Detective Damien Drake series Box Set 1 Page 6

  Like that hooker, Charlemagne or whatever her name was now that woman knew something. The King had grabbed her, but for some reason had let her go.

  If only he could get more time with her…

  “What would you rather do then?” Clay shot back.

  Drake didn’t answer and instead relinquished himself to watching the identical brown townhouses that drifted by and quickly became a blur.

  They drove in silence for the next little while, before coming to a stop just as the rain started to fall.

  Clay immediately opened the door, flooding the car with the smell of wet smog. Halfway out, he leaned into the cab and said, “Drake, you coming?”

  ***

  Drake awoke with a sour taste in his mouth and the hint of a headache behind his eyes. With a groan, he leaned over, and then caught himself at the last moment before he rolled off the coach.

  “Fuck,” he swore and then looked down at himself.

  He was still wearing the same clothes he had been sporting at Suze’s school that morning, including the now incredibly wrinkled sport coat. He shook his head at not having remembered passing out on the couch, and then instantly regretted that choice, too.

  His hint of a headache immediately somersaulted to full-fledged.

  Swallowing audibly, he looked over at the table next. There was a half-empty bottle of Johnny Red on its side, the cap looking as if it had been placed on instead of screwed.

  Drake shut his eyes and took several deep breaths.

  His headache receded to a dull throb, persistent but no longer debilitating, and he opened his eyes again before slowly pulling himself into a sitting position. His neck was sore, and he rubbed it absently with one hand, while the other went directly to the bottle. As he righted it, in his mind he imagined flicking the top off and taking a big gulp. A huge gulp. A goddamn river bass-type swallow.

  But instead, he withdrew his hand quickly as if the bottle had scalded him.

  In some ways, he supposed it had.

  With another groan, this time accompanied by a grunt, he stood, immediately wincing at the pain in his neck and shoulders. He went straight to the kitchen of his bachelor pad, and his gaze flicked to the glowing green numbers on the stove.

  4:14.

  He grabbed the bottle of Advil off the counter, withdrew two tabs and put them on his tongue. The sweetness of the coating threatened to curdle his stomach, so he swallowed them quickly, dryly, and then chased them with a glass of lukewarm water.

  4:14… I’m not going to sleep again tonight.

  And then he thought, If what I was doing before could even be considered sleep.

  But he couldn’t stay here; staying here with the liquor bottle would be like putting a child in a room made of marshmallows and instructing them not to have a taste, a lick, a smell.

  He had to get out.

  And Damien Drake knew exactly where he would go, even at this hour.

  Chapter 13

  Drake rolled into the conference room five minutes late, a hot coffee in each hand. He felt like shit and looked even worse.

  His fear of not being able to fall asleep again had proved false: he must have drifted off sometime in his parked car, because before he knew it, the sun was blazing down on him, turning his Crown Vic into a cracked leather greenhouse.

  If there was one positive thing to glean out of this was that the heat and sweat had managed to smooth out some, but not all, of the wrinkles in his sport coat.

  All eyes were on him as he entered, but he kept his focus straight ahead, his eyes locked on Chase, who continued to speak.

  For a second, he thought he saw her eyebrows knit when their eyes met, but he might have imagined it. If the detective had an opinion about him, he was certain that he would hear about it soon.

  “We have positively identified the victim as Thomas Alexander Smith—a father of an eight-year-old boy named Thomas Jr., husband to a one Clarissa Smith.”

  Upon mention of the names, the other detectives in the room broke into hushed murmurs.

  “Quiet, please,” Chase said politely. Drake made it next to her and handed her one of the coffees, which she took without acknowledging him. “And yes, that Thomas Smith. He was in the paper this past Tuesday, inaugurating the library in Brooklyn that now bears his name. And to the unenlightened, he is a junior partner at Smith, Smith, and Jackson—SSJ. The two Smiths, however, are not Thomas; they are his father, Kenneth, and his older brother, Weston.”

  A hand shot up, and Drake recognized it as belonging to one of the older detectives; Detective Luke Gainsford.

  Chase raised her chin, and Drake was once again struck at how in control she was. Short, slight, attractive, she had all the makings of someone not in charge, someone that the others, especially ones like Luke Gainsford, would resent for giving orders. But it was her authoritative, no-nonsense edge that they must have appreciated.

  Drake knew he did.

  The alternative was that they loathed him so much that she was like a breath of fresh air amidst foul smelling whiskey halitosis.

  “Go ahead Detective Gainsford.”

  The man cleared his throat.

  “I’ve gotten three calls yesterday from the media, and two more this morning alone. They know that someone has died in the Clinton Hill, and they know that it wasn’t just another tweeker. Don’t ask me how, but they know it’s someone important. Something about Alligator shoes? Anyway, I managed to tell my source to keep things on the DL for now, but I can’t promise that he won’t go live tomorrow or the next day with the details.”

  DL? Since when did Luke Gainsford use the term DL?

  For as long as he had known the man, he was as square as they came.

  Another hand shot up and Chase drew her eyes to him, signifying that he should speak before she answered Detective Gainsford.

  “Found three blog sites reporting it; small time blogs, but still. Luke is right, this thing is primed to blow.”

  Chase nodded.

  “I’ve seen five blogs myself, one who managed to get a photo of the famed Alligator shoes.” Her face changed, softening somewhat. “I know that we can’t keep this bottled forever, nor do I intend to. But we still haven’t spoken to Thomas’s family. Hold your guys off until this afternoon, and I’ll release a statement to the press shortly after lunch. That work for you guys?”

  There was a murmur of affirmation, but Drake found his mind elsewhere.

  When Clay had been murdered, the media had reported him as the Skeleton King’s eighth victim and had branded him as the only bearded one, omitting the fact that he was also the only one still in possession of his skin.

  Bearded NYPD Homicide Detective is the Skeleton King’s final victim.

  It made him sick, that a man’s life could be parsed down to a fucking beard, or in this case a type of shoe.

  “Good. You guys come up with anything else? Anything about this butterfly thing?”

  Detective Henry Yasiv, who was almost exactly half Luke Gainsford’s age, raised his hand.

  “I, uhhh, I know a few things about butterflies,” he stammered, his face reddening.

  “About the case or about butterflies in general?”

  The man’s blue eyes went to the floor, offering both Drake and Chase a clear view of his messy blond hair.

  “In general,” he said softly.

  Chase nodded.

  “Good. Write a quick summary and get it on my desk as soon as you can.” Then to the group, she added, “nothing is out of bounds here, people. Everything can help. And after the press gets a hold of this, it’s going to be nearly impossible to weed through the shit.”

  Drake looked over at her, surprised by the curse. Her hazel eyes were as focused as ever, and in that split second, Drake knew exactly what she was thinking.

  Smith, Smith and Jackson were going to make things incredibly difficult for them. If Thomas had any dark secrets, they were going to be like opening a dinosaur oyster with a toothpick; the
law firm would lock them out, tie them up with litigation.

  What’s worse, is they would likely offer a reward for any information leading to an arrest, which would overwhelm their call system to the point of obfuscation.

  “Anyone else?”

  Detective Frank Simmons, a man with skin so dark that Drake had often joked and called him The Shadow, which Frank had actually taken a liking to, spoke up.

  “I met Thomas before at a charity golf event a couple of years back. Seemed like a nice man, polite, even-tempered.”

  Chase nodded.

  “Which is in line with everything that I managed to pull up on him online. I had records look into him as well, and aside from a few parking tickets, all of which he paid promptly, he’s as clean as a whistle. Right now, the only thing that stands out is that he has been missing for more than 24 hours, and his wife still hasn’t reported it.”

  “Maybe he was on a business trip?” Frank offered.

  Chase mulled this over for a moment.

  “Maybe, but he was still local.”

  “Maybe he told his wife he was on a business trip?” Frank said cautiously.

  Chase nodded.

  “Could be—Detective Simmons, why don’t you take Detective Gainsford over to his office at SSJ downtown and ask the secretary about his travel plans. But for God’s sake, be discrete. I’m aiming to announce to the press at around one this afternoon. I don’t want you to go before that, but if we wait until afterward, I doubt we’re going to get anywhere. The law office is likely to be on lockdown once I go live. Aim for getting there at a quarter to, and start asking questions at one o’clock.”

  Frank agreed and Chase clapped her hands, indicating that the meeting was coming to a close.

  “One more thing,” she said when the chatter picked up. The room quieted. “The official cause of death was an allergic reaction to butterflies.”

  The chatter instantly increased, and Chase found herself having to speak over the other detectives.

  “Thomas was injected with a… a butterfly cocktail, let’s say, and the reaction basically caused his lungs and throat to swell to the point of asphyxiation. I want the rest of you to look into where one might get, buy or catch, butterflies in NYC. Also, look into disgruntled entomologists, public garden employees, anyone that might be connected to Thomas or his firm and have access to flocks of butterflies.”

  Several detectives’ hands went up, but Chase shook her head.

  “That’s all for now. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, same time.”

  Drake was impressed. Chase had managed to get all her information across before releasing the bombshell—butterfly slurry—and had shut the meeting down before she had to waste an hour answering questions that weren’t going to help them get any closer to finding the killer.

  As the room started to clear out, Chase leaned over to him and whispered, “You smell and look like shit. Go get changed, have a shower, and meet me out front in ten. You’re coming with me when I speak to Thomas’s wife.”

  Drake grimaced and he suddenly felt envious of Detectives Simmons and Gainsford who were headed to Smith, Smith and Jackson.

  After what had happened to Clay, the last thing in the world he wanted to do was to tell another family that their father and husband had been murdered.

  Chapter 14

  Ten minutes and a quick phone call later, Drake left the police station in a fresh shirt and new khakis. The only thing that remained unchanged was his sport coat, which, upon close inspection, wasn’t in too bad a shape. His hair had been brushed, although he had gotten into the habit of keeping so short that it required very little maintenance. His eyes were still red-rimmed, and they stood out on his pale face, but he no longer looked as if he donated plasma for a living.

  And he actually felt better, too. The coffee helped, as did two additional Advil, but a quick shower had probably benefited him most.

  Another drink would have been ideal, but he didn’t want to push it. For whatever reason, Chase was the only one in the damn precinct, shit, maybe even the entire city, that still wanted to be around him. And he had meant what he’d said: he was going to catch the bastard who did this to Thomas.

  Chase was waiting out front, her window down, the top half of her face covered in oversized Ray-Ban shades. Drake teased his car keys out of his pocket and wagged them at her.

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve seen the way you keep your car. Ride with me.”

  Maybe Chase was more like Clay than he had first thought, despite their obvious differences. Clay had always insisted on driving, and Drake preferred it that way. It gave him a chance to watch the city go by.

  He shrugged.

  “Sure,” he said, and made his way over to the passenger side of her 5-series BMW. He wasn’t much of a car guy, case and point his ‘94 Crown Vic, but he wasn’t so naive that he couldn’t recognize a beautiful piece of machinery when he saw one.

  Drake got into the car, easing his body into the smooth leather seats. It was like sitting his bare ass on a thick ball of cotton candy.

  He whistled as his eyes drifted to the large 8” screen display embedded in the dash. On it was a map, with Thomas Smith’s address listed in the top right-hand corner.

  “Tell me something, Chase; how does an NYC Detective from Seattle afford a ride such as this?” he teased.

  He thought he knew the answer: a rich daddy clinging to guilt from a long-settled divorce.

  Yeah, that seemed about right, fit the bill.

  Only it wasn’t right, although at first he had taken Chase’s response as a joke.

  “Internet poker,” she said as she put the car into drive. Her foot tapped the accelerator and the BMW sprang forward with a smoothness that Drake was unaccustomed to.

  When her face remained expressionless, he turned to her.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously,” she confirmed.

  “Huh,” Drake slumped back into his seat. Not only was it at least a thousand times more comfortable than his own car, it made his couch seem like a wooden pallet. He instinctively reached up and rubbed the left side of his neck. It was still sore, but not nearly as bad as it had been this morning. Now it was like his headache; a dull throb that he could almost ignore.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Chase replied.

  Drake blinked once, twice, and then fell asleep.

  ***

  “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” Someone shook Drake’s shoulder. “Wakey, Wakey.”

  Drake startled and opened his eyes, momentarily unsure of where he was. He looked around briefly, then saw Chase’s face and it all came back. Using the back of his hand to wipe drool from the corner of his mouth, he sat up.

  “We here?”

  “We’re here.”

  Drake peered out the windshield. They were parked on a winding street flanked by large stretches of manicured green lawns. On his left was a wrought iron gate, and in the distance, he made out a two-story brick colonial with a detached three car garage.

  Thomas did quite well for himself.

  Chase reached for the door, but hesitated before opening it. She turned to him, and then lifted her sunglasses.

  There was compassion in those eyes, but Drake, for the life of him, couldn’t figure out why.

  Everyone hated him, blamed him for Clay’s death, including himself, but not this woman. Was it because she was from Seattle? Is that it? If it was and her goal was to make new friends and connections, she was going about it the wrong way.

  Drake was beginning to think that there was a plague coming, and he was the infamous patient zero.

  “You going to be alright in there?” she asked softly.

  Drake cleared his throat.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Good. I’ll do the talking, you just observe, okay?”

  He held his hands out submissively.

  “That’s what I do. You know, detectives dete
ct, am I right?”

  Chase chuckled.

  “Something like that.”

  She pulled the door open and stepped out into the morning sun, but before she closed it she said something else.

  “You talk in your sleep, you know that? Jesus, you’re like Lady Macbeth.”

  Drake sat bolt upright just as she closed the door.

  He fumbled with the handle, but it was tucked away inside the molding of the door and didn’t hang out like a metal lever in his Crown Vic. It took him nearly ten seconds to figure out how to open the damn thing.

  “Hey!” Drake shouted as he hurried after her. “Hey, what’d I say? Hey, Chase, wait up!”

  Chapter 15

  Chase Adams pressed the button on the small gray intercom to the left of the driveway that jutted from the ground like some sort of terrestrial periscope. As they waited for an answer, Drake turned his attention to the wrought iron gate before them. The bars were a half inch thick, starting close enough to the ground that Drake questioned whether he could slip a piece of paper between them and the asphalt, then twisting twice as they made their way to the arched top ten feet above. The bars ended in dull arrow points that aimed toward the morning sun like pikemen standing at attention.

  The voice of a man with a thick Spanish accent coming from the intercom drew him back.

  “Jes?”

  “This is NYPD Detective Adams with Detective Drake. Is Mrs. Smith home?”

  His interest lost, Drake continued to look around, spotting a camera eye tucked into the ferns that flanked the small intercom box. Chase must have seen it, too, as she flipped out her detective shield and held it up. Several seconds later, there was a click and a small section of the fence that was hidden within its greater architecture, roughly the size of a normal door, opened an inch.

  Chase led the way, pushing the section completely open. Drake followed her through, making sure to close the gate behind them.