Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (10 page)

The letter felt like it was stinging her fingers. Should she put it in her desk? The chances were next to nil that anyone would be looking in her desk and run across it while she was talking with the Captain, but leaving the letter just didn’t feel safe. On an impulse she folded it in half and shoved it in her pocket.

“Let’s go,” she said.

Andrade’s door was open when they got there. Thibido stuck his head in and said, “Found her Captain.”

Andrade looked up from his desk.

“Serena, come in. Have a seat.”

She fought her nerves as she sat down in front of his desk. What was this about? Had someone figured out she was snooping?

Thibido stood in the doorway as if unsure what to do.

Andrade sighed. “You can go Thibido, and close the door behind you.”

Then the Captain turned to Serena.

“I know you’re busy with the case file conversions,” he said. “How’s that going?”

“Good sir. More than halfway through.”

“That’s good. That’ll make the old cases more accessible to the Detectives.”

“Absolutely.”

“I was looking over your record with us,” Andrade said and thumbed a file. “Two years on the job, good reviews and targeted for promotion in a year. I see you were recommended for an operations commendation for streamlining our data system and overhauling our back-up procedures.”

“Yes sir.”

“You have a good start on a fine career with us. Single, hard worker, career-minded and sharp. It would be a shame to lose all that.”

Serena’s mouth went dry in an instant. Was she wrong about what the surveillance cameras showed?

“What do you mean?”

“You have access to sensitive materials and special clearance, but that doesn’t mean you get to poke into whatever you want, whenever you want.”

Serena did her best to keep her anxiety from showing on her face.

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“We’re currently dealing with two very sensitive and potentially high profile murder cases. I’ve directed the Detectives on those cases to be especially vigilant about the safety and security of all related information, and an audit earlier today showed that you accessed the online case files.”

Serena’s mind whirled. So this wasn’t about Hennings?

“Yes sir, but it’s part of my job to—”

“To create online files for the old cases, not to go rummaging through ongoing investigations without authority.”

Serena just stared at the Captain.

“Now will you please tell me,” Andrade thundered, “what in God’s name you were looking at those active case files for?”

Serena had what seemed like an inspired thought.

“Just professional curiosity. I’ve been thinking about becoming a Detective someday so I thought I would —”

“You figured it would increase your chances of a promotion if you violated our security procedures?”

“No sir, but I—”

“And here’s what really bothers me.” Andrade picked up a pencil and started tapping his desk blotter with it in agitation. “I’ve never known you to do anything like this before, but as soon as I stick Drake in the cage with you, guess what? I’ve got you looking at Petre and Orland online, and him asking all over the station house about the cases.”

Serena blinked.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

Andrade set the pencil down and looked her steadily in the eyes.

“Have you been feeding Drake information about those cases?”

His quiet tone seemed even more menacing to Serena than when he had yelled. She was starting to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to have that letter in her pocket during this conversation. She made a snap decision to go on the offensive. It was her turn to deliver a hard stare.

“You mean have I been using my access privileges to provide case information to someone who doesn’t have the appropriate clearance to see that information?”

“Exactly.”

“Sir that is a serious allegation, not to mention a professional insult. Begging your pardon, but that is something I would never do, so you better have some solid evidence to back that up.”

Serena glared defiantly at the Captain while he seemed to consider his options. Finally he said, “I don’t want to hear about this happening again.”

“Yes sir.”

“You’re dismissed.”

She swept out of the office and walked down the hallway in a controlled rage. Damn asswipe pseudo boss, with his big hair and plastic smile. Now she was more determined than ever to do as much as she could to help Drake.

* * *

Drake was fighting the tedium of yet another marathon session of typing incident reports when Serena appeared at his shoulder. She laid a folded sheet of paper on his keyboard.

“Thought you might want a copy of that,” she said.

Without much thought Drake unfolded it and began to read. He didn’t get much further than the opening paragraph when he paused and looked up at Serena, his mouth agape.

“Where’d you find this?”

Serena gave him an all-knowing smile.

“I told you, I got access.”

Drake returned to the letter. His head was swimming by the time he finished reading. He hadn’t known anything about the possibility of reexamining the evidence against Hennings. An unsettled mix of long suppressed bitterness and stale hope welled up in him.

“I’m not sure what this means,” he said.

Serena leaned in and whispered. “I think it means you should call that handsome Chief.”

And then she walked away, leaving him nodding his head.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I think she’s right.”

Thoughts tumbled in his head like fighting cats, all flying fur and flashing teeth. The words in the letter joined the fray and his head throbbed from the implications. He would call Smythe.

Damn straight, he thought and snapped a number two pencil in half. And I’ll stop being an interloping pussy at the bookstore and introduce myself to the writer’s group.

Yes, that is absolutely goddamn right.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTEEN

ON FRIDAY NIGHT the bookstore was busy and the coffee shop was lined up. Each patron asked for their favorite drink by spouting a custom concoction of ingredients to the pair of college students behind the counter. The two youths frantically wrote directions and names on plastic cups with markers. They moved from espresso machine to blender, from fridge to pastry case, a well-oiled machine of colored hair, pierced facial features and confusing gender. They served up drinks with the manic fervor of short order cooks.

The members of the writers group were in fine form and the discussions ran from the typical complaints to the rumors of the day. They were all alike in resenting the new batch of commercial fiction that arrived with each changing season. Tonight they talked about what new Young Reader craze was likely to replace Twilight and Harry Potter. Sandy Alexander sipped a mocha and Nordstrom tapped at the keys of his laptop while the debate meandered along. When that topic petered out, Franny expounded on the latest piece she had written for the local free rag.

“I wrote about how ludicrous this battle over gay marriage is. It’s only another way the frightened straight, white male is trying to retain control. If they lose this fight then more women will realize they don’t need a man to take care of them. It will empower straight women as much as the homosexuals.”

“Here, here,” Nordstrom said and gave her an exaggerated limp wristed salute.

“So,” Pooter said, “Lewis Petre and Paul Orland are dead. Murdered.”

Nesbit nodded. “I queried Orland six months ago and he turned me down.”

“They figure out who killed them yet?” Franny asked.

Pooter shook his head. “My cop friend says it was nasty ass shit. The cops aren’t saying anything for now, but he figures they might have a press conference in the next couple of days.”

“It’s awful, of course, that two people died,” Franny said, “but isn’t it kind of bittersweet? I mean, given how frustrated we all are with agents.”

Sandy grinned. “Since the fair I’ve toyed with the idea of writing a book about something like that, a writer who decides to start offing the people who said no.”

“All that would get you was some nervous agents and a few restraining orders.”

“But it would be original,” a voice said from beyond the circle.

Sandy turned to see who had offered the opinion and found himself looking at Lou Drake.

“That it would,” Sandy said. “It’d make a damn good story if you could write it so it doesn’t come across as a veiled threat.”

Lou Drake stepped up. “True enough.”

“Hello there,” Sandy said. “I was wondering when you would finally join us. I’m Sandy Alexander. Who are you and what do you do besides read?”

“My name is Lou Drake. I’m a cop and a writer.”

“Another Wambaugh?” Sandy suggested with a smile.

“No, I’m afraid not. But I do my best. I just started a new book, inspired by the killings you were just talking about.”

“Well pull up a seat,” Sandy said, “and help yourself to one of these.”

He pushed a plate of pastries in Drake’s direction.

“Thanks, but I better not. I just started that protein diet so I’ve got to lay off the sweets.”

Pooter leaned forward so he could see Drake. “Are the police close to solving those murders?”

“Well, I’m not a Detective and I’m almost retired, but I’ve heard enough to know they’re not sure what they are dealing with.”

It was not a lie. The written reports were vague and he had not seen the Coroner’s reports.

“In other words, you won’t tell us shit,” Franny said. “Cops.”

“No, I’m being straight. I only know what you know.”

“Which is nothing.”

Sandy tapped his finger on the table and looked around the group with a suggestive smile that reminded Drake of a camp counselor telling a ghost story.

“The cops always limit the amount of information they make public in cases like this. That way if they arrest someone who knows all the details, then they know they have the real killer.”

“But some of us find out anyway,” Pooter said with a malicious grin. “Remember, it ain’t what you know, but who you know. And it’s nice to know cops.”

“Don’t believe everything you see in the movies,” Drake said. “Most departments are filled with leaks, so secrets are hard to keep out of the press. They pay too well. Cops make peanuts, so every dollar helps.”

Sandy smiled. “Well, Officer Drake, welcome to the village idiots unofficial writers group. We’re happy to have you.”

The other members chimed in with welcomes and handshakes of their own. Drake offered to talk cop shop with anyone who needed realism in a story and he seemed to be enjoying himself. After all, coffee and doughnuts, lamentation and commiseration; isn’t that a writer cop’s dream? After a time the others drifted away until just Drake and Sandy remained.

“Tell me Officer Drake,” Sandy said. “What’s your new book about?”

“Ha, well, me, I guess.”

“Write what you know.”

“But it’s fiction, about a burned-out cop waiting to retire who has the opportunity to break a big case and go out a hero.”

“You mean instead of a zero?”

“Yeah, corny I guess.”

“It’s been done, but so has everything else. There is no such thing as an original idea anymore. But you said it earlier, it can work if you handle it right.”

They decided to call it a night and strolled out of the bookstore together. The night air was biting.

“Nordstrom’s pretty confident about his new book,” Drake said.

Sandy shrugged. “Maybe he really has done it. Eventually one of them will come up with the next big thing. Maybe even you. Goodnight until next time.”

Sandy started to walk away.

“Or you,” Drake said.

Sandy stopped and came back. “Drake, listen to me. I’m a has-been of the worst kind. I got lucky and published a book. But then I was too afraid to try again because I thought the second time around would be ugly.”

“Oh, I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it Drake.” Sandy pulled the preserved paperback from his case. “I wrote this over twenty years ago. I pull it out and wave it around and make people think I made it. These people look up to me because I have published, no matter how long ago. In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king. So this is my one eye. I guess I wanted to tell you this because you truly want to end up on these shelves in here. I haven’t had that genuine desire for ten years.”

“Why did you give up?”

“Rejection, pure and simple. Enough to jade my heart and shrivel any talent I might have once had. Constant and relentless rejection is like the schoolyard bully who finally breaks your spirit and makes you not want to go to school anymore.”

“I got about a hundred rejection letters on my first book. Then my wife told me I’d never make it and I forgot all about wanting to be a writer for a long time.”

“Did those two murders bring you back to it?”

“No, self hatred did.”

“Come again?”

“I hated myself and then realized I was sick of that. I started writing because I needed something to distract me, to save myself from my own personal gallows.”