Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (11 page)

“Very poetic,” Sandy said.

“Well, you know, we writers are full of it.”

“That we are. Look Drake, do me a favor and write the hell out of this book of yours so you can get published and make us all proud. Do it for us and yourself and invite me to your book release party.”

“Sandy, how many rejections did you get?”

Sandy took a long breath, exhaling into the chilly night as though blowing smoke from his burning soul.

“745. Funny how you remember the big numbers.”

“Wow.”

“It’s not the number, though, it’s the weight. I mean, think about the weight of the average rejection letter. A single page of bond paper is nothing, like a feather. Five hundred rejections is a ream of paper, a few pounds of actual heft. But the collective weight is a ton of NO lying on your psyche, pressing you down and squeezing out the dreams. Rejection crushes the soul and sucks the life out of you. It whispers that working in a cubicle is a grand idea.”

“I understand,” Drake said.

Sandy shook his hand and walked into the cold night.

Drake pondered Sandy’s words as he drove home to where Robin waited for him. They made small talk that led to slow and thoughtful lovemaking. Afterward they spooned and Drake breathed in the sweet smell of powdered sugar and brewed coffee from her hair.

“You going to let me read what you have written so far?” she asked. Her voice was distant, close to sleep but not quite there.

“Absolutely,” he whispered and kissed her softly. “Tomorrow.”

“I have to work early.”

“I promise you can read it whenever you have time.”

She snuggled closer. “I love you.”

“Me too.”

They fell asleep in a tangle of loving limbs while muffled screams went unheard in a basement apartment several blocks away.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN –
M
UELLER

THOMAS MUELLER PARKED his car at the curb in front of his three-story brownstone apartment building. He was returning from a book signing in Greenwich, where he had helped himself to the free eats and open bar. As a result he was still a little drunk.

Mueller passed the building’s main entrance and walked down a side path to a flight of dark concrete stairs. Not long before he would have taken the main entrance to his second floor apartment, but money was tight and he had been forced to move to a smaller basement unit with a cheaper price tag. He grimaced at the smell of urine in the stairway, which unfortunately was a favorite spot for the local homeless folks to relieve themselves.

“Excuse me,” a voice whispered out of the dark.

“Jesus,” Mueller yelped.

He lost his footing and nearly fell.

“Sorry,” the shadowy figure said. “I’m just looking for some spare change.”

“I don’t have any,” Mueller said irritably, “and you shouldn’t be down here.”

“Sorry. I thought you might be able to help me out, get this monkey off my back.”

Mueller dug for his key. “I said I don’t have any cash on me. Just get the hell out of here.”

“C’mon man,” the voice said. “I’m really hurting.”

“Jesus, don’t whine. Okay, I may have a buck or two in my place. Stay right here and I’ll see.”

“Thanks man, bless you.”

Mueller unlocked the door and went inside. He was tempted not to bother looking for money, but he knew he’d give in and throw the guy a bone. He always did, because of his brother James, who was lost in this very same nightmare, drunk and always broke. He eventually died from his addiction.

Opening a drawer in the kitchen, Mueller rummaged around and came up with two dollars in change. He went to stand just inside the apartment door.

“You still out there?” he called through the door.

“Yeah, man,” came the muffled voice from outside. “Look it doesn’t have to be much. I really appreciate any help you can give me.”

“Okay. I found a couple of bucks. Step back from the door and I’ll hand it out.”

As a precaution Mueller reached into his trash closet for the baseball bat he kept for security. Slowly and carefully he turned the knob and cracked the door. He couldn’t see anyone outside.

“Hello? Where’d you go?”

The figure hit the door like a locomotive and Mueller was knocked backward. He landed in a heap on the thinly carpeted concrete floor. Before he could cry out, his body went rigid and his mind seemed to explode as voltage from the Taser shot from his chest out to his fingertips. Mueller’s eyes lost focus and the figure standing over him was a blurred nightmare.

His attacker slowly closed the door and pulled a coil of yellow nylon rope from his jacket pocket.

* * *

When Mueller came to he could not move. His body felt tightly bound and his mouth was covered with tape. His instinctive reaction was to struggle and scream, but it proved to be pointless.

“Relax Thomas,” said the attacker’s voice from behind him, “don’t hurt yourself. It’s impossible to get free.”

Mueller could swivel his head downward enough to tell that he was naked. Taking deep breaths through his nose, he groaned and whined, his mind sharp with panic.

“We’re going to have a little chat,” the disembodied voice said. “Is that okay with you? Nod if you understand.”

Mueller nodded vigorously. A hand and forearm appeared from behind him and placed a hammer and eight long nails on the floor beside him in an orderly gathering. Next a yellow handled utility knife joined them. The hand was covered with a latex glove.

“I know you’re a literary agent.”

Mueller’s forehead furrowed in confusion. What did that have to do with what was going on?

“You’re not answering me, Thomas,” the voice said. “I said we were going to have a conversation, which means you have to hold up your end. And I promise you won’t like it if I become upset.”

Immediately Mueller nodded, his breath coming in frantic rasps through his nose.

“That’s better. Now you haven’t had many book sales lately, have you?”

Mueller’s mind raced as he tried to figure out who this guy might be and what he wanted. He shook his head. Sales had been miserable, in fact nonexistent.

“I know,” the voice crooned sympathetically, “it’s a tough job. But you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to lose hope. This is not a business for the faint of heart. It takes backbone to succeed, not to mention balls of steel. Don’t you agree?”

Another fanatical nod.

“I’m sorry to say but I can’t let you go on, at least without making sure you have what it takes. It may be painful to face the truth. Please understand I’m only trying to help you see the error of your ways.”

Mueller tried to look around but the tape restricted his movement. Desperation welled up inside, making his head swim with panic. He wanted to plead for his life but the tape muffled his words into pathetic mumblings. His eyes bulged with terror when he saw the gloved hand return to pick up the knife from the floor.

“We will begin now.”

Mueller’s body went rigid as pain bloomed below his neckline and traced a splitting tear down his back to his tailbone. His muscles involuntarily bulged and strained against the ropes. He sobbed through the tape, his nostrils flaring as he desperately gasped for more oxygen.

Then the hand picked up the hammer and nails. Mueller started hyperventilating and, blessedly, he lost consciousness.

“Now we’ll see,” the killer said.

He drew back the flaps of skin, held them in place and began pounding nails with methodical precision.

An hour later the coming sunrise silently announced itself with a red glow against a purple-black sky. The relaxed arrival of morning mirrored the killer’s careful work. Finally, he stood back for a moment and nodded with satisfaction at his completed display.

“Say hello to ¬James for me,” he said to what was left of Mueller.

Careful to leave no trace, the figure backed out of the basement apartment, left the door ajar and slipped unnoticed into the coming day.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

DRAKE WASTED HIS Saturday morning trying to write, but it was useless. He was too distracted by his upcoming meeting with Collins. He knew Collins would accuse him of meddling in things that were not his business, and even worse, he knew Collins was right.

The thought of the impending confrontation took Drake back to the days he had spent in the hot seat, answering question after question about the Hennings case. The days were interminable as he struggled with the allegations and the sneaky way Internal Affairs posed their questions. Yes meant no and vice versa when it came to sorting out the botched investigation and the shit storm that followed.

On a freezing, wind-swept evening in January 1999, Lou Drake and his partner Michael Collins had been called to a crime scene in the harbor district. They arrived at the upscale penthouse and pushed past uniformed cops to the master bedroom where Angela Katherine Hennings lay naked on the bed, her legs hanging over the footboard. She was covered in blood from eight gunshot wounds. Her face was an expression lost between anger and surprise. Forensics officers swarmed over the scene like ants, collecting fibers, and spent shell casings. The crime photographer snapped away, creating copious garish photos of Angela Hennings’ blood-spattered flesh.

“What do you think Lou?” Collins asked.

Drake studied the splatter patterns. “My guess is the headshot was first, then the gunman emptied the rest of the bullets into her torso.”

Back then analyzing a crime scene was like breathing for Drake. He even received a special certificate for his prowess. No matter how much a scene was cluttered with bloody disarray, he was able to survey the details like a Navaho tracker.

The Hennings case presented a particularly messy trail. Drake was sure that Joshua Hennings was the killer, and figured he probably had been drunk.

“She must have been just out of the shower and standing at the foot of the bed at the time of the first gunshot,” Drake guessed.

The evidence of what followed was erratic, but seemed to Drake to indicate the angry actions of a man hell-bent on destruction.

Mrs. Hennings posture was grotesquely alluring, her legs apart and her perfect figure exposed. One breast was still firm and unyielding to the pull of gravity, while the other was punctured and oozing silicone. Drake saw only the details, the angle of entry wounds and the partial bloody footprint that marked the killer’s exit.

“The culprit left in a hurry,” Drake said and pointed at the bloody footprints leaving the scene. “A man running from a murder scene tends to leave a trail of desperation.”

“He’s good,” a uniformed officer whispered.

“Drake will follow the trail of this case like a bloodhound,” Collins said.

Drake threw himself into the case with pure professionalism. It seemed like a slam-dunk.

Then Drake was stunned when witnesses started recanting their statements. Other cops claimed that key evidence was tainted because of how Drake had gathered it. Thibido was one of the beat cops who sat behind closed doors and told his part of the story. His testimony must have carried weight because it was the final nail in the coffin.

The case against Hennings crumbled like a block of sugar in the rain. The District Attorney was about to drop the charges when someone who wasn’t even a suspect unexpectedly came forward and confessed to the murder. Though many were suspicious, Walter Spader insisted he was guilty. He wept over his shame in the interview room, so he was booked and led to the lock-up. The next day he hung himself in his cell.

Case closed and, for Drake, career all but over.

A hearing was schedule and Drake was put on paid leave until the investigation was over. Three days before the hearing, Drake was called in.

“Lou, we have bad news on this whole affair,” the lead investigator told him. “Chief of Detectives Fitzpatrick suffered a massive heart attack and died in his Manhattan home.”

“Where does that leave me?”

“We’ll have to regroup and address this after the memorial service.”

When Drake’s case did proceed, Captain Holloway of Precinct Six became the new managing investigator. Andrade and Collins became his right hand men. Holloway transferred to Precinct One and took a step up in the force. Andrade became lead Detective with Collins at his side. After review of the testimony and evidence, Lou Drake was busted back to Patrol.