Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (6 page)

Serena’s eyes flashed with amiable suspicion. “You think you can buy us like that?”

Drake shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m not buying anything but doughnuts.” He pulled out a chocolate old fashioned for himself.

“Yeah, right,” Edna said, and then laughed through her smokers cough. “You expect us to believe you brought them in just to be generous?”

“Hey,” Drake said, “I’m not twisting your arm. You can leave them all for me if you want.”

“As if,” Edna said with a chuckle. She reached in for a bear claw.

Edna was close to retirement herself and Drake found himself liking her more and more each day. She could have been someone’s grandmother but for her filthy mouth.

A cluster of officers passed by outside the glass of the cage. One the officers looked in and sneered at the sight of Drake with food in his hand.

“Just what he needs, a doughnut.” the cop said.

Serena snorted with derision. “Don’t listen to that shit,” she said to Drake. “That Ratcliff’s as fat as you and then some.”

Drake smiled with gratitude. He was starting to feel like he was part of the group.

Andrade emerged from his office and came down the hall with Michael Collins. They hustled past the cage toward the Detective’s office.

Detective Thibido charged up behind them. “Are you kidding me?” he called out as he approached the others. “Who could cut somebody up like that?”

“Shut up,” Collins growled.

Thibido stopped talking abruptly and trailed out of sight behind the other two men.

Drake looked at Edna and raised one eyebrow.

“Sounds like we got ourselves another killing,” he said softly.

“Apparently,” she said.

Drake’s detective instinct kicked in. He knew that kind of mutilation was often a message in mob killings, the sign of an informant. In the old days he would have been part of the group he had just seen heading off to strategize about how they were going to chase down the killer. Frustration bloomed in him again. At that moment the cage felt as much like a cell to him as the ones downstairs.

Officer Mooney provided a welcome diversion by arriving at the cage with a well dressed, middle-aged woman in handcuffs.

“We got us a drunk and disorderly,” Mooney said, “and resisting arrest.”

“Wonderful,” Drake said.

He reached for a booking form.

“You should’ve listened to me,” the woman whined to Mooney. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Name is Ruby Lopresti,” Mooney said to Drake. “She’s been read her rights and unfortunately she decided not to remain silent.”

“Oh, a smart ass,” the woman roared. “That’s gonna cost you. My father knows half the city council.” She slurred her words.

“This is gonna mean your goddamn badge,” Ruby said. Then she suddenly vomited, lurched and passed out. She hit the floor in her own puke. Mooney’s sleeve was wet with sour bile and the stench was overpowering.

“Aw shit,” he said.

“We got it,” Drake said “Go clean yourself up.”

He and the three women came around the counter to help put the unconscious woman in a wheelchair. Regina and Edna wheeled Ruby down to the drunk-tank while Drake retrieved a mop and bucket from the break room.

“You okay?” Serena asked Drake when he got back. “You look like you just lost your best friend.”

He shrugged and did his best to plaster a smile on his face. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” She gave him a doubtful look. “So what’s with all this staring out into the station like you wish you were someplace else?”

Drake looked at her carefully, trying to figure out whether her concern was sincere.

“Why does it matter?” he said.

“Cause you’re one of us now and we gotta stick together.”

Drake felt his face flush. It had been a while since anyone but Robin had been on his side.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, well … it’s the murders. Believe it or not, there was a day when I would have been right in the middle of all that.”

Serena nodded. “That’s what I heard. And now you wish you were back in the action.”

Drake did his best to hold in the sigh. “A little bit, I guess.”

Serena gave him an appraising look.

“Maybe I can help with that.”

“What do you—”

“I gotta go in the back office,” Serena said. “You gonna be okay out here by yourself?”

“Of course.”

Drake stared at her in disbelief as she disappeared into the back office. “Whatever,” he said to himself, and started slopping the mop across the floor.

This is what I’m reduced to, he thought, cleaning up puke.

* * *

Serena searched the personnel files in the computer database and read through the available sheets on Lou Drake. He was an interesting contradiction. The more she discovered about him, the more sympathy and surprise she felt.

He had a stellar record as a patrolman and high scores on the Detective exams. His achievements as an investigator were brilliant, until the Hennings murder case brought his career to a crashing halt. After that his downfall had been abrupt and brutal, according to what little she had read. And she knew there was plenty more to read. After all, part of her job was to convert all the old case files to digital. She had many boxes still to push through down in the storeroom, and the Hennings files were among them. Serena made up her mind to spend some time poking around in that particular shallow grave. She had no idea if anything in those files would be any use to her new cage buddy, but it didn’t hurt to try.

As for today, she knew just what would cheer him up. She closed the personnel files and accessed the case files for the current murders. Much of the evidence would still be in the Detective’s paper files upstairs, but she figured some of the case notes would already be online. Serena grinned to herself when she found eight pages. She hit the print button and waited for the laser printer to spit them out. She slipped the pages into a case folder and returned to the cage.

Drake was tapping slowly at his keyboard. Serena walked over and stood beside him, the file folder tucked under her arm. He looked up at her. “What’s up?”

She held the folder out to him. Her voice was low when she spoke. “Thought you might want to look at these.”

Drake’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. He opened the folder, glanced inside and then quickly shut it.

“Where did you get these?” he hissed.

Serena shrugged nonchalantly. “What can I say, I got access.”

“What kind of access?”

She smiled. “Enough to show you what’s up around here, if you want.”

“I appreciate what I think you’re saying but I don’t want to get you into any trouble, and I’m in enough already.”

“Nothing you can do will get me in any trouble. And you, what’re they gonna do, fire you?”

“Yes, and take away my pension.”

“Never gonna happen, doughnut man.”

Drake peeked at the freshly printed pages again.

“You get these off the computer?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So anyone could look up what files you’ve been accessing.”

Serena gave him a patronizing look. “Drake, you worry too damn much. I look at case files all the time, it’s part of my job. Now why don’t you find a quiet corner and read those over.”

Drake hesitated but Serena seemed so earnest that he pulled out the pages and folded them so they fit in his pocket. A few minutes later he was alone in the restroom. He locked himself in a stall and quickly scanned the pages. The first few provided personal information on Petre and Orland. After that came notes summarizing the investigation to date. He folded the papers and jammed them back in his pocket. He would look at them more closely when he got home.

Drake felt a welcome tightening in his chest as he walked back to the cage. This was the same type of excitement he used to get whenever he had a new case to investigate. Only this time he wasn’t on the hook to solve anything. He had in mind a very different kind of project; these two murders would provide wonderful ideas for a new book. For the first time in weeks a genuine smile spread across his face.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

THE KILLER TAPPED furiously on the computer keyword, filling up pages with material the likes of which had never been undertaken. When the idea for this book had first bloomed in his mind, the thought had been to find an antique Royal manual typewriter and laboriously pound the clacking teeth. That image seemed to fit the killer’s vision of a nostalgic fantasy driven by some morose symbolism. But such a typewriter would be traceable. The experts could identify the make and model and the project would take on the cliché machination of a bad detective novel.

That would never do, for this book was to be a grand opus, a literary triumph that no publisher could ignore. The killer scorned the crazies who sent taunting letters to the police. Their idiotic words would be published in newspapers, but what kind of accomplishment was that? No, this project was not a childish attempt to get attention. The goal was much bigger than that. This book would forever embed the author’s message on the face of publishing.

And it was coming together exactly as envisioned. The research and planning for the third victim had been every bit as intense as the first two. All that remained was to finish the writing and then he could follow through. The killer paused to think, and then attacked the keyboard once more to put the finishing touches on the final paragraph. After a read through, the killer nodded in satisfaction, saved the text to disk, and then sent the file to the printer.

* * *

Collins laid a file folder on the edge of Andrade’s desk and took a seat across from the Captain.

“Forensics typed the blood,” Collins said. “It’s all Orland’s. The shoes that made the footprints also belonged to the victim.”

“Figures.”

Andrade started to work his way through the crime scene photos.

“This cut job and the NO HEART, obviously a message of some sort. He must have pissed somebody off.”

“Whoever it was wore latex gloves,” Collins said, “because none of the handprints on the walls have prints. The bulb in the ceiling light was unscrewed. I figure Orland walked in, was incapacitated in some way and then killed while he was out of it.”

The photos were every bit as horrific as those from the Petre case. Andrade’s mind reeled with the ramifications of a second ritualistic murder. He had been with the NYPD for eighteen years but had never seen this astounding level of atrocity. There had never been a serial killer in Malcolm, but it certainly seemed like they had one now, and a depraved one at that.

“I talked to Orland’s family,” Collins continued. “They’re up in Buffalo. Took it pretty hard, especially when I told them how he died.”

Andrade shut the file folder.

“Can’t say I blame them.”

“No kidding. Anyway, I got them to agree not to say anything if the reporters start calling.”

“Which they probably will, and soon.”

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

“Any witnesses?”

Collins shook his head. “A neighbor said there was a kid walking down the street with a dog but he had no idea if it was the victim’s dog. He couldn’t say what the kid was wearing or even what race he was. Besides, I have my doubts any kid could have pulled this off. The killer would have to be strong enough to hoist a six foot cab driver into the air.”

“Not just a cabby, another literary agent.”

“Yeah, that’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“Or a pattern,” Andrade said.

“Too early to tell.”

“You think?”

“I dug up some figures on that,” Collins said, pointing to the folder. “Agents are a dime a dozen around here. I found one web site that listed more than two thousand agents in the New York area alone. So it could just be the luck of the draw.”

Andrade snorted. “Some luck. How long before we’re likely to hear back from forensics?”

“A week, maybe more.”

“Bullshit. Tell them to give this case priority. I want to wrap this thing up before it turns into a media circus.”

“Amen to that.”

The squawk box on the desk buzzed. Andrade punched a button.

“Yeah?”

“Lieutenant Bradshaw for you on line three,” his secretary said.

“Shit,” Andrade said, and hit another button on his speakerphone. “Patrick. How are things downtown?”

“Fine. I hear you’re having some fun out in your neck of the woods. Chief Smythe asked me to call and see if there was anything we could do to help.”

Andrade rolled his eyes at Collins. “No, we got it under control.”

“Really.” The disbelief in Bradshaw’s voice was obvious. “Sounds to me like you’ve got a psycho running around out there.”

“Hey, so far it looks like the first victim was some loser who picked the wrong date to take home, and last night looks like a sex play gone bad. Cab driver, late night, bad choice, you know how it goes.”

Andrade felt like he was tap dancing.

“All right, keep us in the loop.”

Andrade hung up and glared at Collins.

“Find this asshole, and I mean today. I don’t need to remind you that if this turns into a serial case then we’ll have the FBI involved. That could be unfortunate for both of us.”