Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9) Read online

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  Almost Infamous

  Detective Damien Drake Book 9

  Patrick Logan

  Inspired by a true story

  Prologue

  PART I – The Cat

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  PART II – The Mouse

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  PART III – The Wheel

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  END

  Author’s Note

  Other Books by Patrick Logan

  We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

  –Anais Nin

  Almost Infamous

  Detective Damien Drake Book 9

  Patrick Logan

  Prologue

  “Stu Barnes? Who the fuck is Stu Barnes?” Damien Drake asked as Detective Dunbar guided him toward the entrance of 62nd precinct.

  “Honestly? All I know is that he’s a man with deep pockets,” Dunbar replied. It was clear that he was trying his best to remain professional, but a small smile crept onto his lips, nevertheless.

  Drake, while admittedly apprehensive, did less to hide his joy.

  “Well, for fuck’s sake, give this Stu Barnes, whoever he is, a big thank you for me. A big fucking hug. I don’t know—”

  They passed a man in uniform and while Drake turned sideways, the other party made no effort whatsoever to avoid contact. In fact, it seemed to Drake like the man deliberately bumped into him.

  “Sorry,” Drake grumbled as he glanced back.

  “This ain’t over, Drake,” a scowling Officer Kramer whispered as he continued deeper into the precinct. “DNR.”

  “Wha—”

  Before he could even finish the word, Dunbar grabbed his arm and pulled him forward.

  “Let it go, Drake. You’re finally a free man—don’t do anything stupid to jeopardize that.”

  Drake bit the inside of his cheek and took one final look at 62nd precinct, a place he used to call home.

  He didn’t miss it—he didn’t miss it at all. The place had too many rules, too much politics.

  Not enough actual work was being done.

  Drake stepped out into the sun, put his sunglasses on, and then shook Dunbar’s hand.

  “After all I’ve been through over the past six months, Dunbar, do you think I would do anything to risk my freedom?”

  Now it was Dunbar’s turn to open his mouth to speak, only to be interrupted.

  Drake slapped the man on the shoulder.

  “Yeah, you’re right; I’ve got a feeling I’ll be seeing you again soon, my friend. Real soon.”

  ***

  “Here’s fine,” Drake instructed the cab driver. He slipped a twenty into the man’s awaiting palm. “Keep the change.”

  Drake got out of the cab and slowly approached SLH Investigations. He suppressed a chuckle when he saw that somebody—probably Hanna—had drawn a large D in front of SLH in what looked like permanent marker.

  “The hero’s welcome,” he mumbled with a grin.

  He wondered briefly if Hanna had told the others that he was coming today. The makeshift sign—which he quickly realized wasn’t made with a marker but pieces of electrical tape—suggested that she might have, but he wasn’t so sure.

  After what they’d both been through, including Marcus Slasinsky’s escape and subsequent reign of terror, he wasn’t even positive that she’d stuck around.

  As Drake reached for the door handle, he peered through the frosted glass. It was completely dark within, making it impossible for him to see inside.

  Maybe they all just packed up and left.

  Drake sighed, his grin gone now.

  I wouldn’t blame them. I wouldn’t blame them one bit.

  He opened the door and the second he passed over the threshold, the lights flicked on and someone shouted. His first instinct was to go for the gun tucked in his shoulder holster, but Drake stopped himself before pulling it free.

  Hanna was standing in front of her desk, a lopsided smirk on her face, and Leroy was at her side, chuckling to himself. Behind both of them was a more stoic-looking Screech.

  All three were wearing cheap, brightly colored party hats.

  “What the—”

  Hanna put a party horn between her lips and proceeded to repeat the terrible noise that Drake had mistaken for a scream upon entering DSLH.

  “All right, all right, I’m—” Drake began, holding up a hand.

  Hanna blew the horn three times in rapid succession.

  “—here. I’m here.”

  “Welcome back, Drake,” Leroy said. The kid strode forward and wrapped him in a healthy embrace.

  Damn, he’s strong.

  “Thanks, Leroy,” Drake replied. “It’s good—”

  Hanna sounded her horn again, but this time, Drake was expecting the interruption. His hand shot out and he deftly yanked it from her mouth.

  “Aw, you’re no—” Hanna started, but Drake surprised them all, himself included, by bringing the horn to his lips and blowing it loudly.

  “Fun?”

  “Welcome back, big guy,” Hanna said, her smile growing.

  “Thanks. I’d say it’s good to be home, but I can’t lie to you guys.”

  “Good to see that your time playing hide the cheese in the slammer hasn’t affected your cheery attitude,” Hanna remarked.

  Shaking his head, Drake turned his attention to Screech next, who had yet to step forward.

  Of the three of them, Screech had been through the most. The man had come into Drake’s life surreptitiousl
y after answering a simple Craig’s List ad and had undergone a multitude of significant changes since.

  Whether or not these were for the better had yet to be determined.

  “Screech.”

  Instead of waiting for the man to respond, Drake took it upon himself to reach out and hug the man.

  Contrary to Leroy, Screech seemed frailer than Drake recalled.

  “It is good to be back,” he said as they disengaged. “Seriously.”

  With the pleasantries over with, Drake finally took the opportunity to look around.

  With the ultra-modern decor and fully functional lights, their new digs were nothing like the old Triple D. Behind Drake, flanking the entrance, were several chairs complete with chrome armrests for clients, as well as a chic water dispenser. In front of him, were three glass desks spread across the width of the room, with large monitors sitting atop. Against the side wall was an oil painting of a red circle surrounded by other smaller circles.

  Tucked away near the back was something that appeared wholly out of place: a chunky wooden structure that was either an old-fashioned desk or a medieval torture device. A hard, plastic chair was tucked beneath it, suggesting the former, but Drake couldn’t be sure.

  “Let me guess, that desk is for me.”

  Screech followed his gaze.

  “It’s the best we could do on such short notice.”

  Drake shook his head, but he was still smiling.

  “Alright, let’s just—”

  “Not so fast, buzzkill. We got you something,” Hanna informed him. “A little present.”

  Drake turned and looked at her, eyebrows raised.

  This whole party atmosphere was one thing, but gifts? He didn’t need gifts.

  “Hanna.”

  She showed him her palms.

  “I know, I know, we shouldn’t have—but we did. Come with me.”

  Knowing that he would get nowhere arguing with the woman, Drake reluctantly followed her back onto the sidewalk.

  Once outside, she held up a teardrop-shaped leather chain from which a single key dangled.

  “I don’t get it—is that for the shop?”

  Hanna rolled her eyes.

  “You know, for a detective, your observational skills are pretty shit.” She used the key to indicate the parking lot, which had only housed about a dozen cars. “See something you recognize? Something you might like?”

  Drake let his eyes bounce from car to car. The only one that looked familiar was Hanna’s VW, which must have been repaired since she’d broad-sided Marcus Slasinsky’s vehicle. But he had a sneaking suspicion that this wasn’t what she was referring to.

  “I don’t—” Drake stopped cold. Tucked away in the farthest parking spot, facing the street, was a creme-colored Crown Victoria.

  Screech started to say something, but Drake didn’t hear a single word; he was already hurrying toward the car. When he reached it, he first caressed the hood and then cupped his hands to look through the driver’s side window.

  It was exactly the way he remembered it. Which, quite simply, was impossible.

  “How?” He gasped. “How did—what did—what the hell? How did you get this?”

  “A little birdie told a squirrel where to find a nut.”

  Confused, Drake shook his head.

  “Here, take it.”

  In a daze, he grabbed the key from Hanna’s hand and unlocked the door. On the cracked leather front seat was a file folder. He reached inside and picked it up.

  “Wh—what’s this?” he asked, hoping that it wasn’t another gift. The fact that his crew had somehow managed to find his car in one piece was something of a miracle. And much more than he deserved. “Tickets to the opera?”

  Inside, he found several sheets of paper bound together by a paper clip. At the top of the first page was the SLH Investigations header, once again modified with a hand-written ‘D’.

  “That is your first case,” Screech said, matter-of-factly.

  Drake’s eyes narrowed as he read the first few lines under Case Description. He didn’t get any further.

  “For real? We’re looking for lost cats now? Things have gotten so desperate that we’ve stooped this low?”

  Screech shook his head.

  “We are not looking for lost cats—you are.” The man laughed. “What did you think, Drake? Did you think that you’d just come out of retirement and grab up all the good cases? Hell no. You’re starting at the bottom.” Screech put a hand up over his head. “Maybe one day you’ll end up here.”

  Drake’s initial reaction was to protest, but, instead, he joined in with Screech’s laughter.

  “You know what?” he said quietly. “After what I’ve been through—after Marcus Slasinsky—I’m okay with looking for a missing cat. Hell, I’m okay with starting at the bottom.”

  “That may be,” Hanna said, her serious tone putting an abrupt end to their chuckling. “But before you go pussy hunting, there’s something else we need to do first.”

  Screech and Leroy’s faces suddenly adopted Hanna’s somber expression and Drake grew concerned.

  “Yeah, and what’s that?”

  “We have a funeral that we need to get out of the way.”

  PART I – The Cat

  Chapter 1

  “Use your fucking arms, would you? Jesus Christ, Toby, I’m carrying ninety-nine percent of this goddamn couch.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” Tobin grunted as he adjusted his grip. His sneaker slipped on the ramp and he nearly dropped the couch. “Shit, hold up, I’m gonna fall!”

  “I don’t give a fuck—if you wore some work shoes instead of those gay ass slippers, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

  Tobin raised his eyes and glared at his colleague. The reason why the couch felt so heavy, he realized, was because the man’s massive gut was pressing down on it.

  Maybe if you weren’t so fat, you could carry this thing by yourself.

  His gaze continued to drift upward, tracing the man’s long, orange beard, to his buried sneer and eventually falling on his eyes.

  “Sorry,” Tobin grumbled, immediately looking away. He adjusted his footing, took a moment to catch his breath, and then grasped the underside of the couch so tightly that his fingers immediately started to ache.

  “It’s Tobin—not Toby,” he whispered.

  Together, the two of them managed to make their way down the ramp and then across the sidewalk to the apartment building door that was held open by a brick.

  “Ah, shit,” Kevin swore as they stepped into the lobby.

  The man’s eyes were aimed over Tobin’s shoulder, but, worried that his fingers would slip again, he didn’t dare look in that direction.

  “What? What is it?”

  Kevin flicked his bearded chin.

  “Elevator’s busted. Looks like we’re taking the stairs.”

  “The stairs?” Tobin whined. The pain that had started in his fingers had spread up his forearms and was starting to leak into his biceps. “But the apartment’s on the third floor!”

  Kevin smirked.

  “Yeah—suck it up, buttercup, because you’re gonna be on the bottom. But I guess you’re used to that, ain’t ya?”

  ***

  “There’s little Toby! How’re your arms? Burning like a bitch in heat?”

  Tobin looked up at Kevin, who was sitting on the back of the truck with his feet dangling above the ground. He was gnashing a sandwich, and when he smiled, Tobin could see flecks of Wonder bread and tuna coating his upper teeth.

  “You want a bite?” Kevin asked, holding the sandwich out to him. “Lemme guess, you forgot your lunch again?”

  “No thanks. And I’m fasting,” Tobin replied, lowering his head. With every step away from the truck, he made a conscious effort to straighten his posture just a little, despite the pain in his shoulders and lower back.

  His arms were probably also sore, as Kevin had pointed out, but he just couldn’t feel them.<
br />
  “Faggot—hey, where the fuck you going?”

  Tobin just kept on walking.

  “Yo, whatever—you got half an hour, fuck boy. Don’t be late. Two more houses left to do this afternoon.”

  “Fuck you,” Tobin muttered when he was well out of earshot.

  As he passed a large glass storefront, he caught sight of his reflection and shuddered. His outfit was atrocious, of course; they made him wear a uniform that consisted of oversized cargo pants and a dark green T-shirt with the company name—Maldrim Movers—written in an ugly yellow script across his chest.

  Tobin had drawn the line at the shoes. He simply refused to wear the big clunky steel-toed things that Kevin and all the other crew members sported. Instead, the shoes that he wore day in and day out were white Chuck Taylors. To show them off, Tobin had rolled his cargo pants up to reveal three inches of ankle, but the look didn’t quite work; the pants were ill-fitting and far too baggy to pull it off.

  With another sigh, Tobin increased his pace again. He had a long way to go before arriving at anything that had the style and substance he was looking for, and Kevin, as much as he hated the man, was right about the half-hour break. Having been late twice this month already, he knew that it wouldn’t just be the bloated ginger that he would have to deal with following another transgression, but the owner, Todd Maldrim.

  And the stark reality was that Tobin needed this job, the money.

  For now, anyway.

  By the time the real estate transitioned from rundown apartments to expensive high rises, Tobin was nearly in a full jog. It wasn’t just the buildings that changed, either; it was the quality of the people, as well.

  Frowning faces were replaced by determined expressions, ratty trench coats became bespoke suits, and high ponies transitioned into full blow-outs.

  Tobin wiped the sweat off his brow and started to smile deliberately every few seconds. He knew that he probably looked like a crazy person, but he also knew that he had to get into the zone if he wanted the video to come out just right.

  His gaze moved from the people he passed to the stores around him: John Varvatos, Ajax, and Serac.

  He shook his head disapprovingly. All the advertisements in the store windows were for old designers, last year’s models.