Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (18 page)

GEORGE HAMMERSTEIN PARKED his late mother’s Buick LeSabre next to the cheap rental cottage and gathered up the party supplies from the passenger seat. He was in a celebratory mood. He had stopped on the way home to pick up a thick New York steak and an inexpensive bottle of Champagne.

Cove Drive was still a shit hole in the backwater dregs of Malcolm, but for once he didn’t let that bother him as he carried the plastic bags up the front walkway. He was returning from a meeting with the editor at Blood Bath Press, which had gone amazingly well. They talked about George’s client Elizabeth Stanley, whose explicitly erotic vampire novels had gained a small but loyal readership.

George had no idea why anyone would want to read about vampires having orgiastic sex and sucking blood while listening to heavy metal music in Manhattan basements. BBP was talking about a three-book deal, though, and anything with the potential to pay some bills was all right with George.

Money had not always been an issue. There was a time when he had been a celebrated New York artist. Back then his bi-polar personality just added to his eccentric image and helped to sell paintings. Those were the days of Manhattan loft apartments and parties with the beautiful people.

Then came the nineties and a shift in art world tastes. Suddenly George was on the outside looking in. When the money ran out he decided to fall back on his college major of literature. Unfortunately he couldn’t write to save his life, but he was confident that he knew great writing when he read it.

He turned to friends in the publishing trades and began representing writers. Before long his mania became embarrassing and his downtimes frustrated clients and editors alike. George’s mother took him in and he spent the next year in an easy chair watching daytime television.

Finally his mother convinced him to see a doctor. With new medication he began to gain some traction in life. Friends introduced him to Elizabeth, and in a minor miracle of resurrected contacts he found an independent publishing house that loved her first book. George negotiated a twenty thousand dollar advance and Elizabeth was thrilled. He didn’t care that her writing was the worst type of trash; he figured survival sometimes meant giving people a spectacle to gawk at.

His mother’s death nearly derailed his recovery. He managed to stay on his meds, though, and keep his fledgling literary agency wheezing along. His only inheritance was the Buick and a schizophrenic poodle named Bruce, who was staring at him with wild eyes from the window as he carried the party supplies up the walkway.

“Got some good news Bruce,” George said happily as he neared the front door, “and some treats. Soon we’ll be out of this rattrap.”

The front steps creaked under his feet. George smiled at the thought that soon he would be treading on solid concrete sidewalks outside a brownstone in the village. And wonders of all wonders, he could imagine himself being part of the nightlife again.

Bruce barked from inside the door.

“Okay, okay.”

George pushed open the door and his mind exploded with pain. His hands spasmed and he dropped the Champagne bottle. It shattered into hundreds of claw shaped shards as he collapsed from the voltage coursing through his body. Somewhere he heard a voice saying something about dignity and class. Then George heard nothing. His prostrate form was dragged deep into the old cottage where the killer began a slow and methodical procedure.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
F
OUR

PRICHARD FROWNED AT the photos reflecting off his glasses. They were garish and nearly obscene in their terrible imagery, showing details of all three crime scenes.

His forensics team had failed to find any physical evidence. Not a single hair, a fiber, or even a partial fingerprint had been left behind. They found traces of talcum power, which likely meant the perp used latex gloves, but that was all they had come up with. This one was a pro.

In one of their daily meetings, Agent Thatcher threw out the suggestion they could be working against an actual professional.

“Could this be a hired killer?”

“It might explain the lack of evidence,” Prichard said.

Smythe discounted it.

“There are too many messages here. No self-respecting pro would take the time to follow a cockamamie plan this complicated.”

“Unless the killer is a writer and a professional assassin,” Thatcher suggested. “Maybe it’s a frustrated killer who wants to be published.”

Prichard said with a laugh. “I bet if a professional killer came forward and wanted to publish, that would be a bestseller.”

“So what then?” Andrade said. “We have a writer who has the knowledge to pull off three murders with this much finesse and leave no trace?”

“Why not?” Thatcher said. “You can look up how to do anything on the Internet. A writer should know how to do research. This one took the time to stalk the victims, learn their habits and prepare the scene. He also wrote about the intent behind each murder and left these descriptions for us to find.”

“So,” Prichard said, “based on the number of writers names we found on paper and in emails, we can narrow the possibilities down to about ten million people.”

“The killer probably writes crime fiction,” Thatcher suggested. “It is also, most likely, a man.”

Prichard thought for a moment. “Maybe it’s a cop. That would explain a lot. Anyone know any cop writers in Malcolm?”

Everyone turned to Smythe and Andrade. The two looked at each other and, almost reluctantly, nodded.

“Drake,” Smythe said.

* * *

Drake wasn’t particularly surprised when the hulking FBI agent showed up at the cage and dragged him off to an empty interview room. It made sense he was going to get questioned. If the tables were turned Drake knew he would have done the same thing. What does any good investigator do when faced with a killer who knows forensics procedure and seems to be a pissed off writer? First ask the writer cop.

Thatcher gestured for Drake to take a seat, then leaned against the table. Drake knew it was standard interview technique to instill friendly confidence while exhibiting dominance.

God, Drake thought, it’s so good to be thinking like a Detective again.

“I understand you’re a writer,” Thatcher began.

“Oh, not professionally.”

“Why write, then?”

“It’s just a hobby.”

“You have an interest in getting published?”

“Sure, that’s always the goal, I suppose. Mostly I do it for fun. It may be something I do seriously after I retire. Give me something to do.”

“Are you working on something now?”

“Yeah, a crime novel about corruption in the Indian gaming industry.”

This was a lie, but Drake smiled when he realized it would make a good book.

“Sounds interesting. I understand you were a Detective. It must have been hard on you when you were demoted.”

“Yes it was, but … is this really what you brought me in here to talk about?”

Thatcher gave him a calculating look and then shrugged.

“Just trying to understand who I’m dealing with.”

“And whether I could be the frustrated writer you’re looking for.”

“Thought did cross my mind.”

“Don’t blame you. I’d look at me too, if I was in your shoes.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Oh come on. Crime scenes like that, had to be a strong guy. Word is the perp knows enough not to leave trace evidence, which not just anyone can do. He’s got a thing for literary agents, they’re all in one neighborhood, and you just happen to have a guy like me who matches all of that. That about sum it up?”

Thatcher nodded slowly. “I can see why they said you used to be a good Detective.”

“I’m not your guy.”

“Need more than just your say so.”

“So your next step is to ask for the Station duty logs.”

“Something like that.”

“Check ‘em against the probable time of death for the victims, see whether I was working.”

“Uh huh.”

Drake spread his arms.

“And after that, my guess is you won’t want to talk to me anymore.”

Thatcher considered him for a moment. Then he stood up and left without another word.

* * *

Drake and Collins pushed along the sidewalk toward the Fuller Building on Fifth Avenue. The distinctive wedge shape and bull nose protrusion into the intersection of fifth and Broadway was designed by Chicago architect Daniel Burnham. At twenty-one stories, it was often called the first skyscraper in New York. Subtly elegant and faced with terra cotta and stone, the building was an attempt to bring the business district out of the city’s core into the predominantly residential area. The Fuller building became known as the Flatiron due to its triangular shape and the lore of the original lot. On the fifth floor Halberson Publishing called the Flatiron home.

Drake shielded his eyes and stared up the towering structure.

“I’ve never been here before,” he said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Remember Drake, keep your mouth shut and let me ask the questions.”

They checked in at the lobby desk and took the elevator to five. Beautiful curved ceilings arched over their heads as they walked the short hall to the Halberson suite. The company logo, a flourished capital H, was etched into chipped glass doors. Collins introduced himself to the receptionist.

“Mr. Shapiro will be with you shortly.”

Soon they heard a voice come from the hallway.

“Tell that asshole if he shows up here again, I’ll chase him out with a gun. I would have called him if he had anything I wanted to see.”

The door to the back offices opened and a man came through wearing a wide smile and eyes clear as a summer morning. He stroked his bottlebrush mustache with long fingers.

“Good afternoon officers. Jerry Shapiro. Welcome to Halberson Publishing.”

Collins introduced the two of them and they set off down the hallway behind Shapiro.

Shapiro wore his suit as though he would be more comfortable in a polo shirt and jeans. His hair was gray and thin. Drake figured him to be in his early sixties but he moved with the energy of a younger man.

The conference room was old style elegance, with plenty of rich brown woodwork and high backed leather chairs.

“Please, have a seat anywhere.”

Shapiro’s words were deliberate, his vowels elongated and his last words clipped with a smiling quickness.

“Would you like coffee?”

Holding up one finger before Collins could respond, Shapiro looked around the table, then the room.

“No thanks,” Collins said.

“Estelle!” Shapiro yelled loudly. “Where the hell are the nuts?”

Collins laughed in surprise.

“A minute. Estelle, did you hear me? Did you say you guys want coffee?”

“No,” Collins said.

Collins gave Drake a look that made it clear he thought Shapiro was the one who was nuts.

Shapiro jabbed the speaker button on a phone sitting on the table.

“Estelle, you didn’t answer me.”

“Were you hollering from the conference room again? You know I can’t hear you unless you use the phone.”

“Where are my nuts?”

“I just put nuts in that bowl in there this morning.”

“Good for you. However, the nuts are not here. The intern must have absconded with them again. Bring me some more, please.”

“Right away,” Estelle said.

Drake glanced at Collins, who was staring in apparent amazement at the old man.

“All right,” Shapiro said. “So Dr. Prichard sent you. How is he?”

“I’m not sure,” Collins said. “We don’t work directly with him.”

“Just as well. I find him pedantic, but his books sell. Now apparently I’m to talk with you officers about those grisly murders in Malcolm, but I have no idea how I’m supposed to help.”

“We have some theories about what might be driving the killer,” Collins said, “and they’re based on what’s currently happening in your industry. So we’re doing some background research. I’m hoping you can help us understand the state of publishing today.”

Shapiro brightened.

“You mean like an expert witness.”

“Sure, whatever.”

“Can do. The industry sucks. What else do you want to know?”

Drake laughed out loud, which drew another scathing look from his partner. Collins turned his glare back on Shapiro, with no attempt to hide his irritation. Shapiro just smiled at him.

“We were hoping for a bit more detail,” Collins said.

A tall woman made more so by impossibly high heels entered with a glass bowl filled with mixed nuts.

“Ah, good! The nuts! Gentlemen, this is Estelle. She’s the real brains of this operation, at least in her own mind.”

Estelle smiled at the two officers. “Pleased to meet you.”

She stuck her tongue out at Shapiro and flashed the stiletto heels with admirable grace as she left the conference room.

Shapiro shoved the newly arrived bowl across the table.

“Have some nuts fellas. They’re good for you. I can’t think without ‘em.”

Drake dug out a small handful but Collins ignored the offer.

“Mr. Shapiro, if we can get focused here.”