Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (5 page)

PAUL ORLAND DROPPED off his last fare, three intoxicated fifty-something women dressed like twenty-somethings who flirted with him from Parkside Lane to the new condo conversions on Harbor Street. One of them luridly suggested he come with them upstairs.

“Oh, I normally would,” he assured her, “but I gotta go home and rub my poor grandmother’s feet. You have a great night, okay?”

The tall one grinned at him and, with some difficulty, managed to wink at him. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

Orland just smiled and watched until the ladies tottered off into the darkness. He switched on his out-of-service light and started for home.

As far as Paul was concerned, driving a cab was only a temporary source of income until his business kicked into high gear. He had dubbed it Orland & Associates Literary Agency, although his only associate was his dog Rufus. A friend had designed him a website that gave the impression of a mover and shaker in New York publishing. Soon he was inundated with email queries from hopeful authors. Most of the queries were poorly written and easy to dismiss. When he did find a strong pitch, he lacked the connections to do much in the way of book sales. So far the only revenue generated by Orland & Associates came from selling books for two of his friends to small specialty presses. He hoped to use that modest success as a springboard to develop a reputation and start making some real money.

Orland stepped into his apartment and was surprised when Rufus was not there to greet him. A whine and a jingle came from behind the closed bedroom door. Had he shut the dog in the bedroom all day? Orland didn’t want to think about the stinky mess he would have to deal with if he didn’t get Rufus outside in time to do his nightly business.

“Hang on Rufus,” he said as he strode down the short hallway. “I’m coming.”

Orland pushed open the door and flicked the switch on the wall, but the light did not come on. The jingling noise repeated itself from deep in the dark. Paul felt an odd sense of foreboding.

“Rufus?”

Only the jingle came in reply. Orland took a step. “Rufus?”

A chemical smell struck him in the face. His eyes stung and he stepped back. Almost instantly his head swooned and Paul dropped to his knees. As he fought to stay conscious he felt the wet tongue of his dog as it licked his face.

* * *

The pain started in again as soon as Orland regained consciousness. His throat was raw, his back ached like hell, and his groin was throbbing in agony. He tried to reach around to investigate what was going on with his privates but his hands were bound behind his back.

That’s when he knew he was in major trouble.

His heart pounded as his instinct to escape kicked in. He tried to stand but he could only squirm in desperation. He was bound with duct tape at the mouth, arms and legs. Orland had the insane thought that it was going to hurt like crazy when he ripped the tape off. Then he wondered if he would ever get that chance, and he writhed even harder.

“It’s okay Rufus,” an unfamiliar voice said. “We’re just about ready here.”

Orland stopped struggling and lay panting frantically through his nose. He looked around and realized he was home. It was still night, or very early in the morning. He struggled but could only flop and jerk in fear. His thrashing awoke his other senses and Orland’s body spasmed with agony as his limbs screamed for relief. Sweat poured out of him and created patchy slicks where his naked skin touched the tile floor. He took a severe breath through his nostrils. Salty perspiration tortured his eyes and he coughed against his parched tongue.

What the fuck is happening? He tried to yell but it came out as a series of muffled grunts. God help me, he silently screamed. Rufus eyed him with worry and the assailant patted the dog’s head and whispered soothing assurances. Orland moaned and the dog wagged his tail.

“Stay Rufus,” the figure said.

The dog walked in a nervous circle and settled on his haunches once again.

Torturous pain roiled up and down Orland’s body. His shoulders screamed from the constant strain. He had never wanted a drink of water so badly, but there was no relief for his raw, dry throat. He surrendered to exhaustion and lay still in his misery.

“Almost done, Rufus,” the figure said. “Not to worry boy, it’s okay.”

The attacker grabbed the helpless Orland by the arm and dragged him across the floor. Orland found himself staring up at a yellow rope that was looped over the chin up bar he used every day to help stay in shape.

His assailant tugged downwards on the rope. “What do you think, Rufus?” he said. “That should hold his weight.”

No! Orland tried to howl, but it came out as a guttural “Nnngg!”

Rufus just looked back and forth between the two men.

The attacker grabbed Orland by one arm and forced him into a sitting position. Orland winced at the sharp agony from his bound hands and his raw throat. He sobbed in hopeless desperation as he reluctantly came to the conclusion that he was about to die.

“We’re just about there,” the killer said to the dog.

Orland turned his head and looked at Rufus, who met his stare with pitiful doubt in his eyes. The dog yipped and took a step forward, but the attacker hissed at him to be quiet. Orland cocked his head when he realized Rufus was not wearing his choke chain or his collar. Orland dropped his chin and felt the abrasive edge of the nylon collar around his own neck. A sick finality washed over him.

Orland made muffled pleas for his life while the killer looped the yellow rope through the collar, but the busy hands ignored him and quickly finished the chore.

The killer stood and made a careful check of the rig, then started to pull the rope taut. Orland’s head rolled back, the choke chain pinched the skin of his neck and the dog license pressed into his bulging throat. His butt shifted a few inches, leaving a wet smear on the floor.

“Mu-fussss,” Orland managed through the gag. It was the last word he ever spoke.

“Say goodbye, Rufus,” the killer said.

He put all his strength into hauling Orland up and up, until the former literary agent’s own weight choked the last breath from his body.

“Now, let’s take care of this one last thing,” the attacker said to the dog.

He pulled out a retractable, yellow handled utility knife and turned the body so Orland was facing him. The cutting didn’t take long.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

DETECTIVE COLLINS FLIPPED another page of the notes he had made while interviewing Petre’s neighbors. It was a hell of a way to spend his afternoon off but he knew the brass and the press would soon be howling for progress on the case.

He had quickly figured out the victim was not a writer. The guy was a literary agent, apparently spending his days reading emails from wannabe novelists and pitching an occasional book to the publishing houses. Collins found over a thousand email queries on Petre’s computer. It appeared the guy had not read any of them for a month. Collins had no idea if this was relevant, though, and the interview notes were still as useless as they had been the first four times he had gone through them. He sighed and turned another page.

Collins’ cell drew him out of his introspection.

“Yeah?”

“Your day off just ended,” Andrade said. His voice sounded hard.

“What’s up Cap?”

“We have another murder and it’s just as weird as the last one.”

Collins sighed. “What happened this time?”

“Animal control found a dog smeared with blood running around University Square. Turns out the mutt was chipped. No answer on the phone so a patrol car went by and the door was ajar. They went in and found the victim hanging from a chin-up bar.”

“Suicide maybe?”

“Not unless the guy could tie his hands behind his back.”

“Okay, gimme me the address”

When Collins arrived at the scene a uniformed officer directed him upstairs to a one-bedroom flat. The body was still hanging in the bathroom doorway. The Coroner and a patrol officer stood nearby.

“Let me know when it’s okay to cut him down,” the Coroner said.

Collins nodded in agreement while pulling on a pair of latex gloves, his attention fully on the crime scene.

Around the victim’s neck was a choke chain collar with a dog license attached. Collins could see the red, bone-shaped tag with ANSWERS TO RUFUS etched into it. A length of yellow nylon rope supported the corpse and was tied to the drainpipe beneath the bathroom sink.

Collins judged the dead man to be about six feet tall. The naked body had apparently been hauled into place after the guy was incapacitated. Trails of blood had run down his body and dripped onto the tile floor. A large X was cut deep into the victim’s chest and the words ‘NO HEART’ appeared on the wall in blood beside the bathroom door. This time there were bloody shoeprints and the shoes were left in plain sight at the foot of the bed. Collins was careful to avoid stepping in any blood as he moved to get a closer look at bloody handprints on the wall, dried to rusty brown.

“Damn,” he said to the Coroner. “How long you think he’s been here?”

The Coroner gave the body a sideways look. “A day, maybe two.”

“Shit.”

“My sentiments exactly,” the Coroner said.

Collins looked at the patrol officer. “Was it you that found him?”

The officer nodded. “Me and my partner. We had a quick look around but we didn’t touch anything. Looks like he might be some kind of writer. There are manuscripts.”

“Okay, good job. You can wait outside.”

Collins stood back and looked at the carnage, trying to get a sense of how things went down. Overall the scene was neat, unhurried, and chilling. Just like Petre.

The forensics team arrived so Collins turned the scene over to them and moved on to the kitchen. The table was covered with stacks of envelopes and paper bundles piled around a laptop. The envelopes were addressed to Orland & Associates Literary Agency. Most were unopened. He used a pen to flip through a couple of paper-clipped manuscripts.

“Another agent,” Collins muttered to himself.

A cold feeling seeped into his gut. No way could two mutilated literary agents be a coincidence. If this was the same killer then Collins was up against a truly sick and twisted mind. He also knew the press would be on this like a squawking pile of vultures.

Collins watched as the black bag containing Paul Orland was wheeled out of the apartment. He sighed and headed for his car. Captain Andrade was going to want all the details.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

DRAKE WAS BORED nearly to death after his first week in the cage. More than that, his efforts to fit in with the three ladies was still a work in progress.

“They just don’t know you,” his girlfriend Robin had said when he told her he felt like he was getting the cold shoulder. “You’re a friendly guy. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and make friends with them.”

So Drake followed Robin’s advice. On this morning he arrived at the station with a dozen doughnuts and four coffees. Sure, it was an obvious bribe of sugar and caffeine, but Drake saw it more as connecting through a common weakness. Each of the ladies was overweight and made no bones about it. Flowers were lost on these three, but doughnuts were better than diamonds.

“Good morning ladies,” he sang out.

He placed the box on the central counter and opened it. The smell of sugar and fresh baking filled the cage.

“Are those for us?” Regina said.

Regina was African American, wore her hair in rows, and was tough as nails. Drake had heard she held a black belt in something. She sported enough jewelry to pass for a gypsy and wore her shirt out so she had no delineation from bust to bottom.

“If you’d like one,” he said with a smile.

“What are you up to?” Serena asked.

Serena was all hips and blue eye shadow, with heavy breasts and lips to match. Each ear displayed a spectrum of four gemstone earrings and her hair was tied back in a long ponytail. She referred to herself as The Goddess and kept her co-workers laughing by saying things like, “Look at all those old paintings in the museums. Those ladies don’t look like no Cameron Diaz. They look just like me.”