Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (8 page)

C
HAPTER
T
EN

SERENA ENTERED THE back office of the cage and walked to the keypad on the opposite wall. She entered the security code and opened the metal door that led down to the old cells. The history of the place whispered to her from the stained brick walls as she descended the stairs.

Constructed in 1908, the Station Ten building originally housed only these two underground cells. By the thirties the station had expanded to a full precinct with a new bank of holding cells and an execution chamber, complete with an electric chair aptly named the last seat in the house. The electric chair and mementos from the old courthouse were currently displayed in the town museum, the last reminders of the small waterside village’s rough past.

The old cells were now used for storing boxes of hard copy files, the security archives, and the station’s holiday decorations. The rooms were environmentally controlled and Serena reigned here as queen. Lately she had been taking advantage of that to do a little reading each day related to her new pal Drake, especially looking through the old files on the Hennings case. She wasn’t doing it just to help Drake, but also to satisfy her own curiosity.

She was careful while she was doing this reading, making sure to keep her body between those particular boxes and the watching eye of the surveillance camera. Sly, that’s what she was. Her mama had always said so.

Serena was curious about this fat cop who acted so downtrodden. Her computer told her where he lived and his boilerplate life details. After that she delved into the password-protected information about his demotion. References to Hennings were a serious tease to her intensely curious nature, and they gave her the key to what to look for in the boxed files. From there it was a matter of digging, something Serena loved to do. More than that, she loved uncovering secrets.

When she was a girl in Spanish Harlem, her family knew if there was a piece of pie missing from supper’s dessert, a dollar out of Gramma’s purse, or a boy unwilling to look his girlfriend in the eye, most likely Serena was to blame.

“There’s a sneaky streak in that girl as long as my arm,” her mother used to say.

After high school, the Air force trained her in technical data control and computer science. Serena liked the regimen of the military, so when she finished her duty, the police academy was a logical next stop. Graduating at the top of her class, she used her technical training to carve out a career in data management. She jumped at the opportunity when she was offered the job of converting the old filing system into electronic data for the Malcolm station.

She spent each day removing folders from case file boxes, scanning all the contents and placing the processed folders into new boxes. Today she was working on a stack of boxes dating back ten years. In four hours she scanned half of them. When she was done, she slipped into the Hennings files and continued giving them a once over. The surveillance camera recorded nothing but her back.

* * *

In his office on the third floor of Precinct One, Chief of Detectives Henry Smythe sat back in his deep leather chair and studied the reports from Precinct Ten regarding the recent killings. His gut told him they were dealing with a sadistic serial killer. He had to admit, though, that the evidence in the reports fell short of being conclusive on that score.

“Chief,” his secretary called over the speaker. “I just got a call from Andrea over at Joshua Hennings’ office. She wants to know if you’re going to RSVP for the black tie fundraiser for the Children’s Hospital. I checked your schedule and you are free that evening.”

“That’s not for weeks.”

“She said they want to finalize the list.”

The Chief considered for a moment, but he could think of no good reason to refuse.

“Sure,” he said. “Tell her I’ll be there.”

Over the years Smythe had reluctantly rubbed elbows with Hennings, smiling and putting on airs but all the while wishing he could arrest him and put him behind bars. The Chief had been a captain in vice at the time Hennings was under suspicion for his wife’s murder. Smythe had followed the case with the rest of New York. The grisly details of the killing were discussed around diner counters, on the news and in the subways. The prevailing public opinion seemed to be that the case against Hennings was a slam-dunk. The papers trumpeted Drake’s investigative progress as if the Detective was a rock star.

Smythe had been as surprised as the rest of the city when reports of police misconduct started leaking to the press. Then a different suspect confessed to the murder and the case against Hennings collapsed, along with Lou Drake’s career. Hennings himself did not go away and was still active in city development, philanthropy and local politics. In police circles the debates raged on for some time as to whether the wealthy scumbag was really guilty. Smythe had always thought there was too much evidence pointing in Hennings’ direction, and too many coincidences surrounding the collapse of the case.

Now Smythe saw in the reports that Lou Drake was again connected to a murder investigation, and once more as the fuck up. More than that, Andrade, Collins and Thibido were all involved, the same crew that had been at the center of the Hennings fiasco. The whole situation made Smythe’s skin crawl. He understood Andrade well enough to know the man was more politician than cop. The Captain was ambitious and tenacious, manipulative and independent, and that was what made Smythe worry. Andrade would handle a serial killer case with all the skill of a butcher performing brain surgery.

Smythe felt the weight of the decades that had wrenched the scrubbed cheek rookie idealism out of him and his academy classmates. The years had turned them into jaded, hardened men. Today they sat at the top and tried to make sense of budgets and changing tolerances, but Smythe was still a cop at heart. He decided to pay the good Captain a visit.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

SANDY ALEXANDER AND the village idiots carpooled in Pooter’s mini van to Greenwich for the fall book festival and publishing fair. This event was not as revered as the gatherings in Manhattan, but it was still a popular destination for authors hoping to find local representation or connect with smaller presses.

“And we have arrived,” Pooter said with flair.

They all scrambled out of the crowded vehicle, produced tickets, and made their way together into the packed hall. Once inside, they first came upon the bigger publishers and university presses. Here there were large booths and enclosed alcoves displaying a wide variety of optimistically stacked books and promotional materials. Through a bank of doors they could see smaller book printers and specialty presses in curtained ten-by-ten cubicles. The tiny presses and self published authors presented their wares at skirted tables in the rear.

Sandy waved his hand. “Destiny awaits. Good luck and may we all come out with great things. How about we meet back here at noon and compare notes.”

Franny looked at Nordstrom. “I’ll stick with you, if that’s okay,” she said.

“Sounds good,” Nordstrom said, and the two walked off together.

Pooter elbowed Sandy and pointed into the crowd.

“Isn’t that Shakespeare?”

Nesbit barked a short laugh. “Very funny.”

Sandy looked where Pooter was pointing and smiled.

“Hey, you’re right.”

Sandy waved his hand, trying to catch the guy’s attention.

“What,” Nesbit said, “there really is a guy here named Shakespeare?”

“Yup,” Pooter said with a nod. “His name is Brian.”

Brian Shakespeare saw Sandy’s wave and headed their way. He stood just over five feet tall and was built like a fireplug, which meant they lost sight of him several times as he traveled toward them through the crowd.

“Sandy Alexander,” Brian said when he reached the group. “It’s been a while.

Sandy shook his hand. “Hello Brian. It’s great to see you.”

“You shopping a new book?”

“No. I’m chaperone today for the village idiots.”

“Oh yeah, your writer’s group,” Brian said. “I should get down and see you guys sometime.”

“What about you? Are you shopping something?”

“Got the new bestseller right here,” Brian said, and patted his satchel. “Nearly finished.”

“Good for you,” Sandy said.

“I’m here to find the one lucky enough to get to publish this.”

Sandy laughed. “Good luck with that.”

Shakespeare winked. “Gotta get moving,” he said. “See you later.”

With that he was off into the crowd.

“Seems kind of stuck up,” Nesbit observed.

“He’s rich,” Sandy said. “A trust fund brat and drives a Porsche. Always carries his current manuscript in that weathered leather satchel. He stole that idea from Stephen King. Brian writes over-developed adventure stories that lose themselves in tedious detail. An agent signed him once, only to drop him when he refused to rewrite his manuscript.”

“It must be tough to get anyone in publishing to take him seriously with a name like Shakespeare,” Nesbit mused.

The group members spent the next couple of hours working the booths. They made small talk with publishers, leafed through some of the books on display, and picked up literature on writing contests and online support groups. At noon the group gathered at a round table in the eating area. They each bought a sandwich and a drink from a small counter that offered simple but expensive food.

Sandy looked around and took a head count. “Where’s Pooter?”

“He’s always dragging his ass,” Franny said.

“So how’d we all do?”

“A few agents gave me their business cards,” Franny said, “and I pitched my new freelance agenda to a women’s magazine. They seemed interested,”

Nordstrom scowled. “I got nothing.”

“Well, it’s tough,” Sandy said. “Look at all this competition.”

Franny pointed to the food line. “Isn’t that the big guy we saw reading a crime novel at the bookstore?”

“Yeah, that’s him,” Nesbit said.

“Jesus, everybody in New York is here today,” Franny said.

Pooter suddenly rushed out of the crowd and dropped, out of breath, into the chair next to Carl Nesbit. Sandy looked over his glasses and Pooter raised his hand in a gesture of apology.

“You won’t believe this!” Pooter said after he caught his breath.

“Don’t tell me,” Franny said. “You bumped into a tour group from the insane asylum and one of the girls agreed to go on a date with you.”

Pooter ignored her and looked excitedly at Sandy. “I have a friend in NYPD traffic who helps me with my criminal stuff. He’s also writing a book and I just ran into him. He told me there were two murders in the village.”

Sandy shrugged. “This is New York, after all.”

“Yeah, but get this, they were both literary agents.”

“Jesus,” Franny whispered.

Sandy sat up straighter, no longer nonchalant. “Who were they?”

“No idea, but my friend says the two victims were all cut up and mutilated.”

The group was silent for a few moments as they processed the news. Around them the multitudes wandered and sat in groups talking. Franny was the first to speak again.

“I wonder if the killer is here?”

Sandy looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“Think about it,” she said. “We’re sitting in the middle of a huge group of frustrated writers. Who else would be more motivated to kill agents? I mean, we’ve all received hundreds of rejection letters.”

“Okay, sure,” Sandy said, “we all get frustrated, but not enough to actually kill someone.”

Nesbit shrugged. “I don’t know. All it takes is one fruitcake who can’t stomach being turned down that many times.”

“I suppose,” Sandy said. “It’s only human nature to hate being rejected, and I guess murder would be the ultimate revenge.”

* * *

Drake bought a tuna fish sandwich on a whole-wheat bun and a Diet Coke. He made his way through the crowd and found an open seat at one of the round tables. As he ate he flipped through the handouts he had collected on his information hunt. There were workshops and symposiums, contests and forums — all offering to help the average writer become published. So many of the programs were expensive, which made Drake chuckle. It had always been the same; desperate people attracted those who wanted to take advantage of their neediness.