Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (30 page)

Drake motioned with his hand to keep it quiet.

“Sorry,” Shakespeare said more quietly. “So why do books about horrible lives sell? Because most Americans have it easy. Their idea of suffering is when their cable goes out. They crave real tragedy so they can shock themselves out of pathetic obscurity.”

“Is that what your book is about?”

“It’s about you and me, those out there on the street, the hundreds sleeping in cardboard boxes and sleeping in missions and passed out drunk in mansions. It’s about how all of humanity is intertwined by fate and fortune.”

“Well,” Drake said, “I’m sure it’ll be great. Look, I’m sorry to derail our literary discussion but I think they want to get you out of here. Give me a number so I can make a call.”

“Oh, yeah, we can do that. But you do understand what I mean, right?”

“Sure, absolutely. Now what’s the number?”

Brian frowned for a moment and then shook his head.

“Can’t remember.”

“How about his name then?”

“David Alan Barringer, in Manhattan.”

“All right,” Drake said as he wrote it down. “Now we’re cooking. I’ll go make a call.”

Drake started to turn away, but Shakespeare called him back.

“Lou? Why do you write?”

Drake was tempted to laugh off the question, but the pleading look on Shakespeare’s face made him stop and think.

“I don’t know Brian. How about because it makes me forget my pathetic life.”

That seemed to satisfy Shakespeare.

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DRAKE WAS IN the cage searching for the number of Brian’s attorney when Chief Smythe stormed out of Andrade’s office.

“Drake, I need you to come in here.”

“Sure Chief, be right there.”

“Sergeant, take Thibido and put him in Collins’ old office under guard. I want him cuffed and watched. Understand? Drake, now!”

“Yes sir,” Drake said as he wrote down the lawyer’s number.

Smythe ducked a few questions and waved away another cop. Drake followed the Chief into Interrogation Room 2. Thatcher joined them and closed the door, shutting the chaos outside. Smythe drew a deep breath and took a seat. He gestured for Drake to sit across from him while Thatcher stood by the door.

“Crazy day, huh?” Smythe asked.

Drake nodded.

“Do you realize,” the Chief said, “how much of this is because of you?”

Uncertainty stabbed at Drake’s gut.

“Me sir?”

“It’s really all about you, I’m afraid. You got the ball rolling by sending me that letter and that got me making some calls. It seems that led two cops to have an OK Corral moment that left one dead.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Drake said.

Thatcher piped up.

“You were looking into the agent killings, weren’t you?”

“Only as inspiration,” Drake said. “I’m working on a book.”

“Was it research,” Smythe said, “when you threatened to kill Detective Thibido?”

“I didn’t mean that. I’d really—”

“You made a strong impression,” Smythe said. “Thibido showed up here a couple of hours ago, out of breath and begging to talk. He smelled so rotten I could barely stay in the same room with him.”

Drake fidgeted in his seat.

“Turns out he had plenty to say,” Smythe continued. “We recorded a story of sabotage and ugly back-room deals. Thibido gave us a full confession about his role. This gives us enough to think about reopening Hennings. It also potentially exonerates you.”

A smile spread across Drake’s face. Suddenly he felt lighter than air.

“You’re kidding.”

“Thibido’s the one who took the shots at you that night, and he also broke the doughnut shop window.”

“Christ,” Drake said, his smile fading. “Why would he do that?”

“He was following orders,” Smythe said.

“What, from Collins?”

Smythe and Thatcher exchanged a glance.

“Hal Norwich,” Smythe said. “Hennings’ personal attorney. He had Thibido on his payroll.”

Drake’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit.”

“I’ve placed Thibido under arrest. He promised to cooperate when we question Andrade. Lou, I—”

The Chief was cut short by a sharp report from the hall, followed by an uproar outside the door.

“That sounded like a shot,” Thatcher said.

The door burst open. Mullaly was ashen-faced.

“What?” Smythe asked.

“Thibido just shot himself, right out there.”

“What the hell? Where did he get a gun?”

“His hands were cuffed in front of him, so he just grabbed the pistol from a patrolman and stuck the barrel in his mouth.”

“Goddammit!” Smythe yelled.

Smythe followed Mullaly into the hallway with Thatcher and Drake in tow.

“Out of my way,” the Chief said as he pushed past the crowd of cops. “Oh for the love of Christ!”

Thibido lay on his back, his eyes dull as dusty marbles and a pool of blood spreading beneath his head. The crowed of cops looked from Thibido’s body to Smythe’s seething face. Drake stood behind the Chief and closed his eyes.

“Has anybody called for an ambulance?” Smythe asked.

“Yes Chief, on its way.”

Drake went back to a chair in the interrogation room and laid his head on the table. Twenty minutes later the Chief reappeared.

“Drake,” he said, “we’ll have to finish talking later. Go home and get some sleep. But be back here for the graveyard. We’re going to need every man.”

* * *

Seven hours later Drake awoke stiff and lethargic. After a shower and a shave he started to feel better, so he grabbed a quick bite from the refrigerator and returned to the station. The mess was cleaned up and the station looked normal. Drake poured himself a cup of coffee and called Shakespeare’s lawyer. The message service said he could not be reached until morning.

“But I have a client of his in custody. We’re trying to arrange his release.”

“I’m afraid we have no way of reaching Mr. Barringer.”

“Just leave him the message that Brian Shakespeare is in custody at the Malcolm station and charged with assault.”

“I will sir,” she said.

Drake leaned back in his chair in the cage and thought once again about what the events of the last forty-eight hours meant for him. The deaths of colleagues were tragic to be sure, and Andrade’s injuries sounded horrific. In spite of that, though, Drake felt one emotion most of all—satisfaction.

What had Franny said about the dead agents? It was kind of bittersweet? Well, as far as Drake was concerned, the same applied to this day, when the men who hijacked his life got what they had coming.

The memory about Franny made him think of Sandy, so he called the hospital. Drake introduced himself, gave his badge number and lied, saying he was following up on the suspect to update the arrest report.

“Mr. Alexander is recovering from surgery and is under guard pending release to the authorities,” the nurse said mechanically. “I also see that the doctor has ordered a visit from a staff psychiatrist. Does that help?”

“Yes, thank you. I may call in again.”

“That’s fine, officer.”

For the next hour the precinct wound down and by sundown it was every bit as quiet as the early hours of the previous night had been. McDonald was back on night shift as well, so he and Drake kept silent vigils at either end of the station.

There was a leftover tension in the air and it kept Drake agitated. It was as though the violence of the past twenty-four hour haunted the halls, looking for salvation. Drake almost wished Shakespeare were awake. Even a rambling conversation about writing and the meaning of life would be a welcome distraction. But Brian looked to be asleep.

Drake looked at Shakespeare’s satchel in the evidence bag and reflected on their earlier conversation.

This is the one, Brian had said, the one that’ll get me in the door.

It’s about you and me.

And then Sandy’s voice echoed in Drake’s mind.

Maybe he really has done it.

Was Shakespeare all bravado? Or was his book really as amazing as he claimed? Drake was willing to bet on the former, but there was really only one way to find out. He retrieved the mesh bag containing Shakespeare’s belongings and pulled out the weathered leather satchel. Drake glanced at the monitor showing the video feed from the cells. Shakespeare would never know.

Drake opened the satchel and pulled the heavy stack of paper from its cocoon. Wasn’t that what every unpublished manuscript was, a hopeful caterpillar sleeping in hopes of becoming a published book?

“He’s a friend,” Drake said aloud. “Maybe he’d like my opinion.”

Drake knew this was pure rationalization. He and Shakespeare had never sat down and talked, never had a meal together. They had the jovial familiarity of the writer’s group, but that was all. And Shakespeare wasn’t even a regular member. Still, wasn’t that the whole premise of that kind of group? Supporting each other? Giving advice and constructive criticism?

You’re full of shit, Drake thought. You just want to see if it’s any good.

REJECTION was printed in bold across the title page in a large Courier font. Blue, red and flesh colored rubber bands crisscrossed the bundle, wrapped around the stack as though it were held hostage by a kidnapper. It was as though the words on the pages hoped the publishing industry would pay a ransom and release them with the stroke of the contract pen.

Nice one, Drake thought. I’ll have to use that in a book.

Drake pushed his thumb under the first rubber band and slowly removed it from the manuscript. One after another Drake pulled off the bands until the pages were loose in his hands. He turned the title page and placed it face down. Page two was a cryptic acknowledgement, followed by a short paragraph paying homage to the desperate toiling of every writer and the goal of immortality through publication.

Drake flipped to chapter one, page one. He sat back and read an overly-detailed scene of a man packing a duffle bag, checking and rechecking the contents and looking at his watch as the sun set over Greenwich Village. True to what Sandy had said about Shakespeare’s style, it took twenty pages before the story really began.

He turned page 46 face down and began to read a laboriously descriptive image of the protagonist as he committed a brutal and sickeningly well planned murder of a full time waiter, part time literary agent.

“Oh shit,” Drake said and sat up straight.

His mind clear but his body unresponsive, the victim could do nothing as the blade made its terrible pass along his abdomen and cut away the muscle and flesh holding in his intestines. Petre thought of nothing but the odd sensation of his guts spilling onto his legs and the unfamiliar tug from deep inside. There was no pain, only surprise. He wondered how long a man could live with his intestines outside of his body. Not long, he feared.

Page number 47.

“Holy Jesus.”

He flipped to page 68 and read the brutality.

156 offered more insanity and hideous revelation. Drake jumped to page 183, and then 269 where he read the single-page description of murder number five. Still he searched deeper, and on page 345 he found number six. A quick read and Drake’s throat went dry. It described, in torturous detail, the methodical decapitation of Nancy Callahan, the same agent he and Collins had visited at Roth & Associates.

“Oh my God,” Drake whispered.

Was she safe? Drake hadn’t heard of anything happening to her. He dug his wallet from his back pocket and pulled out her card. Should he call her office and leave a message? No, come morning he would call her to confirm she was safe. And nothing was going to happen to her tonight anyway. It looked like Shakespeare was the problem, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

At that moment Drake nearly laughed at fate’s sense of humor. Fact was indeed stranger than fiction, remarkably so. Ironic destiny takes many forms. Drake realized that Shakespeare being dragged into the station had dropped an opportunity square in his lap. The worn leather satchel was the hand of providence and the last few days’ events were as serendipitous as finding a winning lottery ticket on the sidewalk.

On the monitor Brian awoke, sat on the edge of the bunk and rubbed his face. Drake walked to the desk sergeant and acted nonchalant.

“Hell of a day, huh?” Drake said.

McDonald nodded. “You got that right.”

“Can you hold down the fort for a while? I’m gonna check on our guest downstairs.”

“No problem. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

Once he was back at the cage, Drake put Shakespeare’s manuscript inside his jacket and zipped it up. His feet felt like lead as he picked up a wooden stool, took two Cokes from the fridge and carried them down to the cells. Upstairs the monitor showed Drake place the stool in front of cell three and sit down. The camera documented Shakespeare’s expression of surprise as Drake handed him a soda.

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