Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (17 page)

Outside the only light came from the street light at the curb of University Avenue. She wrapped her arms around herself and walked quickly to her old Honda Civic. Cold found ways to climb under her jacket and, once inside, encountered no resistance at all from her thin polo shirt. Her fingers were going numb. She fumbled her keys out of her pocket and dropped them onto the wet asphalt.

“Shit, it’s cold,” she said as she bent down. Her jacket gapped around her hips and new tendrils of icy air wormed their way inside to torment her.

She let out a gasp of surprise as she stood up. A figure quickly moved into the shadows behind the doughnut house. Breathing more quickly, she slipped the key into the lock and jerked open the door. Robin slammed the door shut and slapped the lock button. Hurriedly jabbing the key into the ignition, she tried to look around for the figure at the same time. She saw nothing moving in the shadows.

The engine roared to life. Robin threw the gear lever into reverse and hit the gas without even looking back. The engine revved but the car barely moved. Robin cursed. The car was in neutral. One click, another stamp on the gas and the Civic backed out of the slot in a tight curl. Before she accelerated out of the lot she glanced in the rearview mirror and thought she might have seen the shape of a man as a darker spot against the deep shadows.

Then she was off and down the street.

Relax girl, she thought. Just some homeless guy going to check the dumpsters.

But she doubted it. It was too late, too cold and the dumpsters were always locked overnight. During the summer it was common for students on break and the homeless to hang out in the lot, but in the years she had worked there she had never seen anyone lurking in the parking lot this time of the year.

Robin shivered as she stopped at a light on University Avenue, only this time she didn’t think it had anything to do with the cold.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
WO

DRAKE ARRIVED AT the station in the morning dressed in an outfit intended to project professionalism. His weight had dropped twenty-six pounds so he had selected some of his older clothes—khaki pants, a corduroy sport jacket with leather elbow patches, and tasseled leather shoes. Drake looked nothing like a cop and exactly like a writer, which suited him just fine.

“Damn Drake,” Serena said when she saw him, “looking good. You weren’t kidding when you said you were hitting the streets again.”

He gave a tiny shrug. “It’s only temporary.”

“It better be,” Edna said. “We don’t want to lose you.”

Before long Collins showed up at the cage looking like he was ready to rip the heads off small animals.

“You ready?” he snapped, then turned on his heel and stalked away without waiting for an answer.

Drake raised an amused eyebrow at his three co-workers.

“Nothing like a happy partner,” he said with a grin.

The ladies chuckled as he hustled after Collins.

* * *

The New York press was in full outcry over the Malcolm murders and the killer was pleased. Media attention was not in the plan quite yet, but the ability to adapt was crucial for any undertaking of this magnitude. Although the hiccup was unexpected, it added to the story.

The current research was not so easy as it had been for the previous demonstrations and the killer struggled to write the next chapter. While the first few targets had been perfect, the remaining plot twists had to create a public knee jerk reaction so profound that readers would be shocked into helplessness. The story must be impossible to put down. Then, and only then, would the manuscript be ensured of becoming an instant bestseller.

Down the list the killer read, examining body type, level of achievement and newsworthiness. There were so many agents to choose from, especially now that the decision had been made to select at least one of the final victims from outside Malcolm. An unexpected thrust into the heart of the larger New York community was imperative. That would create the shock necessary to take the story national.

* * *

Avenue of the Americas stretches out like the setting of a quintessential New York movie scene. Here business and commerce embrace the swirling lifestyle of the printed word. The place is lousy with magazines, book publishers and high rent offices - all connected by text messages, phone lines and power emails that jump from one side of the concrete canyon to the other. Careers are made and lost in the high buildings as agents and editors take calculated risks on the words written by hopefuls and, more often, veterans.

But sometimes those books backed by generous advances and marketing strategies, languished on bookstore shelves while new authors paid paltry advances inexplicably rocketed to international sales and film options.

Nancy Callahan had a view of the entire marketplace from her twentieth floor corner office, which she commanded as one of the senior agents for Roth & Associates Literary Agency. She stood and walked around her desk to meet the two visitors shown in by her administrative assistant.

“Hello officers.”

“I’m Detective Collins.”

“Glad to meet you. And that makes you Officer Drake.”

She gestured for them to sit down as she returned to her own seat.

“I understand you’re working with Dr. Prichard,” she said.

“Yes ma’am,” Collins said. “We’re investigating the murders of those three unfortunate literary agents.”

Callahan’s face turned grim. “My colleagues and I are more than a little concerned. We’re starting to feel like we’ve got targets painted on our backs.”

“I understand. We’re doing everything we can to figure out who’s behind this.”

“Frankly I’m not sure how I can help. I don’t know anything about the killings, other than what I see on the news.”

“We’re hoping you can help us with some background research,” Collins said. “I can’t reveal any details, but we have reason to believe the perpetrator may be a writer. We want to understand what writers are going through today, what sort of mindset the killer is likely to have.”

Callahan gave him a doubtful look. “Are you assuming all writers think the same way?”

“Not at all, we’re just trying to get the general lay of the land.”

Callahan thought for a moment.

“What can I say,” she said. “It’s got to be frustrating to be a writer nowadays. I get thousands of query letters a week even though my web site says I’m not accepting new talent, and it’s the same for every agent I know.”

“That’s gotta keep you hopping just to read that many letters,” Collins said.

“You have no idea, and most of them come with sample book chapters or even whole manuscripts.”

“So you’re buried in submissions all the time.”

“Absolutely. The agency has assistants to sift through them, which goes faster than you might think, because the vast majority are poorly written. The assistants send back form rejection letters for those.”

“Which is where all the frustrated writers come from.”

Callahan looked back and forth between the two officers.

“Have either of you ever tried to write a book, or even a short story?”

Collins shook his head. “Not really.”

Drake shifted uncomfortably in his seat and glanced sideways at Collins before answering.

“Actually, I’m working on my second novel right now.”

“Really?” Callahan said with a surprised tone. “And is the first one published?”

“No. It spent the last ten years in a drawer, along with a stack of those form letters you mentioned.”

“Then you’ll understand what I’m about to say,” Callahan said. “You put a lot of work into writing that first novel, didn’t you?”

Drake nodded. “Took me over a year.”

“And then you figured out how to submit it and sent it off to a few agents, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“And you waited, all hopeful, only to have them all come back a few months later with no.”

“The ones that bothered to respond, yeah.”

“Then I bet you tweaked your submission package, maybe edited the manuscript one more time, and sent out a bunch more.”

Drake grinned ruefully. “Were you spying on me?”

Callahan laughed. “No need, it’s a common story. My point is that by the time all this is done, the writer has spent a couple of years working hard and dreaming of what life could be like if only someone would realize how wonderful their story is. Only for most writers, no one ever tells them that. All they hear is that it’s not good enough.”

“That’s true,” Drake said. “The members of my writers group—”

“Is this a new thing,” Collins said to Callahan, “or has it always been this hard to get published?”

Callahan gave Collins a cold look.

“I can answer that,” she said, “but first I’d like to hear with Officer Drake was going to say about his writers group.”

Collins’ lips tightened into a straight line. Drake could feel the animosity seething in his direction.

“Uh,” Drake said, “I was just going to say how they’re always talking about all the rejection letters they’ve gotten lately.”

Callahan gave him an understanding smile.

“That doesn’t surprise me a bit. Now,” she said, turning back to Collins, “you’re quite right, things have changed over the last few decades. In the seventies an agency was lucky to get twenty ideas a month and the publishers were always clamoring for new talent.”

“Then why is it so different now?” Collins asked.

“I put it down to technology,” she said. “Tell me Officer Drake, would you have finished your first novel if you had to use a typewriter rather than a word processor?”

Drake felt a stab of embarrassment. “Actually, I did use a typewriter. I’ve started using a computer at work, though, so I’ve been thinking about switching for my new book.”

“Well that means you’ve got more tenacity than most writers today. Back in the day a writer had to have the determination to sit down and type out a manuscript, or scrawl it out by hand. It was an arduous task to write and rewrite several drafts. The chance of getting published was pretty good because only the truly driven had the ability to go the distance.”

Collins nodded. “So basically now we’ve got a whole lot of people using computers to punch out stories, and most of them aren’t very good, which means plenty of people are pissed off at agents.”

“I get my share of hate mail, that’s for sure. It comes with the territory. And it’s not just the weak writers. Unfortunately because of the numbers we end up turning down the vast majority of the strong authors as well, including books I know would have been published twenty years ago.”

“Well that paints a clear picture for me,” Collins said. “Thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.”

Callahan smiled at Drake.

“And I have I answered all your questions as well?”

Collins shot a warning glance, but Drake plowed ahead anyway.

“Just one more. Have you run across any writers lately that you feel could actually do something like this?”

“You mean somebody frustrated enough to kill?”

“Yes.”

“Not literally, and I’m guessing it would take more than just anger to drive someone to commit the acts I’ve seen described in the papers.”

Drake’s face was solemn. “Unfortunately, I think you’re right. But please let us know if you think of anything else.”

Collins reached inside his jacket and gave her one of his cards. Lou had none to offer.

“Thank you,” Callahan said, reaching into a desk drawer, “and here’s mine if you have any further questions.”

She handed one to each cop and they said their goodbyes.

Once the two of them were alone in the elevator, Collins glowered at his former partner.

“Jesus, Drake. What the hell was that all about?”

“What?”

“You made an asshole of yourself trying to kiss her ass. Next time keep your goddamn mouth shut and let me do the investigating.”

“Or what? You gonna demote me?”

“Fuck you.”

“Well put.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-
T
HREE –
H
AMMERSTEIN