Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (3 page)

“Trust me, I was—” Drake stopped. He couldn’t be bothered to get into all that history, especially not with some snot-nosed rookie.

“You were what?” Dodd asked.

“Nothing,” Drake said. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just a grouchy old fart who lost his momentum a long time ago.” He went back to his book.

Dodd shook his head dismissively as he continued to scan the street ahead. The windshield wipers moved with a grumble over the glass, smearing the light rain into blurry arches.

“I still say those books are a waste of time,” Dodd said. “They’re all made up. Those cases never existed.”

Drake felt an unexpected stab of annoyance cut through his apathy. He glared across the front seat at his partner.

“You have no clue what it takes to write one of these. Writers do shit loads of research, work with cops and do a lot to make sure they write something that comes across as real, not just some made up bullshit. And there’s those like Wambaugh and Tracy who were cops and became writers. Show some respect.”

“Right,” Dodd said with a smirk. “Like you know how much work it takes to write a book.”

Drake could feel the color rise in his cheeks. “As a matter of fact I do. I wrote a novel a few years ago.”

The surprise was obvious on Dodd’s face, even in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. “You’re shitting me.”

“Like I said, you got no clue what you’re talking about.”

“What,” Dodd pressed, “you got it published and everything? I could walk in a bookstore and it’ll say Lou Drake on one of the covers?”

“Yeah well, that’s the sad part,” Drake said. “Everyone who read the story says it’s pretty damn good, but I sent it to half the publishing industry and nobody gave it a look.”

“So you’re not really a writer then.”

Drake felt the muscles in his neck bunch and tighten. He had a sudden urge to throttle his partner.

“Screw you,” Drake said. “I’m not the only one going through this. You have any idea how impossible it is to even get an agent right now, let alone a publisher?”

Dodd shrugged. “Whatever.”

Drake took in a deep breath through his nose and tried to calm down. Why should he care what this scrawny little bastard thought?

He pointed to the left. “Pull into the bookstore. They’ve got a coffee shop and I want a cup. You fly, I’ll buy.”

“Why not?” Dodd parked the cruiser in a red zone and unclasped his seat belt.

“Bring me one of those toffee bars too.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

“Nope,” Drake said and turned a page.

Dodd pushed open the door and walked past the displays of new releases toward the coffee shop. He passed a group of men sitting at a cluster of tables with their laptops open and mostly empty coffee cups.

“I got three more rejection emails last night,” he heard one say.

Dodd chuckled under his breath when he realized this must be a group of writers. They probably sat around whining about how hard it was to get published, just like his lump of a partner.

He stepped up to the counter and a tattooed, androgynous teen in a green apron took his order. Dodd waited and eavesdropped on the talk behind him. Turned out he was right. He heard snippets of conversation that included “spineless publishers” and “thousand words a day.” Ironic, Dodd thought, that they would congregate in a bookstore surrounded by those who had succeeded in selling their words to the world. He wondered if this was where Drake came when he was off duty, to sit and commiserate with his fellow losers, making excuses.

No matter, Drake was going to retire in six months and Dodd would get a new partner. Then his plan was to put in two years of exemplary duty, ace the exams, and transfer to investigative duty. After that Dodd would request a promotion to Detective and his future was set. His uncle did it in seven years, his cousin in six. Dodd’s plan was to do it in five. He was fit and driven, and seemed to be blessed with good instincts for the job. He couldn’t see anything stopping his meteoric rise.

His name was called and he carried the coffee and pastry back through the display stacks, out the doors and over to the cruiser.

“Thank you,” Drake said as he put his drink in the cup holder. Drake ate his dessert in three large bites. He coughed, took a sip of coffee and asked for his change. Dodd started the engine and returned to the rain on the windshield and the grumble of the wipers.

“Car 15,” the radio crackled.

“Here,” Dodd said.

“Check out the apartment at 135-B Delancy Street. Outside walk up. Neighbors are complaining of a foul smell coming from the second floor alley studio.”

“Copy that,” Dodd snapped back. “We’re on it.”

“Jesus,” Drake said. “You gotta be such a brown nose? Answer with a yes and be done with it.”

“Just following protocol.”

“Spare me.”

Dodd turned a corner and started scanning for the address. He stopped at the curb beneath a hulk of a tenement building. The alley was a chasm of dark. The streetlights created a halo of light only a few feet into the space between the two buildings. An iron staircase rose from the alley floor to an iron mesh landing, which fronted a metal door with a mailbox wired to the railing. A zigzag of fire escape ran the height of the six-story brick tenement. Rain dripped off the corrugated aluminum overhang and chugged from a gutter pipe beneath the metal stairs.

“Looks like Freddy Kruger lives here,” Drake said.

“Well, let’s check it out.”

Dodd took off his seat belt.

“You go,” Drake said as he shifted his bulk.

Dodd stopped and gave him a disbelieving look. “We both have to go.”

“Hey, you know so much about everything, you should be able to handle a bullshit call like this.”

“Look,” Dodd argued, “it’s standard procedure to—”

“Don’t bust my ass about procedure. It’s gonna turn out to be a dead dog somebody forgot to feed so you don’t need a hack like me to help you. I’m just the pathetic guy who can’t even get a book published, remember?”

Dodd shook his head in obvious disgust. “You’re an asshole, you know that?” He got out and slammed the door.

Drake smirked with satisfaction as he watched Dodd slog his way into the alley. The little prick would come back drenched. It served him right.

Dodd’s flashlight twitched over wet bricks as Drake watched him climb slowly up the rusted stairs. Dodd paused at the top outside a door, and then reached for his collar. Drake’s radio rasped to life with Dodd’s voice.

“The door is ajar and the smell is disgusting. There’s got to be something dead in there.”

Drake rolled his eyes. What a pussy.

“So what are you waiting for?” Drake said into his radio. “Go in and take a look.”

It was hard to tell through the rain-streaked windshield, but Drake was pretty sure Dodd flashed him the finger before disappearing inside.

Dodd suddenly backed out of the apartment with one hand near his face. He stood for a few seconds as if he couldn’t decide what to do, then turned and started clambering down the stairs as quickly as he could go. Drake wondered what kind of weak-ass story he would come back with.

Ten feet above the sidewalk Dodd lost his footing and tumbled the rest of the way. One foot caught awkwardly on the wet metal railing and spun him so his head and shoulders hit the ground first. He did not get up.

“Jesus Christ,” Drake said as his hands fumbled at his seat belt.

Dodd was writhing in pain when Drake made it to his side.

“Where’s it hurt?” Drake asked.

“My leg,” Dodd said through clenched teeth.

Drake looked down and swallowed hard. Dodd’s foot lay at an unnatural angle and something that could only be broken bone was pushing his trouser leg out. There was blood and it spread quickly.

Drake took a steadying breath and thumbed the button on his mobile radio.

“Dispatch? Car 51 requires immediate medical assistance at 135 Delancy. Officer down. Possible broken leg.”

“Roger that,” the dispatcher’s voice came back.

Dodd grabbed a fistful of Drake’s pant leg. “Tell them to send backup!” The pain obvious in his tortured voice.

Drake looked around but could see no obvious threat. “I don’t see why—”

“And a Detective,” Dodd screamed at him. “There’s a body up there. A fucking body, okay?”

Drake felt a wave of cold wash through his gut. He was starting to get a sense of just how badly this night was going to end for him. He finished the call with the dispatcher and knelt down beside his partner.

“Hang in there,” he said. “Help is on the way.”

“Fuck you,” Dodd hissed. “You should have been there.”

Drake knew he was right but there was nothing he could do about it now.

“What did you see in the apartment?”

“Oh man,” Dodd groaned. “That is some truly messed up shit in there.”

“What? What’s up there?”

But Dodd only shook his head and grunted when a fresh stab of pain seemed to grab him. Drake couldn’t tell if the sheen of wetness on Dodd’s face was from sweat or rain.

“Oh God,” Dodd whispered. “That was just seriously wrong.”

Drake stood as an ambulance pulled up, its siren winding down. He moved to one side and answered as few questions as possible while the first patrol officers arrived and then Detectives in their cliché trench coats.

Dodd had already been stretchered and borne away in the ambulance by the time Detective Michael Collins descended the metal stairs from the apartment and cornered Drake in the alley. Drake couldn’t believe it. Of all people, why did it have to be his former partner who caught this case?

“What the hell happened here?” Collins demanded.

“Dodd slipped on the stairs, broke his leg on the way down.”

Collins pursed his lips and gave Drake a cold stare. After a few moments he said, “What do you make of the scene in the apartment?”

Drake’s stomach clenched. “I haven’t seen it.”

Collins nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

“I had to stay with Dodd. He was hurt and I—”

“Have I got this right?” Collins said. “You got a call for possible foul play and you let a rookie go in there alone while you sat in the car?”

Drake could feel the color rise in his face. “Yes but—”

“What were you thinking?” Collins thundered.

Drake couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I can’t believe you,” Collins said. “You never would have left me hanging like that when we worked together. What the hell happened to you?”

“C’mon, Mike, gimme a break here.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll give you, a first-class ticket up those stairs so you can see what you were too lazy to investigate the first time.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Drake trudged over to the metal stairs with an all-too-familiar weight bearing down on him. He felt humiliated and ashamed at what his career had become. As he started climbing the slippery stairs he soon realized how easy it would be to fall, especially if you were running scared.

At the top of the stairs he found a metal door with a cracked wire mesh security window. The door stood wide open and the smell was unmistakable; something was dead inside and had been for a while.

Drake moved inside and saw on a bicycle leaning against the wall. To his right the horror caught his attention and for a moment his mind refused to register what he was looking at. He heard a strange sound, like a cat mewling, and then realized it was coming from his own throat. He took an involuntary half step backwards.

“Oh God,” Drake gasped and stumbled out the door to the landing with his hands over his mouth. He managed to hold down the vomit.

“Holy shit,” he murmured to himself after he recovered

Collins was looking up from the street, a look of disgust on his face. As the two men stared at each other, the rain started again and slowly washed the last remnant of Dodd’s blood into the gutter.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

CAPTAIN JOHN ANDRADE leaned back in his wooden swivel chair and stared across his desk at Drake. The sight made the Captain shake his head in exasperation.

Drake’s eyes were red with repressed emotion. Sweat turned the dark blue of his uniform to near black, with spreading crescents beneath his arms and a blot below his neckline. His face was dotted with nervous perspiration.

“So what the hell am I supposed to do with you?” Andrade asked.

Drake didn’t answer. He just stared into his lap and wrung his meaty hands.

“You’re a twenty-year veteran,” Andrade continued, “who screwed up so bad that his partner has been telling the medics, the nurses, the Detectives — anyone who will listen — how you left him hanging. You’re six months from a pension and now I have to figure out what to do with you.”

Drake still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You’re coasting, Drake, that’s plain as day. You’ve pissed off your last three partners and now this. I have half a mind to send you packing early and watch you try to make it with nothing but social security. Oh, I forgot, you don’t get that until you’re sixty-three.”

“Yes sir,” Drake managed.

“That’s it? Yes sir? After how you broke protocol on the Hennings case and now this? I know you’ve been through a rough time, but this kid Dodd may limp for the rest of his life. You understand that?”