Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (14 page)

“No, I got it.”

“No way,” Sandy said, his voice suddenly hard and combative.

“Hey,” Kelly said, “it’s no big deal. We’ll get it next time.”

Sandy’s face was red with emotion.

“And you can get the tip if you want,” Drake offered.

“Yeah, okay,” Sandy muttered.

Kelly put a hand on his arm. “Baby, you okay?”

“Sure,” Sandy said, but his eyes still looked troubled.

“Okay then,” Robin said, trying to lighten up the tense moment. “Now that we know you’re buying next, we’ll pick the most expensive place in the city.”

Sandy forced a smile. “Maybe we’ll go to McDonald’s.”

After the bill was paid they said their goodbyes. Drake and Robin walked back to his apartment.

“You know Sandy better than I do,” Robin said as the made their way home. “What was that thing with the bill?”

“Not sure. Maybe he’s just proud and doesn’t want to feel like he needs someone to take care of him. I don’t know.”

Robin squeezed his hand. “Well I want you to take care of me.”

Drake squeezed back.

Once they were back home Drake grabbed Robin from behind and they fell to the bed with urgent passion. Afterward Drake traced small circles on Robin’s naked back and she made small noises of contentment.

Robin rolled over. “Time for me to get to work. I’m doing a double so I won’t see you later. Are we having dinner tomorrow night?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He watched her get dressed. Though Robin was forty years old, most people thought she was ten years younger. She carried her weight like she was meant to be that size, with no sags or unsightly pockets of flesh. She was light on her feet and strong. She wiggled into her pants, her breasts bouncing, and then restrained her bosom in a lace brazier.

“You know you’re sexy as hell,” he said.

“Charmer.”

Robin pulled her purple Sweetum’s polo shirt over her head, slipped into her shoes, kissed Drake, and left.

Drake laid back and dozed for an hour. He awoke with the beginnings of a headache, so he showered and watched some television until he felt better. He had 176 channels to choose from but there was nothing on. So he clicked off the set, sat down in front of his computer and tried to write, but nothing came. Drake felt crowded in the small apartment so he pulled on jeans, slipped on a jacket and wandered into the village.

As he turned down Marshal Drive he felt an odd sense of being followed. Drake stopped and turned around, scanning the damp surroundings. No figure darted away, suddenly turned into a shop doorway or seemed to be loitering anywhere. Maybe he was just feeling paranoid because of the scene at the card shop. It was one for the books and he decided to do just that, to put the experience in his novel. He shrugged it off and went back to his focused wandering.

His feet chewed up the blocks as he worked out how he would write the scene. Half an hour later he found himself south of University in the older tenement district in front of officer Dodd’s building.

Smythe’s voice murmured in his head. Been down to see him? I suggest you do that.

Drake slowly climbed the steps, searched the names and pushed the button for Dodd.

“Yeah?” Dodd’s voice crackled through the ancient speaker system.

“Dodd, it’s Drake.”

“Oh, I thought you were the pizza guy.”

“Can I come up? I was out for a walk, so I decided to drop by.”

Drake’s voice was tentative, edged with apology.

“Uh, yeah, come on up.”

Drake pushed open the door and then paused as a rusted Yugo pulled to the curb. A scruffy college kid got out and approached the door.

“Is that for Dodd?” Drake asked.

“Yeah, apartment 412. Large pepperoni.”

“How much?”

“Are you Dodd?” the kid asked.

“Just going to see him. I’ll take care of it,” Drake said.

“Okay, long as it’s paid for.”

Drake tipped the kid five dollars and pushed through the old door to the landing. The elevator was out of order so Drake climbed the stairs and knocked on Dodd’s door. Dodd opened it a crack, then took off the security chain and stood in the doorway on crutches. His right leg was in a full cast. He was unshaven and looked pale.

“Your pizza showed up. I got it. The least I could do, right?”

“I guess. Come on in.”

As Drake stepped inside, his mind was working hard on how best to apologize. He figured he was going to have to eat crow along with a slice of pepperoni pizza, even if neither was on his new dietary regime.

Across the street from Dodd’s building a figure stared up from the doorway of another tenement. The watcher took a moment to scribble in a small notebook and then put it back in his coat pocket. He waited half an hour but Drake still had not come out, so the watcher pulled the coat tighter and walked north up University. He disappeared with a right turn on Hennessey Street.

By the time Drake left, apologies had been offered and accepted, and he felt like he had one less thing nagging him.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

SERENA CAUGHT DRAKE’S eye and walked over to him as soon as he arrived at the cage on Monday morning.

“There’s been another killing,” she said in a low voice. “Everyone’s talking about it. It’s so similar to the first two it’s scary.”

Drake looked surprised.

“What happened?”

Serena gave him all the details she had heard, including the monstrous way the body had been mutilated.

“Holy God,” Drake said under his breath.

“Uh huh. Thought you’d want to know.”

She went back to the office, leaving Drake with his head swimming. Any Detective worth his grit could see the continuing message of the killings. There were metaphoric references to all the body parts representing strength, pride, ability and spirit. In Drake’s opinion the killer was probably a writer, and a pissed off one at that. Whether they were a hack or a wordsmith, this individual must be fed up enough with the publishing game to lash out and make a statement.

Drake went to the bathroom. As he relieved himself he considered the violence and the ease with which the killer seemed to perform his brutality. What did that have to say about the type of person capable of doing this?

Thibido came through the door with his usual lack of grace.

“Oh, hey there chubs. Hope I didn’t catch you jerking off.”

“Screw yourself,” Drake said.

Thibido passed and intentionally brushed shoulders with Drake.

“Damn, wide load,” Thibido mocked as he walked to the urinal and unzipped his pants.

“Collins said you’ve been slacking when it comes to sucking his dick,” Drake shot back. “He wants you to take a few more lessons from your mother.”

Thibido went red and splashed himself with urine.

“Nice piss job,” Drake said with a laugh.

It was childish, yes, but it gave him a sense of satisfaction to see the wet streak running down Thibido’s pants.

“Screw you fat man,” Thibido said as he zipped his fly.

“Keep your pants on asshole. I’d break you in half.”

Drake meant it and Thibido looked like he knew it. The Detective quickly washed his hands and left without saying another word.

* * *

Pathologist Kathy Morey worked on Mueller’s preliminary report at the desk in her office, deep within the hulking edifice of Hollingsworth Memorial Hospital. This venerable institution was built in 1930 as a white plague facility on a patch of waterside land that at the time was located far away from the population of New York City. The squat structure was five stories high, with banks of windows lining the seaward wall. The windows were built to open wide for the fresh air treatment, although this supposed cure was later shown to contribute to the demise of many patients from exposure in cold weather.

Kathy’s office occupied one corner of the basement morgue and thus lacked a window of any kind. Her hand trembled slightly as she sipped her coffee, which annoyed her mightily. She liked to think of herself as tough and immune to the horror of death, but she couldn’t deny that the condition of Mueller’s body had upset her tremendously.

The paramedics had brought the dead man in on his stomach so as not to disturb the mutilation. She hid her shock and conducted herself in a professional manner while others were present, but once alone she couldn’t stop the tears from coming.

She jumped when someone tapped on the glass pane of her office door. Swiveling in her desk chair, she saw Andrade.

“Come on in,” she called out, waving for him to enter.

He opened the door and walked in.

“Hey,” he said, “you okay?”

She nodded, not realizing her lips were white from pressing them together.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it.”

She managed a weak smile.

“You really know how to make a girl feel good, you know that?”

Andrade shrugged.

“Sorry, you just look so sad.”

Kathy stood up and walked over to the open doorway. She pointed at Mueller’s body on the examination table.

“This is just so … so inhuman.”

Andrade nodded with an understanding expression on his face.

“Yeah, you’re telling me.”

Kathy hugged herself, still staring out the doorway.

“I don’t know,” she said, “maybe I’m not cut out for this kind of thing.”

“Of course you are.”

Andrade stepped toward her and hugged her from behind. She turned and gratefully buried her face in his chest, clinging to his broad shoulders.

“You’ll get through this,” he said.

She tilted her head back and gave him a quick kiss.

“I suppose. And just because my lover is the precinct Captain doesn’t mean I’m shielded from the atrocities of the world.”

“This is freaky for all of us. I already called the main station and officially surrendered this whole mess to the Chief of Detectives. Smythe is arranging a crew to work the investigation and the FBI is sending down a special agent named Thatcher to help out. I guess he’s handled this kind of case before.”

“Are they sending a forensic pathologist too?”

“Melvin Prichard. You know him?”

Kathy broke the embrace and leaned against the edge of her desk. Even in her office the antiseptic smell of treated death permeated everything.

“I studied under Prichard at Harvard,” she said. “He’s written half a dozen books, and works with TV and Hollywood as a consultant to make sure the fake doctors sound real. He’s broken more cases than Perry Mason.”

“Heavy hitter.”

“The best there is.”

“Well they’re all going to be here first thing Wednesday morning, so this is officially out of our hands.”

Kathy took a deep steadying breath.

“I suppose that’s a good thing,” she said, “but it means I’ve got work to do. I want to look over all three cases again and have a semblance of a clear report when Prichard arrives.”

“You’ll get it done. You always do. See you tonight?”

“If you can get away.”

Andrade smiled. “Cynthia and the girls are visiting her sister in Newport for a few days.”

“Then yeah. I’ll be done here in a few hours and we can have dinner.”

“Perfect.”

After Andrade left, Kathy pushed off the desk and walked out to stare once again at the poor soul on the metal table. She had to admit this case was not the only thing bothering her. Though she chose to believe otherwise most of the time, down deep she knew Andrade lied to her on a regular basis. He lied about leaving his wife, about his love for her, and about the future they would supposedly have together.

Kathy shook her head in disgust and went back to continue with her report.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

KATHY MOREY RAN a spell check on her three reports, saved the documents, and sent them to the tiny printer sitting on the corner of her desk. The last few pages were rolling out when a group of seven men pushed through the double swinging doors into the morgue. Like the consummate diplomat that he was, Andrade was leading the way.

“This is Kathy Morey,” he said to the group when she emerged from her office door.