Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (25 page)

“No,” Drake said.

He groaned and sat up. His back was in pain as he crawled from the car. Shards of safety glass dropped from him like loose diamonds.

“You okay man?” the man asked.

“Guess so.”

“Aren’t you the cop from 104?”

“I am.”

Drake looked at the other gawkers in windows and standing on the sidewalk in their bathrobes.

“Did anybody see anything?” he called out.

Nobody had.

The patrol car turned up the street followed by an ambulance. The car’s lights created a surreal display on the surrounding walls with a pulsating blue and red throb. Patrolmen Yarrow and Bloom exited the cruiser. The paramedics followed.

“Shit Drake,” Yarrow called out, “is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn. You hurt?”

“Just shook up.”

Bloom fingered one of the divots in the bricks. “What happened?”

“Somebody started shooting at me as soon as I pulled in,” Drake said. “I ducked and by the time I looked up they were gone.”

“I’ll call it in,” Bloom said and walked to the cruiser.

“How’d it go down?” Yarrow asked.

Drake pointed across the street.

“The shots came from where that dumpster is over there. They pumped four or five rounds at me. First one hit the windshield, second blew out the side windows and two or three hit the rear end.”

“You’re sure of that order?” Yarrow asked.

“Yeah.”

They both stared at the car.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Guess so.”

“You don’t sound too shook up,” Yarrow said. “Sure you’re not in shock?”

“Oh I’m freaked out,” Drake said as he looked over the car then back at the dumpster. “Somebody just shot at me.”

“Somebody just tried to kill you,” Yarrow corrected.

“Yeah, that’s what it looks like.”

“That’s what it was.”

Drake only nodded.

* * *

“Lou, are you kidding?” Robin yelped through the phone. “But you’re okay?”

“Yeah. If I wasn’t I’d be in the hospital or in the morgue.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m sorry about your car.”

“Screw the car, somebody tried to kill you. I’m coming home.”

“No, you don’t need to do that. The department is on it. I’ll be under supervision until we figure this out. I’ll be fine.”

“Did you see anybody?”

“No,” he said. “You need to call your insurance company. I’ll get a copy of the report for you.”

“I’ll call them in the morning. I’m worried about you.”

“I know. I’ll be careful. And I want you to stay at your sister’s until we sort through this.”

“You think this was meant for me?”

Drake could hear a tinge of panic in her voice.

“What if this was the guy who went after me at the store?” Robin said.

“I doubt it, but listen to me. I want you to stay away until this gets figured out.”

“All right, if you say so.”

“You gonna be okay?”

“Me? You’re the one who got shot at.”

“I know, but you sound upset.”

He heard her take a deep breath on the other end.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “This shouldn’t be about me.”

“You just care, that’s all.”

“I love you.”

“I know, I love you too,” he said. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

Drake hung up and looked out the window at the empty spot where the Honda had been. The tow truck had come and gone, and now he was left to try to wind down after the adrenaline surge.

He sat and ran the scenario through his mind. He was a sitting duck and the shooter was twenty feet away. A ten year old with his father’s gun could have hit him from that distance. This was not an assassination attempt; it was a warning of some sort.

On a legal pad Drake wrote a list of people who might want him silenced. His list was short, with Collins and the literary killer as his top two suspects. But neither made any sense.

This event didn’t fit the normal M.O. for the literary killer, but there was nothing to say a whacko like that had to act the same all the time. Plenty of people knew that Drake had taken an interest in the case. Maybe the killer wanted him to back off.

Or what if Robin was the target? Wouldn’t the shooter have been able to tell she wasn’t driving the Honda? Probably. But it could also be some hophead that wouldn’t have noticed if Elvis was driving.

There were just too many possibilities. He needed more information.

* * *

The killer’s words now came in a comfortable trickle as the final pages of the book took shape. There were none of the tirades like before, no passages that bruised the fingertips and ripped the brain. These words carried finality, the promise of completing the process.

Only one more demonstration was needed, one final masterpiece of forensic frustration for the police. Then the process would be complete. But first the killer had to finish the manuscript.

Once this final victim was taken the world would talk and the buzz would escalate. The manuscript would land on the desk of a specially chosen New York publisher, and the news would break that the pages in the book matched those at the crime scenes. Then the presses would roll. There would be no stopping it.

The killer was providing no name, no traceable connection. The book would be released under the mystery of who wrote it. The sales would overshadow anything ever written. It would be the likes of IN COLD BLOOD and just as powerful, but it would sell more copies, driven by the lust of the public to know. The rumor and speculation would drive sales and the book would find its place in the annals of literary greatness.

Before that could happen it had to be perfect. That meant a second draft and edits. That meant waiting to take the final victim. Many writers hated the rewrite phase, complaining the creative part was all done. The killer, though, found it blissful and methodic. It was like finishing a piece of fine furniture. So much of the writing had come from darkness, often in the fog of sleeplessness, so reading back through the pages would be bliss.

Not a single word would be cut, not a description reduced, nor any character considered unnecessary. Every word was important and every nuance formed an integral part of the story. Drafting and editing was but to fine-tune the pages. As if sanding and rubbing fine wood until the surface was like glass, the grain brought to luster and glow of its natural beauty. It would be perfect and the final sculpting as fulfilling as the murders themselves.

Fame or money had never been the motivation. Both were hollow compared with the ultimate glory of an anonymous classic. So much of the satisfaction was to come from sitting among them, taking a coffee and watching the people read and discuss it. The press coverage would be more than enough to replace the need for recognition. Besides, to claim the book and bask in the perverted attention would destroy the reason for its existence.

With a contented sigh and a sip of coffee, the flow of words drew to a trickle. After years of thought, months of planning and countless hours crafting the book, the story completed its journey under the killer’s fingers. Morning was breaking in New York as the story drew to a close. With a smile and a deliberate tap, the killer moved the cursor to a new line, centered the text and wrote: THE END.

The killer sent the file to the printer and watched in satisfied silence as the pages began to come forth bearing the words.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
T
HREE

THE VILLAGE IDIOTS became less active as winter closed in. The coffee shop gatherings became smaller and smaller. Sandy kept a defiant solitary vigil and often ended up sipping his coffee alone. Sometimes Franny showed up and the two of them commiserated about the same old complaints. Shakespeare wandered in once in a while, which was nice because it meant he and Sandy got to know each other better.

One this night Sandy sat at a round table and listened as a nearby couple discussed their latest book club pick. His knapsack was hung over his chair back, in constant contact with his elbow so he could make sure it was not stolen.

“The wife was willing to take a chance on having an affair with the photographer,” the woman said. “That shows her dissatisfaction with the simple life she settled on.”

“I agree,” the man said. “His worldly travels and his unchained wandering represented her old life. She had no choice but to love him.”

“But then she chose to go back with her husband, so the affair was just to find out if she was still capable of passion.”

“Yeah, but is life without passion worth living?”

Sandy wanted to scream. People like this spouted pop psychology about books they could never understand. And the books rarely deserved the attention. It tore at his soul.

“I talked about that point with my book club last week,” the woman said. “I told them it made me wonder about my own life.”

“Oh Christ,” Sandy said.

The couple looked at him.

“Excuse me?” the man asked.

“Nothing,” Sandy responded with a wave of his hand.

“Was that comment directed at us?” the man whispered.

Sandy heard him quite clearly.

“I think he’s drunk,” the woman said softly.

“Not yet,” Sandy mumbled quietly to his cup. Forgive me father. Have I sinned?

“What’s your group reading next?” the man asked his companion.

“Not sure,” she said. “I’ve suggested the one about the family from Afghanistan.”

“Good choice.” Sandy said. “Not that you’d understand it.”

“Hey,” the man barked. “What’s you’re problem?”

Sandy chuckled. “No problem, just my opinion.”

“Well keep it to yourself!”

“Sandy, Sandy, Sandy,” Shakespeare said from behind him. “Are you bothering these people?”

Sandy turned to see Shakespeare grinning at him. Sandy raised a jaunty eyebrow.

“Not really, just joining in their literary discussion.”

“I have a better idea. Let’s get the hell out of here and go over to The Joint for a real drink.”

“Best idea I’ve heard all day,” Sandy said.

The ride in Shakespeare’s Porsche was exhilarating on the snow-covered streets. Sandy suspected Brian was showing off when they took corners. The small, powerful car fishtailed out of the turns.

“Fun car,” Sandy said. “Expensive too.”

“Right on both counts,” Brian said as they pulled to the curb in front of the dive bar.

One lone drinker sat at one end of the long bar when they entered. A dull glow came from lights hanging over the empty booths. An ancient jukebox sat dark with an Out Of Order sign taped to the glass. Classic rock oldies seeped from a compact radio behind the bar and a small ceiling mounted television displayed a silent baseball game nobody was watching.

“Never been in here before,” Sandy said.

“How long you lived in Malcolm?”

“Cheaper to drink at home.”

They took two stools at the worn wooden bar. A thin, bald bartender walked over and looked at them expectantly. He reminded Sandy of Ichabod Crane.

“Henry,” Shakespeare said, “this man’s money is no good tonight. It’s on me.”

He slapped down a gold credit card.

“What’ll it be then?”

“Sandy?” Shakespeare asked.

“Johnny Walker, straight, and make it a double.”

“Two, and two draft beers. Molson.”

When the drinks arrived Shakespeare lifted his glass and Sandy mirrored him.

“To written words,” Shakespeare said. “To writers who write them and people who read them. May we all come together in a blessed union.”

“Backatcha,” Sandy said.

He took the whiskey down in two fast gulps.

Two hours later they were both having trouble pronouncing ‘s’ sounds. The lone drinker had left, only to be replaced by an older man dressed in a down coat repaired with tape.

Shakespeare pointed to the stranger and said to Henry, “I wanna buy this gentleman a drink.”

The guy ordered a shot and a beer.

“Thanks,” he said.

“I gotta tell you, Sandy. I’ve been blabbing away a mile a minute and you’ve said about ten words.”

“Sorry, got a lot on my mind.”

“That’s okay.” Shakespeare patted Sandy’s shoulder. “I love to hear myself talk.”

Henry wandered over. “You guys want anything else?”

“No,” Sandy said. “I gotta be someplace.”

“Got a hot date?” Shakespeare asked, and then broke up laughing. “Henry,” he said once he could talk again, “bring me one more. Sandy, you want one?”

Sandy shook his head. “I’ll tell you this. You sure can drink like a motherfucker.”

“You’re not driving, are you?” The bartender asked.

“Me? No.” Shakespeare drank down the whiskey. “I’ll call a cab.”

“Want me to call for you?” Henry said.

Shakespeare pulled out his cell phone.

“Got it covered.”

The two men left the bar and Shakespeare walked over to his car.

“Thought you were taking a cab,” Sandy slurred.

“Fuck no, I’m a better driver shitfaced than when I’m sober. You coming?”

Even in his drunken state, Sandy knew better than to get in with Shakespeare behind the wheel.