Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (28 page)

“And in the other direction?”

“I count four shots at Collins, the first while he was standing. Looks like it passed through his arm. We dug that one out of the wall. Then three more after he fell to the floor. Two missed and one in the chest. The last one was the probable cause of death.”

“So basically they shot each other.”

“Looks like it. We didn’t find any evidence of a third party. No cross fire at all.”

Prichard looked down at the chalk outline where Collins’ body had been.

“Christ,” he said, “what would make a Captain and his lead Detective go off on each other like that?”

“That’ll be the question of the day, won’t it?”

“Okay,” Prichard said. “Let’s get all this down to processing. I want the team back at the station by ten a.m.”

* * *

Drake paced the cage, unable to believe how badly the world had come unhinged. In one night he had two of his colleagues either dead or close to it, and two of his writing buddies in serious trouble. And all of this following the call from Smythe where he mentioned possible retribution around the Hennings case. Drake’s head seemed to spin in ten different directions at once.

Could Sandy possibly be the literary killer? Had his years of frustration taken him over the top? Drake supposed anything was possible.

The empty halls echoed with the slow drip of the faucet in the coffee room and the occasional cough from desk sergeant up the hall. Drake had tried to distract himself with reading, but the book soon ran out of pages.

Drake sighed to himself. What really had him going was that all the action was out there, and he was stuck in here.

“So true,” he said to the empty cage. “All they trust me to do is babysit one drunk writer.”

In the monitor Drake could see Shakespeare still sleeping it off, lying on the cot with his back to the camera. He would eventually wake up to face a nasty hangover and be a complete pain in the ass to deal with. At least then Drake would have something to do. He had already visited the break room, where he pulled a Coke and a bottle of cold water from the fridge. He also had two packs of Advil from the medicine box. Drake was ready for whenever Shakespeare woke up.

* * *

Officer Denny noticed his partner’s lips were blue.

“We’re not getting any back-up, and this guy could start shooting hostages at any time. We need to end this.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“I want you to put a shotgun round in that book rack to the right. When this guy reacts, I’ll put a round in him. I’ll try not to kill him, just put him down. When he falls we’ll rush him.”

“Okay,” Jorgenson said. “At least we’ll be inside where it’s warmer.”

* * *

Sandy spun around and looked for the coffee kids but the store looked empty. In his whiskey-muddled state he was having trouble remembering how he got here. Where was Shakespeare? Oh yeah. He had driven away and left tracks in the snow.

Sandy stopped to look at the gun in his hand and gawked as if surprised. Had he killed someone? Where did the gun come from? His mind blurred and he put his head back and cried out.

“Hell waits for the sinner,” Sandy yelled. “The blood washes my hands and God knows all I’ve done. Mother, why did you forsake me?”

A flaring blast of hellfire roared off to Sandy’s left side. A rack of bestsellers exploded. Pages were ripped from their bindings and thrown into the air like doves damned to fly in the face of fury. The sound was deafening. Then searing pain grabbed Sandy’s right leg and he bellowed in shock as he collapsed to the floor. Somewhere someone was screaming. Two angels approached with hands outstretched holding challises while three demons fled and hurried out the door. Sandy gasped and let go of the gun. It clattered on the tile floor like the pieces of silver dropped by Judas.

“Hold it,” one angel said.

Sandy smiled at him. Beside him a pool of crimson spread out from his right leg. He touched his thigh and then stared at his red stained hand. Sandy placed his arms out and his body formed the shape of a cross.

“The blood of Christ,” Sandy whispered and lost consciousness.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
S
IX

SHAKESPEARE ROLLED OVER and quickly moved to the stainless steel toilet to vomit. He swallowed hard and burped up sour gas as his head swam. It felt as if his brain had been yanked free of the mountings that held it in place. His lips were tacky with dried spit and his tongue felt like a kitchen sponge. At least throwing up made some of the pain in his stomach go away.

He walked unsteadily to the sink and splashed water on his face. That took the sting out of his eyes. He drank tap water from his cupped hand, which caused him to retch and vomit in the sink.

“Oh God,” he gasped.

His stomach had settled some so he went back to the bunk and laid down again. He had a vague memory of drinking with Sandy, then being arrested. He couldn’t see his satchel anywhere, which meant his book was in the hands of strangers. No, not strangers. He remembered the fat cop from the writer’s group. Lou Drake had his case. How long ago was that? Hours? Days? His lay with his face in his hands, wishing the headache would go away.

He didn’t hear Drake approach.

“Hey Brian.” Drake said.

Shakespeare opened his eyes. Drake was standing outside the bars.

“Hey Lou.”

“You remember how you got here?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I think two cops roughed me up some. You have my satchel, right?”

Drake gave him a nod.

“How long have I been here?”

“About three hours, I’d say. You were pretty hammered when they brought you in. How you feeling?”

“Awful. Can I get something to drink? Something cold?”

“Way ahead of you.”

Drake handed Shakespeare the can of soda, with the top already popped.

“Thanks,” Brian croaked.

He drank deeply, belched loudly, and then drank down the rest.

“That any better?” Drake asked.

“Yeah, some. You have my book?”

“You know you’re in some pretty serious trouble.”

“How bad?”

“Drunk driving, resisting arrest, assaulting an officer. Do you have a good lawyer?”

“The best. Oh —”

Brian rushed back to the toilet and purged the cola. His body trembled as he hung onto the sides of the bowl with both hands. After a minute he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He staggered back to sit on the edge of the cot.

“You gonna be all right?” Drake asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Why did you drive?”

“Shit, Lou, why does any drunk do stupid things?”

Brian blew out a rancid breath and rubbed his temples.

“Try some water?” Drake said.

Brian took the bottle and sipped it slowly.

“Think you can hold down something for your head?”

“We’ll see,” Shakespeare said and took two of the Advil. He swallowed more water and sat with his elbows on his knees.

“Well, we have a situation here tonight, so I have to get back to my desk. Nobody will get to you until later in the morning. Try and get some more sleep and I’ll check on you in a while.”

“Thanks Lou,” Brian said and rolled back onto the cot.

“I’ll leave you these other pills, you’ll probably want them later.”

Brian mumbled another thanks and Drake climbed the stairs back to the cage.

* * *

By the time the sun came up the station was busy with patrolmen, Detectives and forensics personnel from around the city. Smythe’s camp was pitched in Andrade’s office. The team interviewed each cop, Detective and emergency crewman who responded to the shooting. Agent Thatcher was there with his usual air of quiet authority.

Officer Yarrow was questioned longer than most, but he could say little about what might be the reasons behind two cops shooting each other.

“I’m as baffled as anybody,” he said.

Detective Kellerman arrived and waved to Drake in the cage.

“Hi Uncle Lou,” Kellerman said with a big smile.

“Paul. It’s great to see you.”

Drake reached out through the cage’s window to shake Kellerman’s hand with obvious pleasure.

“But keep it down with that Uncle Lou stuff, will you?” Drake said. “I get enough guff from these ladies as it is.”

Serena smirked at them, as if to show that Drake was right.

“What are you doing here?” Drake asked.

Kellerman pointed down the hall toward Andrade’s office.

“Chief wants to see me. Something to do with the shootings, I’m guessing.”

“Damn, isn’t that something?”

“How about we grab some breakfast when I’m done?”

“Done,” Drake said. “Come find me when you’re ready.”

Agent Thatcher was standing by the window when Kellerman entered Andrade’s office.

“Good morning Detective,” Smythe said, greeting him with a handshake.

The Chief indicated a chair for Kellerman, than perched on the edge of Andrade’s desk

“Unfortunate situation,” Smythe said.

Kellerman shook his head. “Unbelievable. Do we have any idea yet why two cops ended up shooting at each other?”

“That’s what we’re here to find out.”

“But I wasn’t involved last night. I’m not sure how I can help.”

“I think this is related to the conversation we had the last time you were in my office.”

“Hennings? But how … oh, of course. Andrade and Collins were both up to their elbows in that case.”

“Right,” Smythe said, “along with Thibido, who’s coming in here right now to chat.”

“Do you want me to wait outside while you talk with him?”

Smythe smiled. “Actually, I need you to stay. I have a feeling you being here just might rattle Thibido enough to get him to open up.”

Kellerman looked confused. “How?”

“Leave that to me,” Smythe said.

* * *

Thibido was sitting in Interrogation Room 3, waiting to be summoned by Smythe and the hulking FBI agent. He crossed his arms on the table and tried to exude confidence, but he wasn’t able to pull it off. The stress showed clearly in his worried eyes and slumped shoulders.

How had it come to this? For years he had been waiting to follow Andrade and Collins out of the neighborhood and into the city. Everything seemed on track. He never said a word to anyone about his testimony in the Hennings case, never betrayed the trust that took him out of the patrol pool and made him a Detective. Not that he knew that much anyway, only what he was coached to say. And nobody questioned him. Andrade made sure of that.

Now Thibido couldn’t believe that Andrade and Collins had shot each other. Suddenly he was faced with learning a whole new way to survive within the NYPD.

The scene at the apartment was surreal. The sight of Andrade lying in a bloody mess had paralyzed him with fear, and he could barely bring himself to look at Collins.

Thatcher opened the interrogation room door. “Chief wants to see you.”

Thibido drew stares as he passed through the station. Some were merely curious, others more condemning. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Either way, he felt like the proverbial dead man walking.

Thibido prepared himself for the inevitable — most likely an ass chewing and mandatory suspension pending investigation. They might give him the option of resigning. Given the chance, he’d likely take it.

“Come in,” Smythe said.

Thibido sat down beside Detective Kellerman in front of Andrade’s desk and Thatcher resumed his post by the window.

“Last night was a full on clusterfuck,” Smythe said. “Obviously there’s a lot at stake here for the department. We’re hoping you can shed some light on it.”

“I’ll help however I can sir.”

“You know Detective Kellerman?”

Thibido nodded.

“He’s here,” Smythe said, “because we think there’s likely a connection between the Hennings case and last night’s shootings.”

Thibido didn’t think his blood pressure could go any higher, but he was wrong by a long shot.

“As you may know,” Smythe continued, “Kellerman is a bit of an expert on that case. He has studied it and written reports summarizing some interesting views.”

Thibido had to swallow hard to find enough moisture in his mouth to reply.

“That’s good.”

“I consider you a key source of information,” Smythe said. “After all, you were attached to Andrade and Collins, worked closely with them for almost ten years.”

“I did sir.”

Smythe picked up a file folder and looked inside, holding it so Thibido couldn’t see the contents. Thibido squirmed while the Chief tapped the folder and seemed to ponder his next questions.

“And yet,” Smythe finally said, “according to your jacket you personally haven’t broken a single case. No arrests. No decorations. No commendations. Collins made every case and you acted as support. Is that right?”

“Yes, he was my partner.”

“Not to get too personal, but I see you’re single, no family.”

“That’s right,” Thibido said. “The force became my family, I guess. And, well, I —”

Thibido’s voice trailed off.

“Yes?” Smythe said.

“Collins was a good cop. I was his backup, that’s what I did.”