her teeth and continued to try to shove the door closed.

  Steel or not, there was zero chance of it closing with his foot lodged in it. Veronica must have realized this because without warning, she let go and bolted back into the room.

  Drake threw the door wide.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” he said as he stormed into the room. Drake had only taken a handful of steps before he was floored by the interior of apartment 12-6.

  Unlike the cracked linoleum and old, worn staircase in the hallway, this room was exquisite.

  The floor looked like high-grade hardwood, buffed so well that it reflected a mirror image of the bed in the center of the room like a frozen pond. The four corners of the bed itself extended nearly to the ceiling, each adorned with red sheer curtains hanging from them in tied loops.

  Off to one side was a series of ‘toys’, including a black leather mask and something that looked like a cross between a hairbrush and a paddle ball racket.

  The sound of a window opening brought Drake back.

  He whipped his head to the right and saw only Veronica’s pale butt cheeks, black thong, and one ankle still in the apartment; the rest of her was already out the window. If it hadn’t been for her Jimmy Choo’s—her left heel snagged on the window frame—he would have never made it to her in time. But it was stuck, and while she swore and tried to twist to free it, and then gave up entirely and tried just to shake it off, Drake was on her.

  He grabbed her around the waist, which was thin but muscular, and pulled.

  Veronica didn’t come, at least not right away.

  Instead, she shrieked and grabbed the exterior brick wall, her long nails scraping across the surface.

  But like at the door moments ago, she realized that this was futile and eventually gave up.

  Veronica’s body went limp and Drake effortlessly pulled her inside the apartment.

  But once inside, she reanimated, her hands whipping about in a whirlwind, her now chipped and torn fingernails clawing at his face, her one heeled foot kicking at him.

  “Fuck,” Drake swore. He managed to avoid most of her strikes given that he was behind her and squeezing her tightly. But when he lifted her off the ground, she took advantage of her position and thrust the heel of her shoe. It whacked painfully off his shin and he winced.

  “Relax!” he shouted.

  Veronica didn’t hear, or didn’t care. If anything, her attack became more frantic, and she was soon throwing her head back, trying to smash the back of her skull against his teeth.

  Drake had enough. He reared back and launched her onto the bed. Veronica’s head banged against one of the bedposts sending a wooden thonk throughout the apartment, and she grunted.

  “I said relax!” Drake repeated, breathing heavily.

  This time, Veronica listened and pulled herself into a seated position while massaging the back of her head.

  “I’m not here to bust you for soliciting. I’m a goddamn homicide detective, for Christ’s sake.”

  The woman’s eyes widened at the word.

  “Come here for a quick fuck, then?” she spat. “I give a reduced rate for men in blue.”

  Drake scowled.

  “I need to know about one of your clients.”

  She laughed.

  “Fat chance of that. My business is based on discretion,” she gestured to the room around her. “You think that scuzzy johns paid for all this?” she raised her remaining shoe next. “For these? No, I’m not telling you anything. Not a single word.”

  Drake stared at her. She was undoubtedly pretty, but she also had a hard streak running through her. For a moment, his detective mind started whirring, putting together a narrative about what had sent her down this path, but he stopped this runaway train by shaking his head.

  Who am I to judge? It’s her body, her life. Let her do as she wishes.

  Drake’s tone softened.

  “Look, I understand, but I don’t want you to open your entire diary for me.”

  “Diary? I have Quickbooks.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow.

  What the fuck is Quickbooks?

  “Anyways, I just need to know about one particular client, to know if he was here Monday or Tuesday. That’s it.”

  Veronica’s body slumped a little, as if the realization that giving up this little tidbit of information couldn’t hurt, and if it did, it would be a lot less painful than the alternative.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Thomas Smith.”

  Her lips pushed together unconsciously and when she spoke next, Drake knew she was lying.

  “Don’t know him.”

  Drake grabbed a chair from behind him and spun it around.

  “Look, I know you know him,” he said as he sat. “I know that a man came here, Thomas’s housekeeper, and gave you a whole whack of cash. Now I’m not sure if it was just to tidy up some unpaid bills, or if it was for you to keep your mouth shut. I’m thinking more the latter. Anyways, I just need to know if he was here that night.”

  Veronica swallowed visibly.

  “He’s… he’s dead?”

  Drake tilted his head to one side, indicating that he was. Her eyes went hard again.

  Again, he was struck with the same sensation that he had with Weston and Clarissa Smith: her surprise was genuine.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nobody has been here today. You, Damien Drake, are my first client.”

  “You seem pretty cut up about a man you claim not to know, Veronica.”

  She shook her head.

  “Never heard of him.”

  Drake reached into his waistband and pulled a set of handcuffs loose.

  “Okay then, looks like I’m going to have to take you in.”

  “What for?”

  Drake sighed.

  “You want to keep your business discrete? Tell me what I want to know. Because me hauling your ass down to the station will be anything but.”

  For a second, it looked like she was going to break. Then she scowled.

  “I’m not telling you anything.”

  “Suit yourself,” Drake said. He stood and glanced around quickly, spotting something that looked like a nightgown on the table from which he had taken the chair.

  “Here,” he said, tossing it to her, “put this on. We’re going for a ride. And if you try to run again, I’ll make sure I parade you around the front of the station wearing nothing but your skivvies.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The Glen hospital loomed large, a hulking, segmented series of squares at the intersection of several major roads and a subway station. The colored blocks—yellow, red, blue, brown and gray—were like the sections of a striped caterpillar.

  Beckett Campbell nodded.

  “Impressive,” he said to himself.

  He paid the taxi driver, then walked toward the doors to the front of the blue building.

  As he neared, a pleasant looking woman in her mid-seventies with gray hair sporting a blue apron of sorts opened the door. At first, Beckett thought she was trying to exit, and he hurried to hold it open for her.

  She laughed.

  “Thank you, but I’m a greeter here.”

  Beckett cleared his throat.

  “Sorry.”

  She smiled and gestured for him to enter.

  “That’s alright, it happens all the time. What can I help you with today?”

  The AC blasted Beckett as soon as he stepped inside, and the sweat on his face and arms immediately started to dry.

  “I’m—” alright, thank you, he was about to say, but then he remembered how helpful Gregor had been. “Actually, maybe you can help me. I’m looking
for a Doctor…” he racked his brain. “A doctor Lucas Taylor?”

  The woman continued to smile, but she tilted her head to one side slightly.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know all of the physicians that work here.”

  Beckett blushed.

  “Yes, of course. My bad.”

  “That’s quite alright. What department is he in?”

  “Pathology,” he answered immediately.

  “Ah, pathology is in block E, which is at the far end of the complex. Floor four.”

  Beckett turned and was met by a labyrinth of staircases and elevators and narrow hallways.

  “Block E?” he asked.

  “Just head straight…” the woman began.

  ~

  After figuring out how the color coding inside the hospital worked, Beckett didn’t have too much of an issue finding Block E.

  Problem was, when he tried the door, it was locked. There was a security desk behind him, but the person manning it was too enthralled in something on their computer screen to pay him any notice.

  Besides, Chase had told him to keep a low profile.

  A quick peek through the glass window showed a pleasant looking, if portly, woman coming toward him.

  She opened the door, and he grabbed it, holding it for her to pass through.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Denada,” Beckett replied, before sliding into Block E. The door led to a bay of elevators, and he took the first one that opened to the fourth floor.

  Beckett stepped out of the elevator into a hallway that extended both to the right and left. Before him, however, was a long glass window, through which he saw a man crouching over a low table.

  Beckett strode closer to the window, noticing that the man was deep in concentration creating slides from a paraffin block.

  “Excuse me, but I’m looking for a Doctor Lucas Taylor?” he asked politely.

  The man didn’t look up.

  “He’s not here—giving a tour.”

  Beckett frowned.

  “Expect him back soon? Is there a place I can wait?”

  The man sighed and raised his face to look at him, and when their eyes met Beckett broke into a grin.

  “Diego? Diego Lopez? What the hell are you doing here?”

  The man’s eyes instantly widened.

  “Beckett! Jesus, it’s been so long, how you been? What are you doing here?”

  Beckett started to answer, but Diego held up a hand.

  “Hold on a sec, I’ll go around.”

  The man exited stage left, then a moment later popped his head through a red door. Striding with purpose, he came right up to Beckett and gave him a big hug with his thick arms.

  “It’s been what, four, five years?” Diego said as he let go of Beckett.

  Beckett grinned broadly.

  “Almost seven now.”

  The man clapped him on the back.

  “No kidding. Where did the time go? So what brings you up north?”

  “Just a little vacation is all. Wanted to check out the hospital I’ve heard so much about. You work here?”

  Diego offered a mock salute.

  “Yep. General pathologist. How bout you? Last I heard you were teaching at NYU.”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “I was, but now you’re looking at Senior Medical Examiner for the NYPD,” he replied with mocking pride.

  Diego’s eyes went wide.

  “Enough work to keep you busy?”

  “Shit yeah. Have three residents working under me.”

  Diego laughed a tight bray that seemed strange for a man of his size.

  “Not here, not in Montreal. Rarely get anything interesting like you must get in the Big Apple,” he looked skyward briefly in contemplation. “Except this one case…”

  “Yeah,” Beckett said, still smiling. “About that.”

  ~

  “I can’t pull the body out right now, but I have some pictures you can see,” Diego said, wheeling his chair up to a computer monitor. “Here, take a seat.”

  Beckett nodded and obliged. Without delay, Diego scrolled through a series of onscreen menus with blazing speed, before a photograph popped up on screen.

  Beckett only needed to see one to know that the killer was the same.

  The similarities were uncanny: a single length of rope tying the legs and hands together behind his back, a crusty brown butterfly on it.

  Beckett whistled softly.

  “I know, eh?” Diego said. “Pretty messed up. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that the cause of death was—get this—allergic reaction to an injection of pureed butterflies.”

  “A butterfly slurry,” Beckett whispered, his eyes still on the screen.

  “Pardon?”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “Nothing—an allergic reaction, huh?”

  Diego looked at him suspiciously.

  “Yep. But why do I all of a sudden get the feeling that you aren’t in Montreal only for vacation?”

  Beckett chuckled. He had worked with Diego for over a year during a forensic fellowship in Cleveland. The man was bright, intuitive, and one hell of a doctor. Shit, if it hadn’t been for his Mexican descent, he might very well have taken Beckett’s job in New York.

  “C’mon now, Diego,” he teased, “I came for the food, sun and ladies. But now that you brought it up, I do have a couple of questions for you…”

  When he was done asking his questions, Diego let out a deep breath.

  “That’s messed up.”

  “No kidding,” Beckett replied. “And if—when—they ask, I was never here.” He waved his hands across his face.

  “I’m a ghost.”

  Diego smiled.

  “Sid Vicious’s apparition.”

  A chuckle rose in Beckett’s throat and an idea popped into his head.

  “You think you can wrap up here anytime soon? My flight’s not until ten, and I’ve been dying to see what the evening night life in Montreal is like.”

  Now it was Diego’s time to titter.

  “Oh, I can show you a good time,” he said, shutting off the computer monitor. “Up for a little danse contact?”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Keep on walking,” Drake instructed Veronica.

  The woman looked ridiculous, her hands were cuffed behind her, forcing her chest forward. The nightgown that he had thrown at her was some sort of blue and teal princess dress with snowflakes on the front.

  Veronica spat curses at him every few minutes, some graphic enough to make a sailor brush, but made no attempt to run even after they exited the apartment complex.

  Drake squinted in the bright sun and looked around briefly to orient himself.

  “Make a right, I’m parked down the alley just up ahead.”

  Another curse, but the woman did as he ordered.

  It was either a bribe, he thought, Weston using Raul to hand over cash to Veronica so she would keep her mouth shut about Thomas’s extracurricular activities—which to this point she had done, or it was something even more sinister.

  Drake was beginning to entertain the very real possibility that Veronica, along with Raul and Weston Smith, were involved in the three murders.

  He pondered this as they made their way toward the alley. It seemed unlikely, and there was the issue of coming up with a shared motive of people from very different walks of life. And yet in Drake’s experience, most of the murders that weren’t spontaneous were usually committed by someone close to the victim.

  Clarissa, then? Could she be involved somehow? Maybe she found out about her husband’s infidelity and took a hit out on him?

  But that wouldn’t explain why Weston was involved in the cover-up. He could understand Raul, but not Thomas’s brother.

  Love triangle, perhaps? Clarissa was sleeping with Weston and…

  Drake shook his head, trying to stem these runaway thoughts.

  What about Thomas’s parents? Ken S
mith? Could they be so ashamed of their son, of him seeing a prostitute, and so concerned that their reputation would be scarred by his actions that they would go as far as to kill him?

  This seemed equally unlikely, given that he was the poster boy for their philanthropic side. Even considering Thomas’s not-so perfect juvi record, the Smith’s had simply thrown money at people before, so why not now?

  And what in God’s name was with the butterflies? How did that fit in?

  Drake grunted in frustration.

  “Here; turn here,” he instructed.

  Veronica did, but then when she saw his car, instead of cursing, she laughed.

  “I know it’s old, but—” Drake started, but then realized that she wasn’t laughing at his Crown Vic.

  She was laughing because there was a man sitting on the hood. The same man who had warned Drake that this ain’t the place for you, whiteboy.

  Drake reached out and grabbed the handcuffs and pulled Veronica close.

  “I think you’re a little confused; this isn’t your usual stoop,” he said. “Too much of that donkey piss, I think. Why don’t you just slide off and find another? And, please, be careful not to scratch the paint.”

  The man smiled and Drake smirked back at him.

  He gently guided Veronica off to one side, telling her to stay put. Then he took a step toward his car.

  “All right, no more games,” Drake said. “Get off the car.”

  “Or what?” the man asked. As he spoke, two other black men appeared from behind the Crown Vic. While the stoop kid was thin and wiry, these two were heavily muscled, shoulders bulging from identical wife beaters.

  The man on the right had a wooden baseball bat slung over his shoulder.

  Drake reached into his front pocket, and the thug not holding the baseball bat moved a hand to the butt of a pistol jutting from his belt.

  “Easy now,” Drake said, holding his other hand in front of him. “Just getting my ID.”

  The man squatting on his car squinted at the mention of the word ID.

  Drake flipped his detective shield and held it out to them, hoping that they could make out the embossed letters NYPD at the top even from more than a dozen feet away.

  “I’m a detective,” he said. “I don’t want any trouble, I just want to take this girl down to the station and ask her a few questions. That’s all. You guys turn around and walk away, and I’ll forget you were ever here.”