Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 2 Page 29

  “There was this one girl, a young girl who had just come up from somewhere in the South, one of the Carolinas I believe, and she was as green as they come. Nancy, I think her name was. Anyways, on her first trick, she forgot to get the money upfront then didn’t get paid at all. Her second trick was even worse: the John choked her so bad that she had to wear a scarf in the middle of August to cover up the bruises. I tried to help her out, give her tips, but it was clear she wasn’t cut out for this job. So, when the man with the card approached us and asked about whether or not we wanted something safer, something more secure, Nancy jumped at the opportunity. Usually, this is the same shit that pimps tell you, but this man… he was different. He was no pimp, at least not in the traditional sense.

  “When you’ve been in the game for as long as I have, you just get feelings about people. And I felt that this was a very bad man. I tried to convince Nancy not to go with him, but she was naive and scared. That was the last time I saw her alive,” Veronica paused for a moment to catch her breath. “About a month later, one of the other workers found her body in a dumpster on 42nd Ave. Her throat had been slit ear to ear, but this was probably a mercy killing. Her body… Drake, it had been ravaged. I can’t even—just thinking about it now makes me want to cry or puke or something.”

  Veronica handed the print out back to Drake. Her hand was shaking so badly that it fluttered.

  “You don’t want to fuck with these guys, Drake. I hear that they’re mobbed up, but we’re not talking about Mafia. We’re talking about Colombians, cartels, that kind of shit.”

  Drake thought back to the gray-haired man outside the hanger.

  “Russians?”

  Veronica shrugged.

  “Who knows. These guys, these scumbags, they often work together.”

  “But these people… the ones that would buy these girls. What kind of person would do that?”

  Veronica chewed her lip and took a moment before answering. It was clear that she was remembering something from her own past.

  “What happens to a person when their entire self-worth is wrapped up in the things they can buy? What happens when they’ve already bought everything? New experiences don’t exist for these rich assholes. You know how it is, Drake. For these people, it’s not about money, it never was; money is simply a tool to gain power. After all, they don’t call it buy anything money,” she shook her head. “No, they call it fuck you money. When you have this much money, you can tell anyone you want to fuck off. They say it all the time to people like you and me, the police, the FBI, anybody, really.”

  Drake struggled to take all of this in. He wasn’t naïve, and he doubted the girls in the container were either. They were coming to New York to ply the sex trade, that much was obvious. But Mandy didn’t mention anything about being sold. Clearly, that was part of the fine print that they hadn’t been privy to.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Well, you see, Veronica, here’s the thing. I don’t give a fuck about the FBI or NYPD, either. What I give a fuck about is the fact that two dozen girls were found dead in a shipping container. They died because whoever was bringing them in from Colombia decided it would be a good idea to pack them so full of heroin that the baggies burst in their stomachs. Two birds and one stone, that sort of shit. That’s what I care about. I don’t give a fuck about mobsters or rich assholes. All I care about is making sure that what I saw in that container doesn’t happen again. That none of your friends are ever found in dumpsters with their throats slit. That’s what I care about. But I can’t do it on my own. I’ve got very few friends left, but even with their skills, they can’t find out where these assholes are hiding. That’s what I need you for.”

  Drake leaned forward and interlaced his fingers.

  “You think you can help me out, Veronica? Can you help me find these assholes and finally be the one to tell them to fuck off?”

  Chapter 31

  Beckett stared up at Bob Bumacher’s house through the windshield. It was a three-story brownstone that must’ve cost at least seven figures. Expensive digs for a personal trainer.

  He slipped the leather case out of his pocket and rechecked the contents.

  I should just go home and get some sleep, he thought unexpectedly. When I wake up, I’ll call the police, let them know what Bob’s been up to. Let them deal with it.

  But something inside of Beckett had awoken. Something that gripped him, something that had a stranglehold on his soul.

  No, Bob Bumacher has to pay.

  And Beckett was the one who had come to collect his debt.

  With a deep breath, Beckett’s eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He caught his reflection and was momentarily startled. It wasn’t his face that was shocking, even though he looked older and more tired than he remembered.

  It was his eyes—there was an emptiness to his eyes that was alarming.

  Following another deep breath, Beckett stepped out into the night. He went to the trunk first and put on two pairs of purple lab gloves before slipping a balaclava over his head and face. In addition to these items, he’d also picked up several rudimentary lock picking tools: a baseball bat and a crowbar. He opted for the latter.

  He walked briskly down the side of the house, looking for a way in. After about ten paces, he found it in the form of a window roughly six feet up. Hoisting himself up wouldn’t be a problem, but it would prove difficult to pry the window open from below without making a racket. Glancing around, he found a recycling bin against the wall and wheeled it over. He placed it beneath the window and, after confirming that it would hold his weight, climbed on top of it.

  A quick glance inside the house revealed that the window led into the kitchen. Beckett jammed the crowbar between the window and frame and it popped open with ease.

  It probably hadn’t even been locked.

  After waiting to make sure that there was no stirring within the dark house, he put the crowbar on the counter inside and then hoisted himself through the opening.

  Once inside, he paused again and listened closely.

  Nothing, no sound. Not even an AC unit.

  He climbed off the counter and looked around, trying to orient himself. The kitchen, which looked as if it had been taken straight out of a Home and Garden magazine, led to a family room off to the right and the entrance to the left. There was a staircase across to the entrance.

  Even though he was sure that Bob was upstairs sleeping, Beckett went to the family room first.

  He still needed proof that Bob was involved with the dead girls. The heroin, the yacht in the Virgin Gorda, the corrupt cops he’d paid off, they weren’t enough.

  The problem was, Beckett had no idea what he was looking for. It wasn’t like the man would have pictures of himself posing with the dead bodies on display. He’d spent some time with Bob on the yacht when he’d ferried Beckett and Screech to the mainland, and while Bob didn’t strike him as an intellectual, he wasn’t an absolute moron, either.

  A desk, maybe? Files? Computers?

  When the family room gave him nothing but a flat-screen TV and a glass coffee table, Beckett started to question what he was doing here.

  I should have found proof first, then come in. I should have planned this better.

  Just when he was considering going back out the way he’d come, he spotted a door that he had overlooked at first. It was partially blocked by the TV, but there was more than enough room for him to slip behind it. When he saw the electronic keypad above an industrial looking doorknob, he couldn’t help but smirk.

  If Bob had anything incriminating in this house, it would be in this room.

  But Beckett quickly realized that he had a new problem: while the window had popped open without much effort, this door was clearly reinforced. And no matter how hard he pushed the crowbar, it wouldn’t budge.

  Sweat forming beneath the balaclava, Beckett ground his teeth in frustration.

  This is never going to work. It’s solid ste
el.

  Taking a step back, he reassessed his options. The crowbar wouldn’t work, but maybe the keypad would.

  After unsuccessfully trying a few number combinations, he simply grabbed the face of the thing and pulled. It came free in his hand, revealing just two wires that extended into the door itself. Beckett tore the pad off completely, then, on a whim, he touched the ends of the two wires together. There was a click and the door swung open.

  You can buy the most expensive lock in the world, but if you installed it, there’s always going to be a way to remove it.

  Beckett stepped into the room and took a moment to catch his bearings. There were several shotguns mounted on the wall on his left and a tactical vest that hung beside them.

  “You’ve been busy, Bob. Preparing for battle, are we?” he whispered. To his right was a computer as well as a filing cabinet. But Beckett didn’t need to go rooting through any files to find what he was looking for.

  Sitting on top of the computer desk was a set of keys attached to a floating device—the keys to B-yacht’ch. Beckett strode over and moved the keys aside. There, beneath the keys, was a manifest outlining travel plans from Manhattan to the shores of Colombia, with a stop in the Virgin Gorda. It was scheduled to leave that evening.

  This was all the proof Beckett needed.

  Bob knew about the girls, alright. He knew, because he’d transported them in the yacht.

  “You’ve been a bad—”

  Beckett’s entire body froze when a voice spoke from behind him.

  “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?

  Chapter 32

  “Who the hell is this?” Screech demanded from the passenger seat of Drake’s Crown Vic.

  “Long story,” Drake replied as he slid in behind the steering wheel. Veronica got into the back.

  Screech’s eyes darted from Drake to Veronica and back again.

  “What the fuck, Drake? What’s going on?”

  Drake started the car and put it into drive.

  “Veronica, this is Screech—he’s my partner.”

  “Doesn’t seem like your type,” Veronica said from the backseat.

  “Sorry, sweetheart, forgot to shave my legs this morning,” Screech shot back. Drake’s eyes flicked to the rearview, and he saw that Veronica had removed the Taser from her purse.

  “Fuck off, both of you. Screech, Veronica’s gonna help us figure out when and how we can get into the next auction.”

  “Auction?”

  Drake nodded.

  “The card I found… it’s not from a gentlemen’s club. It’s an auction where they sell these Colombian girls as sex slaves.”

  In his periphery, Drake saw Screech cringe. He didn’t blame the man. Drake himself felt sick to his stomach just thinking about what could have happened to those girls. And as cruel as it sounded, after what Veronica had told him, it might have been a blessing that the girls in the container had gone out the way they did.

  And if these thoughts made Drake uneasy, a hardened ex-NYPD detective, what might they do to the mind of a computer analyst?

  Drake suddenly pulled over to the side of the road quickly and jammed the car into Park. Then he turned his entire body to face Screech.

  “Screech, I can take it home. I can take you home, and you never have to hear about this again. You don’t have to be involved—and you won’t have to worry about Mandy. I promise that I’ll look after her. But you don’t have to do this, you’ve got nothing to prove… not to me, not to Beckett, not to anyone. What you’ve done for me is already more than anyone could ask.”

  Screech’s face twisted and he cast a glance in the backseat.

  “Forget about Veronica—she can take care of herself. Trust me on that one. This is just about you now. Just say the word and I’ll take you home.”

  Screech seemed to contemplate this for a few moments, but when he was going to do just that—ask Drake to take him home—he did an about-face.

  “I spoke to Beckett,” he said softly. “He told me that the heroin that Mandy had was laced with fentanyl and some other, even more powerful stuff. He said it’s the most dangerous shit he’s ever come across. And this is the senior ME of the NYPD we’re talking about here.”

  Drake nodded; that was answer enough for him. He put the car into drive and continued onward.

  Less than a half an hour later, Veronica and Screech had warmed to each other. Drake wasn’t surprised; both of them had a crude sense of humor, and it was mildly amusing to listen to their back and forth banter. But most of the time, his mind was preoccupied. Somehow Beckett was back in the fold, as was Screech, and now he had brought Veronica along for the ride as well.

  It seemed that no matter how hard Drake tried to stay out of people’s business, to keep his misery to himself, it was like a disease that spread from one capillary to another.

  He tried to convince himself that they were doing good, that the whole point of everything they were up to revolved around making the city safe, but he couldn’t help but think that it was also centered around one incident.

  Clay.

  “Here’s good.”

  Clay and the Skeleton King, the fact that his best friend and partner had been murdered in front of his eyes.

  Due to his negligence.

  “Drake, I said, here’s good.”

  Why did you have to go and get yourself mixed up in this shit, Clay? ANGUIS Holdings? The Church of Liberation?

  And he couldn’t forget about the image of Jasmine holding the brick of heroin.

  Why didn’t you just stay out of all that garbage? And why didn’t you just talk to me? Why didn’t—

  “Drake! Let me out of the fucking car!”

  Drake shook his head and turned to look at Veronica.

  “Fuck, I’ve been asking you to let me out for the past five minutes.”

  Drake pulled over the side of the road. He hadn’t even realized that they’d already arrived in the heart of Manhattan, so lost in his head was he.

  “Here?”

  “No, back there, when I first asked you to stop.” Veronica sighed. “Never mind, here’s fine.”

  Drake looked around. The street was nearly empty, which wasn’t surprising given the hour. And yet, he spotted a woman in a miniskirt and tube top slowly sauntering toward their parked car, a cigarette dangling between her lips.

  “Are you sure—”

  “Look, these assholes aren’t just going to advertise their auction on a plaque or on a banner behind a plane. Let me work the streets for a while. If what you said is true, they’re going to be desperate for more girls now that their shipment…” she let her sentence trail off. “One night, maybe two—I’ll figure out when the auction is going down.”

  Drake nodded.

  “You want us to… I dunno, wait around? Watch out for you?”

  Veronica rolled her eyes in the backseat and got out of the car. Then she walked over to Drake’s half-open window.

  “This is all the protection I need,” she said, flashing him the Taser.

  Just seeing that weapon again made Drake shudder.

  Yeah, Veronica could most definitely look after herself.

  Chapter 33

  In person, Bob Bumacher was gigantic. For the brief second that Beckett had to observe the man before he lunged, a strange thought entered his head.

  The white hulk—he looks like the white hulk.

  Despite his shock, Beckett somehow managed to swivel his hips a second before the man’s massive hands grabbed him, something that more than likely saved his life.

  Instead of striking him directly in the chest, Bob hit Beckett’s left shoulder, sending him spiraling towards the desk. A second later, his hip banged against the filing cabinet, and he cried out in pain.

  The momentum sent Bob spinning in the other direction and he collided loudly with the wall. Knowing that he just had a few seconds before the big man recovered, Beckett reached for the crowbar that he had set down on the desk upon
entering the room.

  Only it wasn’t there. When his hip had struck the table, it must have fallen to the floor, he realized. Beckett quickly dropped to his knees to search for it. It had slipped behind the desk and was now lying near the back wall, but as he reached for it, a vice grip closed on his left ankle.

  “No!” Beckett yelled.

  Bob Bumacher took this as encouragement and yanked. Hard.

  For a moment, Beckett was airborne, but this only lasted a split second before he crashed into the opposite wall.

  Bob was on his feet again, snarling now, the veins in his bare chest and arms and even his head throbbing.

  He truly was the white hulk.

  Beckett collapsed to the floor, pain shooting up his left hip and ankle.

  “I can—” explain, he tried to say. But Bob came for him again, throwing a punch at his head. Survival instincts took over and Beckett somehow managed to roll to one side to avoid the blow.

  Bob’s fist blasted a hole in the drywall the size of a beach ball.

  This was a terrible fucking plan, Beckett thought absently. Still on the floor, he looked at the crowbar again, but now that he was on the other side of the room, he knew that there was no way to reach it before Bob tore his limbs from his body.

  A sharp pain shot up his hip, and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t just from striking the desk, but that there was something hard in there.

  Your case! The Midazolam! The scalpel, you fucking idiot!

  “You made a mistake coming here,” Bob hissed.

  Beckett rolled onto his back just in time to see Bob jump on top of him. Before he could react, the man was in full mount, putting his weight, which must’ve been in excess of 280 pounds, directly on Beckett’s chest. He couldn’t draw a breath, he couldn’t even so much as wheeze.

  Beckett was a brown belt in jiu-jitsu, but he was terribly outmatched in this situation.

  “I’m going to enjoy killing you,” Bob said, his eyes blazing.

  All it would take was one solid punch to the head and Beckett knew that his skull would collapse like a paper mache piñata. Thankfully, Bob had different ideas.