Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (24 page)

“Wow,” Drake said. “That was amazing.”

She kissed him gently. “And so was what you did at Molly’s. I never knew you could be so romantic.”

“You just wait.”

“I’m sorry I was so mean to you.”

“You don’t owe me an apology. You were right. Now we can finally move on with our lives together.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Louis Henry Drake,” she said with a languid smile.

“Can’t wait to make it official.”

“First I have to tell Helen. She’ll say I’m crazy.”

“Well if she can’t deal with the idea, you can always move in with me.”

Robin raised her eyebrows. “When do you want me to?”

Drake snuggled in even closer.

“Last week,” he said.

* * *

Dr. Kathy Morey contemplated a new life of her own as she waited for Andrade to arrive. It was nearly midnight. The apartment felt too small and Malcolm no longer seemed like a safe place for her. Even the fire burning in her fireplace could not warm her, so she pulled an afghan over her shoulders and waited, gazing at the flames and remembering.

Andrade had flirted with her shamelessly when the two of them first met at a city employee Christmas party. He made an obvious effort to stay in touch and she was flattered by his attentions, even though he was married. Not long after that her job in Manhattan fell victim to cutbacks. Andrade made it possible for her to slip into the position in Malcolm, and then he slipped into her bed. His attentions were sweet and the sex was mind-blowing, but at some point his will and his schedule began to control her life.

Then the body count began and everything changed between them. Andrade became darker and she began to feel used. It was like she was his escape from the horror. His sexual appetites started to lean toward the violent.

And then Smythe showed up in her office and put a tangible face to her fear. The Chief was obviously a formidable person who wielded his power with grace and respect, which made him the polar opposite of John Andrade.

Andrade interrupted her thoughts when he called from the parking lot.

“Come on up,” she said.

Let him come, she thought as she buzzed him through the back entrance. I need to get this over with.

His footsteps on the stairs sounded ominous. She thought of the Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe, the beating of that dreadful organ beneath the floorboards. Kathy flinched at his knock on her door.

“It’s open.”

Andrade stepped in and closed the door but remained standing in the foyer, his hands deep in his overcoat pockets.

“I need to know who you’ve been talking to,” he said.

“Well hello to you too.”

“I’m in no mood to screw around. You’ve had me pacing the floor all day. Now who have you been talking to?”

“About what?”

“Jesus, I don’t have time for this! Do I have to repeat back to you what you said the last time I was here?”

She lowered her eyes and shook her head.

“Kathy, it’s important. Who have you spoken to?”

“Nobody.”

Andrade walked over to where she sat in the tiny living room.

“We both know that’s a lie,” he hissed. “Now stop playing games.”

Kathy crossed her arms and glared up at him from the armchair.

“You want to know who I heard talking about your problems?”

“That’s what I said.”

“It was you, John. I’ve heard you on the phone with Collins and you were obviously worried. I heard you use the name Hennings. I can also tell that since Smythe started coming around you’ve been acting very strange.”

“So it was Smythe? What did you tell him?”

“Didn’t you listen to what I just said?”

“I heard you out and out lie to me. That’s what I heard. I’ve never said word one about Hennings around you, not on the phone or any other way.”

“I haven’t spoken to anyone. I’m not stupid, John.”

Andrade’s face was a mask of rage.

“Neither am I,” he said and took a step forward with his fists balled at his side.

“John, take another step and I’ll scream. I’ll hit the panic button on my phone and it’ll automatically call 911.”

“Christ,” he said. He started pacing to the other side of the space and back. “What the hell am I supposed to think? You seem like you want to distance yourself from me, like you know something I don’t.”

Kathy stared at Andrade for a moment and gathered her wits.

“The truth is,” she said, “last night I was angry and scared and willing to say anything to justify breaking up with you. I’m just tired of being your whore. Is that clear enough?”

“Nicely put,” Andrade growled. “There’s a lot at stake here. I’m under serious pressure and I need to know where I stand. Maybe you said something to somebody in passing and gave somebody the wrong impression. This is a matter of my professional life. Please, who was it?”

“Why are you laying this at my feet? If you treat your career as badly as your wife, you should be looking in the mirror for the cause of whatever professional problems you have.”

“It was Collins, wasn’t it?” Andrade said menacingly. “Collins made some sort of a deal and came to you to warn you he stabbed me in the back and you should run. Didn’t he?”

“You haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”

She held up her phone with her thumb poised over the buttons. “I need you to leave now, and don’t call me anymore. Just leave me alone.”

Andrade opened the door and looked back at her. “You’re just as bad as all the rest of them.”

He slammed the door and was gone.

Kathy stood at the window and watched Andrade drive out of the alley and make a right turn up University. As soon as he was out of sight she pulled her suitcase out of her closet and put it on the bed. She planned to be gone within the hour, on her way to her sister’s place in Connecticut. While she packed she cried tears of remorseful relief, and prayed for the life of Michael Collins.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
T
WO

SANDY ALEXANDER SNAPPED out of his dark place to find himself standing in front of the bookstore staring at the double glass doors. He blinked and shivered in the frozen night. His feet were clad only in slippers, which gave him no protection from the snowflakes coming down in slowly in the still air. The small knapsack over his shoulder felt heavy, like he was carrying a bible in there.

One of the coffee counter teens pushed open the door and looked out at him in frightened perplexity.

“Hey man. You okay?”

“What?” Sandy managed. His face felt like ice.

“What the hell are you doing out here? You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes. You’re scaring all the customers away.”

Sandy tried to swallow and his dry throat screamed at him. Drunk again.

“Was I coming in or going out?” Sandy asked.

“Who knows? Aren’t you freezing your ass off?”

“I need some coffee.”

“Well, okay, but my manager won’t like it. I think he called the cops.”

“Fuck you then,” Sandy said and started walking through the parking lot.

What the hell are you doing out here?

He wished he knew. The four blocks to his apartment felt like miles. The small shoulder bag drew him down like the weight of the world. At the front steps to his place Sandy coughed against the cold. Sirens sounded in the distance so he took the stairs two at a time. Once he was safely inside he clumped the bag down on his kitchen table.

It took a few minutes for the feeling to start coming back in his frozen face and fingers. God he needed a drink.

“What does God have to do with it?” he said out loud.

Everything, a female voice whispered.

Sandy looked around but he didn’t expect to see anyone. He heard the voice so often now that it felt almost normal to him.

It’s all in your head, his mother’s voice said.

“Why did you always say that?” he asked aloud.

You should never have said those things, she said again.

“What?” he demanded but got no response.

Sandy went to the cupboard for a drink. That would make it all make sense. When he opened the cupboard it was empty so he rummaged the kitchen and only found four empty liter bottles in his trash.

The knapsack. The weight inside. That’s why he was out in the night. He ran out of whiskey and had gone to buy more.

His hands were still shaking as Sandy unzipped the bag, only now because he needed a drink so badly. He found a bottle of inexpensive, store brand scotch. Tearing off the paper seal, he twisted off the top and drank deeply from the glass throat. He sighed and coughed, took a seat and savored the relief.

When he opened his eyes he noticed that the knapsack was still not empty. Something inside contoured the canvas like a beast sleeping under a blanket. Sandy found himself unable to uncover the object.

“Bless me father for I have sinned,” he whispered.

You have such an imagination, his mother’s voice scolded.

It is not a sin, the other voice soothed, a male voice this time. God wants this for you.

Sandy blinked twice and shuddered as the bag called to him. He took another drink, then another to bolster his courage. With a cautious hand he pushed open the flap.

“Oh God!”

Sandy took the nickel chrome, snub nose .357 magnum from the bag and felt its heft in his hand.

“Where the hell did this come from?”

God wants you to do this.

“I have blood on my hands,” Sandy whispered.

* * *

Drake was now six weeks from retirement and walked around the station every day with his head high. He and the girls openly discussed the progress he was making on his new novel. They all knew the investigation into the agent killings had produced no viable clues, but Drake had some hunches and was integrating the reality of the case into his fictional story line.

Serena contributed to the chats in the cage by telling stories about her days in the military.

“You should write a book about that,” Drake said after she finished a particularly juicy tale.

“Now you’re just talking crazy,” she said with a laugh.

“No, really. An autobiography from the standpoint of a minority woman in the military would be a great read. I know I’d buy it.”

Edna nodded. “I would too.”

The rest of the shift passed with plenty of similar banter. At the end of the day Drake said his goodnights, wrapped himself against the weather and checked out. Sergeant McDonald gave him a wave and Drake exited the rear door to the parking lot. He sat and let the engine idle while the heater struggled to make headway against the frost on the windshield. He was driving Robin’s Honda because the heater in his Jeep had stopped working.

Robin was visiting her sister in Vermont to plan the wedding. He missed her terribly, but with her gone he was working as many hours as he could and putting aside the extra money toward his retirement fund. Robin had found a new job managing the Village Grocery, but they still needed most of his paycheck to maintain their lifestyle.

The money was secondary to him, though. He had his pension, Robin and he had never been happier, and he found himself actually looking forward to retirement.

Drake felt fantastic as he drove home. He had a classic rock station turned up loud, belting out Joe Walsh. He sang along as he turned left up his street, not noticing a figure standing across the street in the shadows of a dumpster bin.

As he parked and killed the engine, a blast came from Drake’s left. A bullet struck his windshield, shattering the glass. The ricochet struck the brick wall to his right and raised a cloud of splintered stone.

Drake threw himself down and across the passenger seat as another slug blew through his side window and out the other side, where it pocked the wall. Crystals of shattered glass rained down on him and danced in the glow of the streetlight. More shots plunked into his rear door panel and blew out his rear passenger window.

“Goddammit!” he yelled as he frantically tried to pull his own weapon from his belt holster.

Drake drew ragged breaths and waited for more shots. He had his .38 in his hand but there was no way he could return fire without sitting up and exposing himself. Despite what the movies showed, a powerful handgun could easily pierce a car door and Drake felt helpless.

No more shots followed.

He fought to remember the number of bullets fired. A standard clip holds eight rounds and a revolver holds six. He could remember only four shots, five at the most. He gasped and waited. Nothing.

“Fuck you!” he yelled.

There was no answer. No running footsteps, no sound of any kind.

Neighbor’s windows lit up and he soon heard voices.

“Jesus, what’s going on out here?”

“Man, look at the car.”

“Stay back,” Drake shouted. “There was a man with a gun out here.”

“He’s gone now.”

Drake knew it could be the shooter trying to fool him into sitting up, but he also heard other voices.

“Call 911,” Drake yelled.

“Way ahead of you man.”

Drake heard the sirens in the distance.

“You’re all clear,” the voice said with concern. “Are you shot?”