Butterfly Kisses

by Patrick Logan

  Chase nodded.

  “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

  “I’m heading to bed, then.”

  Chase rose with him, taking her dishes to the sink.

  “I’ll be there soon,” she said, but while Brad went down the hallway and turned into their bedroom on the left, Chase went the other way.

  She carefully opened the door on the right and slid inside.

  There were glowing stars on the ceiling and a Disney poster on the wall. At one end of the room there was a toy chest, the lid not completely closing based on the sheer volume of toys within.

  She chuckled to herself, imagining Felix’s face as he tried desperately to close the lid.

  Chase walked over to the bed and stared down at her son, watching his chest slowly rise and fall with every breath.

  The boy’s comforter was pulled right up under his chin, only his smooth, eight-year-old face and stark white hair visible.

  Chase suddenly felt emotion threatening to overwhelm her, but she fought the sensation by leaning down and kissing Felix gently on the cheek. She rose, watched him take several more breaths, and then left the room as silently as she had entered.

  Chase almost went into her bedroom, almost laid down for some desperately needed rest. But at the last moment, she withdrew her hand from the doorknob and went to her office instead.

  There was little if any sleep to be had tonight; Drake wasn’t the only one haunted by demons.

  She slumped into her chair, rubbed her eyes, then started up her laptop.

  When Windows loaded, she double-clicked on the poker client.

  CHAPTER 56

  Drake balked at the man across from him.

  One hundred and twenty thousand dollars plus bonuses? For what? To do some research for him?

  “I can see that you are incredulous, and I don’t blame you. But I’ve been watching you for a long while, Detective Drake.”

  “Just Drake,” he grumbled, taking another sip of Johnny Blue. “Why do you want me? After all, you have Raul.”

  Ken Smith gave him the same wan smile.

  “Raul is a man of many talents, but you have… skills… that might come in handy.”

  Drake leaned forward.

  “Handy for what? For your quest for office? For mayor?” He had hoped that his inside information would shock the man, crack the fake veneer he wore like a satin robe, but was sorely disappointed.

  “Yes, that’s correct. I need to surround myself with individuals, individuals such as yourself, who can stem problems even before they raise their ugly heads.”

  Drake frowned and leaned back in his chair.

  “You know what gets me about this whole thing?” he waved his arms about, indicating their palaver and the massive penthouse apartment in which they sat.

  “Indulge me,” Ken said, puffing on his cigar.

  “I’ve been here for nearly a half hour now, and you haven’t once mentioned your son. I’m investigating his murder, for Christ’s sake, and you haven’t asked me how things are going.”

  Ken was again unfazed, and this continued to annoy Drake. He was going to make it his purpose to fluster the man.

  “I’m aware of the situation,” he replied simply.

  Drake nodded.

  “You have someone on the inside. Is it Simmons? The young detective, Yasiv?”

  Ken said nothing, but that was telling enough.

  “I bet it’s even higher up. I bet it’s Rhodes.”

  “It doesn’t matter who it is,” Ken replied calmly. “Suffice it to say that I am aware of your progress on the case.”

  “And? How does it make you feel?”

  Ken shrugged and brought the cigar to his lips.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Your son is dead and yet you sit here puffing on a cigar, sipping expensive scotch? Do you not give a shit about him?”

  “Oh, I do care,” Ken said. “But the facts are that Thomas is dead. You know as well as I do that death is a one-way street—nothing I can do can change that. I learned long ago that fretting over the past is a fool’s errand. Sure, I’ll put out a reward for anyone with information leading to an arrest, but that’s one debt I doubt I’ll have to pay out.”

  Drake shook his head, incredulous. He remembered telling Rhodes to let him bring the man in, expressing his desired to grill Ken Smith. But now that he had him here in front of him, it was Ken who seemed to be guiding the interrogation.

  “How can you be so calm? Complacent?”

  “That’s what New York City needs, a mayor who is calm, calculated. A man with ties to the community. A real local, someone who has suffered just like all the rest.”

  Drake’s eyes narrowed, and he finally understood. He just couldn’t believe it, the utter callousness of the idea.

  “You’re going to use your dead son to sway the sympathy vote.”

  Ken shrugged.

  “We use what we can in this world, Drake, you know that. We use the tools and skills and connections to get to where we want to be. To become who we want to be.”

  Drake shook his head in disbelief.

  “Your own son—fuck, that’s low.”

  Ken sighed, and for the first time since he had arrived in the man’s penthouse apartment, Drake felt that he was seeing the real Ken Smith.

  “Is it? I call it happenstance.”

  Drake scoffed.

  “Happenstance? Happenstance? Really? Your son’s death is happenstance?”

  “Yes, it is. Like how your partner was murdered and six months later you already have a new partner—a pretty little thing, I might add.”

  Drake pressed his lips together tightly, trying to fight his emotions. It might have been his goal to break Ken, but he was acutely aware that the exact opposite was happening.

  “You leave her out of this.”

  Ken ignored the threat.

  “She’s cutting corners, Drake. Cutting corners to keep your head above water. That’s a dangerous game for a rookie detective in New York City. You know that. But the question is, are you just going to stand by while another partner goes down?”

  Drake lost it. He jumped to his feet and pointed a finger at Ken.

  “Leave both of them out of this!” he roared. He heard a sound from behind him and turned to see Raul approaching.

  “And you stay the fuck away from me.”

  “It’s fine, Raul, everything’s fine. Go back to the kitchen.”

  The man nodded and without a glance in Drake’s direction, receded to his post.

  “Please, Drake, calm down.”

  Drake whipped around to face the pompous prick who was pushing his buttons.

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. You should be the one who’s upset. You should be the one yelling.”

  Ken raised an eyebrow.

  “Really? And what does that accomplish? How far has that gotten you, Drake?”

  Drake was furious, and it was all he could do to resist reaching over and throttling the man.

  “Please, sit.”

  “No,” Drake spat. “I’m done here.”

  Ken held his hands out, palms up.

  “I’m sorry that I’ve upset you, Drake. But please, consider my offer carefully. The people who go places in this world are the ones who align with those already on the rise. I’m offering you an opportunity—an opportunity to make sure that your current partner, Mrs. Chase Adams, is on the fast track to first grade detective, maybe even Chief, and enough cash to fill Mrs. Cuthbert’s mailbox ten times over. Think about it, Drake.”

  The comment about the money in the mailbox floored him. Was Raul there? Watching him from his black Range Rover?

  “I—I—” he stammered, suddenly feeling his head start to swim. He regretted drinking so much.

  “I have to go,” he said at last.

  “Very well,” Ken replied, rising to his feet. “Please allow Raul to walk you out.”

 
Drake shook his head.

  “I can manage on my own.”

  He turned and started toward the elevator, aware that Ken was still staring at him as he went. He passed a small table with a glass bowl on top, overflowing with sets of keys and crisp white business cards.

  “Oh, and Drake?” Ken asked after him. “Along with the money, I can also provide resources.”

  Drake concentrated on the business card on top, trying to read the letters that seemed to drift in and out of focus.

  “Resources for what?”

  There was a short pause, and Drake managed to make out the name on the card.

  It was a business card for Dr. Mark Kruk.

  Why the hell—

  But Ken’s next comment stripped away all thoughts of the strange psychiatrist with the spectacles.

  “To find the real Skeleton king, Drake. To find the man who was really responsible for Clay’s death.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Chase arrived early, working on only a handful of hours of sleep, and yet she still wasn’t the first one at the station.

  Rhodes’s car was parked in his usual spot. The man worked late, but wasn’t known as an early riser, and the sight of his car made Chase’s heart thump in her chest.

  Why is he here?

  She parked, and then hurried into 62nd precinct, grumbling a hello at several of the uniforms who had just clocked out after the night shift.

  No sooner had she reached her office, did she notice that the door to interrogation room 1 was ajar.

  What the hell?

  She strode toward it when she spotted Officer Hale, who she had instructed to make sure that Tim Jenkins got his eight hours of rest, standing by the water cooler.

  “Hey, Hale,” she snapped. The man turned, and when their eyes met, his face immediately turned a sickly shade of gray. “Where’s Jenkins? Did you move him?”

  Hale dropped his gaze and Chase reached for one of his arms.

  “Hale? Where’s Jenkins?”

  The officer took a deep breath.

  “I tried, Detective Adams. I tried—”

  Chase felt her brow furrow.

  “You tried what? Where the hell is he?”

  The man looked nearly on the verge of tears.

  “I had no—”

  A stern voice from Chase’s left drew her attention. Sergeant Rhodes was leaning out of his office, his face red.

  “Adams, in here, now!”

  Chase gave Hale a glare, then let him go.

  No sooner had the door to Rhodes’s office closed did he throw a newspaper on the desk.

  “Where’s my suspect?” Chase asked.

  Rhodes ignored her, and stood, back to her, hands on his narrow hips.

  “Did you read the paper this morning, Adams?”

  “No, I haven’t. I came straight here to resume the interview of my suspect.”

  Careful now.

  “Well, you and your Butterfly Killer made the front page, again.”

  “What?”

  Chase looked down at the front page of the Times, and she felt her face go slack.

  Housekeeper or call girl… could either of these be the Butterfly Killer?

  “Fuck,” she said under her breath.

  “Yes, that’s right, Detective Adams; fuck.” He turned, and she was taken aback by the calm expression on his hairless face. “I told you yesterday that I didn’t want any more leaks! Yesterday, I said that.”

  Chase felt her lips move, but no words came out.

  “So, please, explain to me how the fuck this happened?”

  She shook her head.

  “Detective Adams, are you going to just sit there and move your lips like a puppet, or are you going to say something?”

  Chase remained silent as she flipped to page two. There was a composite photo of Raul exiting the station, and Veronica in her ridiculous Frozen costume entering it. Beside each was a photo of Raul that must have been taken at some fund raiser or another at the Smith home, and a mug shot of Veronica that looked a few years old. “I don’t know who—”

  “Damn right you don’t,” Rhodes snapped. “But you’re going to find out who the leak is and bring them to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Chase replied, lowering her eyes.

  “You’ve said that before, so let me just make myself crystal clear. You find out who is tipping off this Ivan Meitzer and let me know or I’ll have IA all of your investigation.”

  “I’ll find out who,” she said sheepishly. “I’ll plug this leak.”

  “You better. This is your last chance. Last chance.”

  Chase nodded then changed the subject.

  “What happened to my suspect? To Tim Jenkins?”

  Rhodes sighed.

  “I let him walk.”

  Chase popped to her feet.

  “You what?”

  “I said, I let him walk,” Rhodes barked back. “I had no choice!”

  “He’s the prime suspect for three murders! He—”

  Rhodes suddenly exploded at her.

  “This is your fault!” he yelled. “The minute you left to get your beauty sleep, I get a call from Weston Smith, Jenkins’s council. He threatened to sue the department for harassment! Wanted to go after you directly, said you violated Tim’s rights and refused him access to council. We can’t have this now! Not now! Not with an election looming.”

  Denied him council? What the—

  But then something else occurred to her.

  “Wait,” Chase said, incredulous. “Wes Smith called?”

  “Yeah, he’s Jenkins’s lawyer.”

  Chase felt her mind working double-time. She shook her head.

  “No, no. That can’t be. Tim hates Weston, hates the Smith family. There’s no way he would seek council from Weston.”

  Rhodes looked at her suspiciously.

  “It’s in the transcript from my interview last night,” Chase continued. “He was being sued by SSJ.”

  Rhodes raised an eyebrow, urging her to continue.

  “He… he knew about Thomas’s infidelity, was urging Clarissa to leave him. He claims that they tried to pay him off, keep the Smith name untarnished. But he refused.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “We found court documents outlining the case of SSJ versus Tim Jenkins and the Butterfly Gardens. They shut the gardens down.”

  Rhodes took a seat.

  “And the infidelity?”

  Chase nodded.

  “We know that both Neil Pritchard and Thomas Smith were seeing the call girl… Veronica Wallace. Jesus, Rhodes, you let him go?”

  The man pursed his lips. When he spoke again, all anger had left him. Instead, he was working hard to save face.

  “I had no choice. But I put Simmons on him, watching his every move. Any update on the syringe or the sample found in his residence?”

  Chase shook her head.

  “I only just arrived; I have no idea yet. But he has motive and means to have pulled this off, Sergeant Rhodes.”

  Without saying a word, Rhodes picked up his cell phone and dialed a number.

  “Detective Simmons? It’s Sergeant Rhodes. Status update.”

  Chase waited while Rhodes listened.

  “Stay on him. Don’t let him out of your sight at any time. Detective Adams will replace you this evening,” Rhodes said then hung up his phone.

  “Tim was dropped off at home by Weston Smith and hasn’t left his house since. No activity since early this morning. Adams, find his prints on either the syringe or the specimen container and I’ll sign the arrest warrant myself.”

  Chase stood, still shaking her head. She couldn’t believe it. They had him. They had the Butterfly Killer in their custody and now he was free.

  She stood.

  “And find out whoever is leaking to the public, Adams! Find the leak and plug it!”

  CHAPTER 58

  “Tim Jenkins is our number one suspect,” Chase said, indicating the man’s p
hotograph tacked to the board. “He was in possession of a syringe and a container with a caterpillar inside. I think we busted him when he was on his way to kill again.”

  Detectives Yasiv and Gainsford stared at her like she had three heads.

  “Who was the intended victim?” Gainsford asked at last.

  Chase hesitated.

  “At this point, the victim is unknown. Maybe this man,” she said, pointing to the image of the surly boy from the yearbook that she had blown up and pinned to the board. “Marcus Slasinsky, but I’m not sure. I don’t know how he fits in. But Jenkins…” she let her sentence trail off, still incredulous at the fact that Rhodes had let him go.

  And that he was being represented by Weston Smith.

  Her head was starting to ache.

  “So we’re working on the theory that Tim Jenkins is still obsessed with Clarissa Smith and he lost it when he found out that Thomas was sleeping with a prostitute? That he also sought revenge on Neil Pritchard because he set the two of them up? Is that it?”

  Chase nodded. She knew what was coming next, and tried to come up with a satisfying answer in her head before replying.

  “And what about Chris Papadopoulos? Why was he targeted? Officer Dunbar said that he hasn’t left Montreal in several years, and even then it was to vacation to Mexico. How does he fit in?” Detective Yasiv asked.

  Nothing came to Chase.

  “I don’t know. Maybe… maybe he was taking out all of the boys from high school?”

  An uncomfortable silence came over the conference room. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was all they had to go on.

  “Where’s this Slasinsky kid now?”

  Chase shook her head.

  “We don’t know. Can’t find him anywhere; no record of any kind—he’s not in the system. I have Dunbar searching for him, but so far no luck.”

  “And the blood on the victims’ backs?” Detective Gainsford turned to the paper on the table in front of him. “This Martha Slasinsky? How does she play into all this?”

  Chase swore.

  “I don’t know,” she threw up her hands. “I have no fucking idea.”

  More silence, which was eventually broken by Detective Yasiv again.

  “Maybe she was a prostitute back then? Back when they were kids? Seduced them? And now Tim’s using her blood as a sort of calling card?”