Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (26 page)

“No, I feel like walking.”

The Porsche revved to life and Sandy watched Shakespeare pull away from the curb. The tires left wide wandering tracks in the fallen snow as he slowly drove down University Avenue. Sandy pulled his coat around his neck, tucked the knapsack close to his side and began walking back toward the bookstore.

* * *

While Sandy trudged through the cold, Drake was in the cage, killing the long hours of a quiet evening shift by reading a novel. None of the Detectives were on duty and a skeleton crew of patrol officers took turns driving the icy streets. Drake welcomed the break in the monotony when the cage phone rang.

“Central Booking, Officer Drake,” he said.

“Drake, this is Chief Smythe.”

Drake raised his eyebrows in surprise. The Chief was normally a nine to five guy.

“Yes sir, what can I do for you?”

“I understand you and Detective Collins had an altercation yesterday.”

Drake was surprised for a second time. Why had word of such a minor incident made it all the way to the Chief’s office? Was he in trouble? Again?

“Uh, yes sir.”

The incident happened in the men’s room, when Collins called him a fat ass. Drake might have let it go, but Collins had been digging at him every time they crossed paths lately. Drake wondered if Collins was maybe pissed because of the extra attention and protection Drake was getting since the shooting. Whatever the reason, the ‘fat ass’ comment was one too many. Drake lost his temper and lunged at his former partner, who ended up backed into a stall and completely humiliated. At least the harassment had stopped, and now even Thibido seemed to be giving Drake a wide berth.

“I understand you were provoked,” Smythe said, “but I need you to keep a lower profile for a while.”

Now Drake was completely confused.

“Uh, sure. Yes sir.”

“I can’t say too much at this stage, but the letter you sent me started some wheels turning regarding the Hennings case. Nothing is for sure and you didn’t hear this from me. I just wanted to make sure you kept out of the line of fire for the next few days. Pardon the pun.”

Drake felt a bubble of cautious hope start to well up inside him. He tried to keep his voice even.

“Sure Chief. I’m in good hands. Since the shooting I’ve had a protective detail making sure I get to work and then back home.”

“I know. I ordered it. Now I promise it’s in your own best interest not to talk with anyone about this. Are we clear on that?”

“I won’t,” Drake promised.

“Good man,” Smythe said. “Good night.”

Drake replaced the receiver and sat there in complete astonishment. His mind felt like it was filled with trapped bats. Could this mean he might actually catch a break? After all these years? Even a slim possibility of such a thing seemed completely surreal. He was afraid to hope.

* * *

Sandy pushed with his shoulder through the double doors into the bookstore, blowing on his hands as he did so. His body tingled as warm air bathed him. The shop was empty except for the two kids cleaning up. Coffee, that’s what he needed after the long, cold walk.

“Sorry man, we’re breaking down the machines. All we have is regular coffee and decaf. No desserts or other drinks at all.”

“Large black,” Sandy rasped. Breathing hard in the night air had tortured his vocal cords. He took the cup of steaming warmth. “Thanks.”

“Store’s closing in a few minutes,” the kid said, and then went back to cleaning the espresso machine.

Sandy took a seat and sipped. The knapsack sat in a heap on the table.

You have blood on your hands.

Why are you always telling these stories?

This is what God wants for you.

After about ten minutes the bookstore manager stepped up.

“Excuse me sir. We’re closed now. I’m going to have to ask you to finish your beverage in your car.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“Still, I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave.”

“No,” Sandy said, his voice nearly a rumble. “I want to finish my coffee.”

“I can tell you’ve been drinking. Do you want me to call you a cab?”

“Look,” Sandy said in a loud voice, “you know who I am?”

“Yes Mr. Alexander. You and your writer friends are in here a lot. But I still have to ask you to leave.”

Sandy unzipped the knapsack. “I want to finish my coffee.”

“Sir, don’t make me have to call the authorities.”

You have blood on your hands.

“I have blood on my hands!” Sandy yelled. He pulled the revolver from the knapsack and pointed it at the manager. “This is what God wants!”

* * *

Drake poured a fresh cup of coffee and returned to his novel. Radio chatter echoed down from the front desk and the video feed showed two bundled officers entering the station with an arrestee. Their voices wafted up through the narrow corridor as they stomped the snow off their shoes. Drake stopped short as Officers Yarrow and Bloom presented their prisoner for booking. Brian Shakespeare was red-faced and glassy-eyed as the cops pushed him to the counter.

“We caught this gentleman weaving his way down University in his Porsche,” Yarrow said. “He failed the field test and we explained we had to arrest him. But when I tried to cuff him he freaked out and hit me with his satchel. Look at this.”

A red welt was visible along Yarrow’s jaw line.

“We had his Porsche towed,” Bloom said. “He’s pretty hammered. Blew a point two five. For such a small guy he has a big attitude.”

Drake approached the counter. “I know him. Hello Brian.”

“He’s got a famous name,” Bloom said. “I asked if he was related to William and he called me a cocksucker.”

Bloom removed Shakespeare’s handcuffs.

“Book him on driving under the influence and assaulting an officer.

“He’s pissed off because I took this away from him,” Yarrow said.

He dropped the worn leather satchel on the booking counter.

Shakespeare gave Drake a blurry stare.

“Lou? Fuckers took my book.”

“Take it easy, Brian,” Drake said softly. “Let’s just get through this.”

“These assholes took my book and then they messed with me. They pushed me ‘round, fucked with me.”

“I know, now listen to me. Just do what I tell you and we’ll get this over with.”

“Goddamn cops.”

Shakespeare’s voice was growing louder, but he lost his balance and had to support himself with a shoulder against the counter.

Yarrow grabbed the back of Shakespeare’s jacket.

“Give me a good reason. I got you on assault already. I’d be happy to teach you a lesson in how to be nice in my station.”

“Brian,” Drake said with flat authority. “Look at me. Stop the bullshit, okay?”

Shakespeare gawked at him and Drake gave him a wink.

“Sure, yeah, okay,” Shakespeare said.

Yarrow smiled. “That’s a good lad.”

Drake asked Shakespeare to empty his pockets and the booking process went without further incident. He bagged all of Shakespeare’s belongings, read off the list and had him sign the inventory sheet. Yarrow told Bloom to put Shakespeare in cell three after prints and pictures. Bloom escorted him down the hall.

Shakespeare yelled back. “Hey! What about my book?”

“It’s safe with me,” Drake said and lifted the bag containing Shakespeare’s belongings.

Bloom walked Shakespeare down a short flight of steps to the tombs. The cells ran in a straight line along the right side of the hallway. The drunk tank was on the left, open to the hall with a wall of bars and high impact Plexiglas. Tonight the tank was empty but Bloom put Brian in his own cell like he was told.

“You be good now. There’s a blanket and a pillow. Try and sleep it off, okay?”

“Fuck you,” Brian said and gave the cop a woozy stare.

Bloom smiled and waved Shakespeare off.

“Backatcha. See those cameras? Old Lou will keep a close eye on you, so don’t try and squeeze through the bars or climb out the window. Okay short stuff?”

Shakespeare sat on the lower bunk and glared at Bloom as he left the tombs.

“He okay?” Drake asked as Bloom came back up the hall.

“Yeah, he’ll sleep it off. You know that freak?”

“He’s a member of the writers group I meet with every week. He’s just drunk.”

“So you write?” Bloom asked.

“I do.”

“Anything I might have read?”

“No,” Drake said. “If I was published I wouldn’t be doing this anymore.”

“My sister is married to a writer. He writes historical stuff, textbooks, that kind of thing. Nothing I’d want to read. What are you writing about?”

“Murder,” Drake said.

When he was alone Drake looked at the video feed for the cells. Six small windows filled the monitor. Shakespeare sat on the lower bunk in the lower left screen. His body was rigid and his eyes were hidden in the shadow of the upper bunk. He looked lost. There was nothing Drake could do for him at the moment. First Shakespeare had to sleep off the booze, and then tomorrow there would be some serious charges to deal with.

Drake gave the monitor one more quick look then went back to his book. Only eight pages to go and hours left on the clock.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
F
OUR

COLLINS JERKED AWAKE to his cell phone ringing on his nightstand. Sleep still had hold of his mind as he grunted and checked the caller I.D. It was Andrade. Collins shook his head and cleared his throat. Andrade had better have a good reason for this bullshit.

“Yeah,” Collins croaked.

“I need to see you, now,” Andrade said.

“Now? Where the hell are you?”

“Right outside. Just let me the hell in!” Andrade demanded. “Make it fast. It’s cold out here.”

Collins was halfway to the door when he stopped. What could Andrade possibly want that could not wait until five when Collins was up and ready for work? Just to be safe he put his Glock into the waistband at the small of his back. He felt a little paranoid doing it, but if John was drunk it could get ugly.

“Open the fucking door!”

“Jesus, you know what time it is?”

“I know,” Andrade pushed past him. “I was freezing my balls off out there.”

“Where’s your car? What the hell is so important that it couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Just a second, let me warm up,” Andrade said and rubbed his hands together.

“John, what the fuck?” Collins smelled alcohol on his breath.

“Okay,” Andrade said. “I need to know who you’ve been talking to.”

Collins rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “Talking to about what?”

“Who the hell did you talk to? Was it Smythe?” Andrade’s voice was a harsh whisper.

“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

“Did Smythe offer you immunity?”

“What? You’re not making any sense.”

“You went to Kathy!” Andrade screamed. “Didn’t you?”

He pulled a short nosed revolver from his jacket. It dangled by his side as he rocked slowly from side to side.

“Michael, what deal did you make?”

“Jesus John, calm down. I swear, I don’t know what the—”

“Bullshit,” Andrade hissed.

He pointed the pistol at Collins, the wide barrel of the small .44 aligned with Michael’s right eye.

“I looked on the system,” Andrade said. “Smythe has been all over the Hennings files in the database. Why would he be doing that right now? He had to be tipped off by someone like you.”

“Why would I do that?”

“And Kathy just told me to hit the road. She doesn’t want my mess to take her down. That’s what she called it. My mess. How the hell would she know anything about it unless you talked to her?”

“Wait.”

Collins stepped back and moved his hand around his hip toward the Glock.

“Why would I do that John? If the truth about Hennings came out I’d be as fucked as you.”

“Not if you made a deal. I won’t let you roll over on me.”

Andrade shook the revolver, the barrel bouncing dangerously in Collins’ face.

“I won’t let you backstab me and step over me. Whatever deal you made —”

“There is NO deal!” Collins yelled.

Andrade cocked the revolver and Collins reached for the automatic. Andrade saw the movement and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the small room as the slug caught the meaty muscle in Michael’s left bicep.

“Shit!” Collins yelled.

He pulled the automatic from his waistband with his right hand as he fell to the floor. Jerking the gun up in Andrade’s direction, Collins started firing wildly.

Andrade recovered from the recoil of his first shot and pointed his gun down at Collins, squeezing off two more shots as several rounds hissed by his head and pocked the cinderblock wall behind him. Collins’ final shot caught Andrade in the right cheek, just as he managed to shoot Collins in the chest and knock him flat on the carpet.

Andrade staggered back as the bullet punctured his face, shattered teeth and exited through his neck, spraying the wall with blood. He fought to stay conscious as he fell to his knees. With the revolver still clutched in his hand, he crawled toward the door. He managed to pull open the door and half fall, half stumble out into the cold night.