Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (12 page)

Drake chewed on the bitter memory, remembering the feeling of complete futility. Now he unfolded the letter Serena had given him and read it again. The copier made the text coarse and reduced the NYPD logo to a monochromatic blob, but the weight of the words still filled him with fierce frustration. Drake rummaged through a cupboard until he found a dusty box of envelopes. In careful print with a black pen, he copied the address from the Chief of Detectives’ card to an envelope.

Drake wrote a short note to the Chief, referencing their talk in the station. He included all of his concerns regarding the Hennings case, including the way his own Internal Affairs investigation had happened. He read it over, put it aside and wrote several more drafts until it felt right. Then he signed the bottom, placed his note and Fitzpatrick’s letter together in the envelope, and sealed it. His stomach churned as he stared at the envelope, which suddenly felt like it weighed a ton.

It was time to go meet Collins so Drake splashed water on his face, changed his shirt and pulled on a jacket. As an afterthought he clipped his holstered off-duty thirty-eight revolver high on his belt and put his badge in his pants pocket.

With the letter tucked securely in his inside jacket pocket he felt exhilarated and frightened. Drake embraced the anger and would use it to stand up to whatever Collins threw at him. Drake patted the letter in his pocket as he left the apartment. An inner voice spoke up and asked the only question that really mattered.

Can you mail it?

* * *

Molly’s was a small, intimate café that was always crowded on Saturday. Drake made himself a mental bet that Collins had picked the place so Drake would be less apt to make a public scene if things got heated.

He found Collins sitting at a small table in the far west corner drinking coffee. The place was loud with students and Drake knew he and Collins would have to lean in close to hear each other. Drake settled onto a small wrought iron chair.

Whatever he says, Drake thought, whatever he demands or accuses you of, just go along with it. He cannot be trusted. His words are lies.

“Thanks for coming,” Michael said and waved to the waitress.

“No problem.”

“Just like the old days, huh? The coffee is still the best in town.”

“I like Sweetum’s better.”

“Don’t blame you. How is Robin?”

“Great. Can we dismiss with the small talk and get to it? Why are we here?”

“Let’s eat first,” Collins said as the waitress approached.

“Ready boys?”

Collins ordered the special and Drake chose ham and eggs, fruit and cottage cheese, no toast or potatoes.

“Protein diet?” the waitress asked.

“Yes. And I’ll have a coffee.”

The waitress moved away and Michael said, “You’re trying to lose weight. Good for you.”

“So, what do we talk about while we wait for our food? The weather? How about politics, or what’s going on in the Middle East.”

“Laugh it up,” Collins said in a harsh whisper. “I called you out because I’m trying to keep you out of trouble, so drop the sarcastic bullshit.”

“Whatever.”

“I know you’ve been looking into the murder cases, and Andrade thinks Serena gave you access to files.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“I sure as hell hope it is,” Collins said. “You’re working the cage because of how badly you messed up. Don’t screw up Serena’s career too. Do I need to remind you of that young officer walking with a limp?”

Drake just stared at him.

“You’re on dangerous ground,” Collins said. “If I come back from this meeting and tell Andrade that you were a defensive asshole then he’s likely to cut you loose early, charge you with misconduct and leave you with nothing. Do you get that?”

“Yeah, but you’ve got this all wrong. I’m not investigating a case or anything like that. I’m working on a new book and I’m just using the Petre case as inspiration is all, for the novel.”

“Drake, that is exactly why you are in the cage. Using the case for your own personal gain is a gross breach of protocol. My God, if Andrade knew that, that alone would be grounds for suspension and firing.”

Drake glared back him.

“Look, what I do on my personal time is none of your business, or Andrade’s. And I’m not disclosing anything about the case. I’m using it for inspiration, nothing more.”

They both stopped talking when the waitress returned with their meals.

“Let’s eat,” Michael said, “then we’ll talk.”

Drake finished his breakfast and excused himself to the restroom. He took slow breaths and dabbed at his face with a damp paper towel. He looked in the mirror and spoke to the image he saw there. “Don’t fight him, just agree with anything he says and get this over with.”

His plate was gone when he returned and Collins was eating his last bite of sausage. Michael pushed his plate to edge of the table and leaned forward.

“Look, a lot of shit has gone down since the old days. You think it’s been easy for me to sit by and watch you balloon up and slide down? Jesus, Drake, you’re working the cage for Christ’s sake.”

“Okay, you made your point.”

“Have I? That Hennings business almost took my career as well, you know that?” Collins’ voice was hoarse, his eyes a bit wild. “I was in that seat with the flames of hell in my face just like you. That asshole is free today and you and I both know he did his wife.”

“I know, what do you want me to say?”

“That you will leave what is going on to the real cops. Just sit back, coast out the next couple of months and retire with some dignity and a pension.”

Drake shrugged. “That’s the plan.”

“Good, cause otherwise you’ll go down in history as one of the biggest fuck ups in the NYPD.” Collins leaned in closer. “It makes no difference to me. I can go back and say I think you’re a trouble-making rabble-rouser and watch you take the long walk goodnight. That what you want?”

Drake lowered his head. Just give him his power. Take what he’s dishing out and know it’s not true. Let him have this and then be careful. The letter, remember?

“Drake?”

“Okay already, I’ll sit on my ass and stop being a screw up.”

“Why don’t I believe you?”

“What the hell would I do if I lost my pension? I’d be on the street in a month. I’ll lay low, I promise.”

“Good.”

Collins tossed a twenty on the table and walked out.

Drake waited for his former partner to drive away, then he walked along Glen Street and turned up University. Along the way he passed The Joint, the only dive bar in Malcolm. He nearly went in for a drink.

Damn Collins. But wasn’t a lot of what he said true? When the circus started all those years ago, Drake listened in dumbfounded shock to the evidence presented against him. In the arena of confident peers and angry superiors, he found that his self-doubt was more powerful than his surprise and anger. The letter is his pocket helped erase much of that shame, but could those words carry enough power to reclaim his personal honor? All he needed was a stamp and the possible truth could be in the hands of a man who could make a difference. Or he could be opening a can of worms that would backfire and destroy what Drake had left.

Drake’s wondering and wandering brought him to the Hallmark Store on Justin Place. A display of Halloween knick-knacks and early Thanksgiving trinkets filled the windows. Inside was a small U.S. Post Office outlet. Drake pulled the envelope from his pocket and stared at it for a full minute. Collins’ voice reverberated in his head and his eyes stung with anger. Drake set his jaw, entered the card store and walked to the small Post Office in the back.

“One stamp, please.”

Drake pushed the envelope across the counter.

The tall, old and friendly-faced Postmaster tore a single stamp from a roll, dabbed it with a sponge and pressed it home. He nonchalantly tossed the letter in the outgoing mail bin and wished Drake a happy Halloween.

“You too.”

Drake slowly walked back through the shelves of greeting cards, porcelain figures and novelty gifts. What if Smythe refused to believe? What if there really was a conspiracy, as Drake had long suspected, and the Chief was part of it? Drake’s cautious side started screaming at him and he nearly ran back and demanded the letter.

Then Robin’s voice whispered in his mind. Oh Lou, listen to me. Have faith. I have faith in you. Drake forced himself to calm down. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

Plenty, he thought.

He followed a short Puerto Rican girl with a large butt toward the front of the store. She walked with a quick pace, her buttocks swinging with alluring heft but Drake was oblivious as his mind churned. When they reached the front, the young woman held the shop door open for him.

Drake gave her a smile and said, “Thank you miss.”

A short, stocky man leaned against the wall on the sidewalk outside the store. The guy looked edgy and his face was ravaged with acne scars. Drake knew the type; he had busted many of them in his career.

Drake turned right, determined to clear his mind by walking to nowhere in particular. A rough hand grabbed his shoulder and abruptly scattered his thoughts. When he turned he was face to face with the stocky man.

“That ain’t cool!”

Drake realized the man was younger than he first thought. The youth of his face was hidden by an agitated hardness that Drake had seen a thousand times.

“Excuse me?”

“Knock it off Nick,” the girl said.

The guy ignored her.

“That ain’t cool, you staring at my lady’s ass.”

“What? Oh, trust me, I wasn’t staring at your girlfriend.”

Drake tried to walk away but the young man grabbed his arm again. Drake turned and faced him. Their eyes locked.

The boyfriend’s eyes were dark and his shoulders tight. Drake could interpret his body language as easily as he could read the Manhattan phone book; it was obvious an attack was on the way. Drake blinked and the guy threw a wide, right roundhouse. With no time to think, Drake’s body reacted. His street instincts automatically engaged from the ancient depths of his forgotten life.

He raised his left arm and deflected the incoming punch, then stepped into his attacker’s momentum. He dropped his left shoulder to pin the arm under his. Nick dropped his right shoulder as Drake wrenched up with his left arm, spinning the kid in a half circle. Drake jammed his knee into the side of the attacker’s right leg, rendering him helpless.

“Stop struggling or I’ll dislocate your shoulder.”

The calm certainty in his own voice surprised him.

“Fuck you.”

“Wrong answer.”

Drake pushed harder and Nick howled in pain.

“Listen asshole, one of two things is going to happen. Either I pop your shoulder, or you can apologize to your girlfriend for embarrassing her and then I’ll let you go. What’s it gonna be?”

“Let me go,” Nick demanded in a strained voice.

Drake placed his balled fist against the young man’s cheek and gave the arm one more wrench.

“All right, all right. It’s cool.”

“And?”

“And I’m sorry, okay?”

Drake let go and shoved him away.

The young man stumbled a few steps and then turned back, obviously trying to gather some pride. His chest swelled up and he sneered at Drake.

“Fuck you, asswipe!” the guy said in a shaky voice. “You’re lucky I was off my game. I would’ve kicked your ass!”

Drake unzipped his jacket to reveal the off duty revolver holstered high on his hip, then he showed the kid his badge.

“Or I could haul you in right now for assaulting an off-duty police officer.”

“C’mon baby,” the kid said and walked his girl away, mumbling a stream of obscenities.

A few gawkers had stopped to watch the scuffle. One of them called out.

“You really a cop?”

Drake was trembling and he felt like we were going to be sick.

“Yes, I’m a cop.”

That simple declaration welled up inside him. A few short weeks ago he might have taken the punch and done nothing. But now his reaction came from a combination of his old Judo days and all his experience as a senior Detective. Drake looked at his shaking hands and started to laugh.

“You okay man?” a bystander asked.

Drake nodded at him. “Never been better. Thanks for asking, though.”

After a minute of deep breaths, Drake started walking toward home. Screw the assholes that wanted him to shrivel up and blow away with a monthly check. The letter may lead to no more than extra trouble, but it was sent and now he was glad.

“Hell yeah,” he said with a happy edge in his voice.

He replayed the experience in his mind as his feet carried him with purpose. He felt like he could take on the world. Right then and there Drake decided he and Robin were going to use Halloween to celebrate the rise of a spirit — that of the once-dead Detective Lou Drake.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN –
G
ARY
W
HITE

GARY WHITE SCROLLED down his email list of book queries, although he didn’t know why he bothered anymore. He had reviewed over three hundred messages that afternoon and found not one he thought was worth following up. It was not that the queries were bad, it was the sheer futility of it all. No publisher wanted to hear from him. His contacts at the publishing houses had dried up or quit the business.