Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (2 page)

“There’s not much to tell,” he said.

But Chang was apparently not so easily discouraged. “You mentioned losing yourself,” he said. “Did that have something to do with those painful events?”

Drake sighed. That had been one of the longest nights of his life.

“Something like that,” he said.

“And the sensational case,” Chang said. “You’re talking about the first book you published, right? PEN & THE SWORD?”

Drake chewed on his lip for a moment. He couldn’t see any harm in answering that one.

“That’s right.”

“I read that book again to prepare for this interview,” Chang said, “and I made some notes.” He tapped his legal pad. “When I went back through my notes, I realized something.”

“What’s that?”

“In the book you tell the killer’s story and how you broke the case, but you don’t say much about what the experience was like for you. You don’t talk about thinking like a writer, or what it felt like to gain the killer’s trust.”

Drake rubbed his cheek and didn’t reply right away. Chang just looked at him with an inquisitive gaze and let the silence stretch out.

The secret had burned away in Drake’s gut for so long. How many times had he felt like telling the whole story? He looked at Chang with his confident air and his digital recorder and something clicked inside Drake. Why not now? Some people found salvation in church; maybe Drake could find it in the hallowed halls of the greatest rock and roll magazine in the world.

“All right Robert,” he said. “Hold onto your butt because I’m going to tell you something I’ve never told anyone but my wife, my agent, and my publisher.”

Chang grinned. “All right,” he said enthusiastically. “Let’s tell the world how Lou Drake faced the evil and came out a celebrated true crime writer.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Man, we can take all night.”

Drake chuckled. “I’m not sure it’ll take that long. Hold on a second.”

He pulled out his cell phone and called down to the limo. “Josh, it’s Lou. I may be a while.”

“No problem,” Josh said. “I just broke the spine on MORTAL WHISPERS. It’s all good.”

Drake snapped the phone shut and leaned back in his chair.

“I had just been assigned a new partner,” he said. “It was raining and we got a call about a foul odor in a studio apartment in the village.”

“Go on,” Chang urged.

“Well, I screwed up real bad and all hell broke loose.”

Drake drained the last of the Diet Coke as he thought about how to tell the story. An ironic smile came over his face.

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO –
P
ETRE

THE FRIDAY NIGHT crowd at Theo’s Bistro was as loud and raucous as always. The staff shared a collective sigh when the night drew to a close. Lewis pulled the knot on his dark red waiter apron and was glad that the night was over. He was exhausted, having done the lunch and dinner shift back to back.

“Killer shift,” another waiter said and gave him a smile.

“Yeah, but good tips,” he said.

Lewis pulled the wad of bills from his pocket. He was going home with over $200.00. He needed it. His rent was due. Living in New York was expensive. Even a backwater area like Malcolm came with a price tag. He was personable and friendly, so people liked Lewis and the tips were enough to keep him afloat.

Then his cousin told him of a friend who was making it as a literary agent. Lewis had a degree in English from the University at Buffalo and thought of himself as an excellent editor. Being a literary agent sounded like a good and exciting fit and there was no license required.

Lewis had business cards printed and began searching for clients. Since writers in New York were a dime a dozen, that was easy. Selling to publishers and collecting his fifteen percent, however, was altogether another story. Editors at the publishing houses treated every title he offered with complete indifference.

But then came his one and only break. A regular customer at the restaurant asked what he did when he wasn’t taking food orders.

“I’m a literary agent,” he said. “No big deals yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Really,” the customer said. “I might be able to help you there.”

An introduction to a book acquisitions editor led to a deal for one of Lewis’s more talented writers. Like the drug addict hooked by the euphoria of the first fix, Lewis thought the high from each sale would be as good and as easy. He was mistaken, though. The waiter job had to keep him afloat while he constantly struggled to create the next success.

When his shift current arrived, Lewis exited the back door with his tip money secure and his body exhausted. He unlocked his bike from the rear security fence, pushed through the security gate and waited until it slammed behind him. It was after eleven PM.

“Jesus it’s cold,” he mumbled as he zipped his jacket and planted his tired ass on the seat. Ten hours of slinging plates and he still had to ride the three miles home. Later in the week would be worse; he heard rain was predicted. “I need to get a car.”

The roads home were not busy and the night air bit his face as he rolled down Delancy Street. He felt a surge of relief when he finally saw the dull aura of the light at the base of the steps leading to his studio apartment. Lewis hefted his bike and climbed the metal stairs to his door.

“Dammit!” he said when stepped inside and found it cold as an icebox. Lewis leaned his bike against the wall and tapped the thermostat to get the mercury moving. The heater promised warmth with a hum and clank.

Lewis turned and jumped in shock. A figure stood outside the doorway facing in from the landing. The man was dressed all in black and stood perfectly still, his face hidden by a hood. Lewis put his hand to his chest, still trying to catch his breath after climbing the stairs.

“Holy fuck,” he said to the dark figure. “You scared the shit out of me!”

Nothing back. Not even movement.

Lewis’s initial fright deepened into a feeling that he could be in serious trouble here. He thought about slamming the door in the guy’s face and locking it, but Lewis was too far away. The hooded figure could simply step into the doorway long before Lewis would make it there. And there was no other way out. The tiny apartment had only one small mesh-reinforced window facing the street. He could try to call 911, but the guy would be on him before he finished dialing. Lewis tried to swallow but he could barely manage it, his dry throat grating in protest. The figure continued to watch in eerie silence.

Lewis drew in a shuddery breath. “What do you want?” he managed to rasp.

* * *

Lewis’s eyelids felt impossibly heavy as he struggled to wake up. A voice seemed to speak at the edges of his consciousness but he couldn’t concentrate enough to make sense of it. Was someone calling his name? His head swam and buzzed while he tried to push up towards wakefulness. Why was he so sluggish? Had he been drinking? Gradually he managed to partially open his eyes so they went from complete darkness to fuzzy. Why could he not open his mouth? His throat ached with dry, piercing pain.

“Lewis,” a voice called from somewhere in the fog.

Who was that? He forced his eyes a little wider and saw the vague outline of a man crouched in front of him. A stab of terror coursed through Lewis’s gut as the memory flooded back of the stranger at his doorway. Was this the same guy? Lewis tried to speak but all he managed was a throaty grunt.

“Lewis,” the guy said. His voice sounded to Lewis like the drone of a record played too slow. “You with me?”

Lewis’s vision blurred again. His mouth would still not open.

“Careful, your lips are sewn shut.”

Sewn shut? A surge of adrenaline made Lewis’s heart race and forced his eyes to pop wide open. He tried to reach for his face but his arms were frozen at his side. He swiveled his head, his mouth tasting like metal and his eyes burning with fearful sweat. He saw his legs in front of him, wrapped with many bands of duct tape. More tape pinned his arms to his sides. He was sitting with his back against the wall between his small table and his secondhand recliner. Panic drove him to thrash against his restraints.

“Lewis, calm down,” the man said, more clearly now. The face was unfamiliar and the assailant spoke in a calm voice. He held a Taser up so Lewis could see it. “Calm down or I’ll use this again.”

Lewis had a transient memory of facing the dark figure, then a tearing shock and pain. That was the last thing he remembered. Lewis stopped thrashing and drew deep, frightened breaths through his nose. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead.

“I shot you up with Demerol so if you stay still there shouldn’t be much pain.”

Lewis tried to shout, but all he could manage was a panicked grunt.

“Quiet now, this won’t take long. Just stay still.”

Lewis dropped his chin to his chest and saw that the bands of gray tape left a clear swatch of flesh at his navel. He looked back to the assailant’s eyes with questioning fear.

“It will all make sense soon,” the calm voice said as the gloved hands unfolded a small, sharp knife.

The sight of the blade took Lewis’s panic to a level he had never known existed. He started shaking his head, his eyes feeling like they were going to bulge out of his head.

“We are going to find out a truth. We will put the doubt to rest. And we will both know why I am here and why this is necessary.”

“Hhhhleeese,” Lewis managed through the sutures.

“Yes, please, let’s stop with the talk and get down to business.”

Lewis tried to squirm backwards when the guy reached out with the knife, but there was nowhere to go. The blade slashed sideways and Lewis watched in horror as his stomach opened like a bleeding smile. There was no pain, only the odd sense that something inside had come unhinged. He watched his entrails spill out into his lap.

“You see?”

Vomit surged upwards, filling Lewis’s airways with rank bile. His chest heaved as he tried to breathe and couldn’t get any air. His final thought was to wonder once again why this was happening to him, and then blackness descended like a curtain.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

AN NYPD PATROL car slowly crawled down University Avenue on Monday night. Its tires made a wet hiss on the quiet street and the headlights turned each raindrop into a rainbow gem. Most Malcolm residents welcomed the sprinkle, since all summer the lanes and curbs had baked in the humid heat. There was a promise of distant winter and the city drew a collective sigh.

Malcolm tucked itself into a coastal hollow just south of the pageantry of Greenwich Village, harboring its own charm and its own artsy atmosphere. Many called it the poor man’s Greenwich, until they visited and found Malcolm to be quaint and quiet, devoid of the lunatic fringe to the north.

Lou Drake sat in the passenger seat reading a detective novel while his partner Mitch Dodd drove with just a thumb on the wheel. In stark contrast to Drake’s bulk, Dodd had a thin build and the unlined face of a rookie.

“Why do you read cop books?” Dodd asked. “Don’t you get enough of that from the job?”

Drake turned a page without looking up. “‘Cause the cops in these books get to work better cases than us.”

“So what?”

“Kid, we’re patrol. We write traffic tickets and arrest drunks, break up fights between college students and otherwise have a shit job. I know you’re looking to make Detective some day, but I’m in a different place. In a few months I’ll be moving to Florida and playing shuffleboard.”

“So you’re just going to coast until then? Is that what you’re saying?”

Drake answered. “All I’m asking from the job is a pension.”

Dodd huffed a laugh and shook his head. “Damn, you’ve got a shit attitude.”

Drake lowered the book and looked at his partner.

“I used to be you, kid,” Drake said. “I dreamed about getting that gold and blue shield and wearing civilian clothes and playing golf with the mayor. Lemme tell you, it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

Dodd stopped the cruiser at a red light. “How would you know?”