<div class="floatleft">(http://img819.imageshack.us/img819/3311/filmnoir3.jpg)</div><strong>Drake Holland</strong><br/><strong>Age:</strong>35<br/><strong>Crime:</strong>Aggravated assault, torture, attempted murder<br/><strong>Location:</strong>New New York, Public Library<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Phaedra, Tim, Sarah, Natalie, Brazil<br/><hr/>"I'm inclined to agree," said Drake, filtering in behind Sarah.  Despite Phaedra's insistent tugging, Drake had no particular compunction to stick together with the others.  He wanted one thing and one thing only--to flee the scene, and return to his office where he could attempt to salvage the tablet.  He<em>needed</em>to know what was on it, so that he would know, once and for all, the identity of Marilyn's killer.  Anything else--everything else--could go hang, for all he cared.<br/><br/>And so, as Tim battered down the back door of the deli, Drake chose in that moment to go the other way.  Unfortunately for Holland, however, fate sometimes has other ideas than men, and Drake quickly found that the alley had, after a sharp turn, ended in a dead end: nothing but faded and crumbling brick met him, sealing off his only egress.   With a frustrated snarl, he turned back to the way he had come.  At the far end of the alley, where it intersected with the street, he could see the distant hues of flashing red and blue.  To return to the library would be unthinkable.  That left, then, only one option: the deli.<br/><br/>He wasn't happy to find himself still in the company with the other poor berks and bints once again, but it appeared that there was no choice.  "I'm inclined to agree," he said, responding to Sarah's assessment of the wisdom of freeing Tim.  He looked the man directly in the eye.  Although, as Tim had by his own admission could not have been Marylin's killer, Drake bore him no particular ill will, there was a reason that he alone was clad in an orange jumpsuit and they were not.  Drake said as much.  "There's a reason that our friend is in an orange jumpsuit and we are not," he said, coolly.  "Perhaps he's planning on breaking our necks the first chance he gets.  Are you, big guy?  Is the voice in your head telling you that we're all demons?"  He surreptitiously glanced around the group, to check if any of them were wearing red.<br/><br/>Drake was no stranger to a curbside fistfight or bar-room brawl, but he had no illusions whatsoever about his ability to engage Tim in a one-on-one matchup.  The man was built like a bull, for heaven's sake.  Perhaps, if he'd had his piece on his person, he'd certainly feel a lot safer.