Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) (32 page)

“You said you know the perfect agent,” Shakespeare said. “Who do you have in mind?”

“Page 345.”

Shakespeare’s mouth formed a silent ‘O’ of surprise, and then settled into a look of thoughtful consideration. Drake stood still and waited while a madman decided his fate.

It was late and the village of Malcolm was fast asleep. The two men faced each other through the bars, sharing a common dream but each confronted with a very different future. Drake knew Shakespeare was in a struggle between the writer’s quest for fame, versus a killer facing exposure and conviction. New York currently had no death penalty, so Drake knew Brian was considering the idea of life in prison. Time settled in like a fog and Drake barely breathed.

Shakespeare straightened up and gave Drake an odd smile.

“What you’re suggesting would be pure irony, wouldn’t it?” Shakespeare said with a chuckle. “Yes Lou, that is true and undeniable irony. You’re a goddamn genius.”

Drake let out a deep breath. “So, do we have an agreement?”

“Yes,” Shakespeare said.

The killer suddenly put his hands over his face and started to cry.

* * *

At nine a.m. Drake was still at the station. He was scribbling on a legal pad when Smythe walked in with two Detectives from Precinct One.

“You still here Drake?” Smythe asked. “Go home and get some sleep. I need to talk to you today but it’ll have to be later.”

“I appreciate that sir,” Drake said, “but I need to see you right away.”

“Not a great time. The press is making up their own story on what happened at Collins’ place. I’m up to my ass in damage control.”

“Yes sir, but this is important.”

“Is it about Andrade and Collins?”

“No, something just as important, if not more.”

Smythe gave him an appraising look.

“All right, in here.”

Drake felt flushed as he followed the Chief into the interrogation room. His eyes were tired but bright as Smythe folded his hands on the metal table. Drake placed the leather satchel in front of the Chief and kept his right hand on it, his index finger fidgeting with the clasp.

“What’s up?” Smythe asked.

“We have the literary killer,” Drake blurted.

“Excuse me?”

“Down in the cell three. He was brought in on a drunk driving charge. If it hadn’t been for the Collins and Andrade situation he would have been processed and out on bail. But the perp’s lawyer was unavailable and the guy was very drunk. By the time he sobered up I had discovered the evidence.”

Smythe shook his head in confusion. “Whoa, slow down. What evidence?”

“Right here.”

Drake opened the satchel. He pulled out the thick stack of typed sheets and laid them in front of the Chief.

“He had this with him when he was arrested,” Drake said. “I think you’ll find the tabbed pages of great interest.”

Smythe looked at the cover page and then up at Drake.

“The guy’s name is really Shakespeare?”

“Believe it or not, yeah.”

The Chief opened to page 47 and read. He looked up at Drake, then flipped to the next tabbed page, and the next.

“My God,” Smythe breathed. “Have you processed this as evidence?”

“Yes sir. As soon as I realized what it was. And with this it should be a breeze to get a search warrant for his apartment. I’m sure his computer will have a copy of this manuscript on it.”

Smythe nodded. “Of course.”

“I talked with him and he made a full confession,” Drake said. “I followed procedure, made a recording of his confession, entered a report into the database and filed it with the desk sergeant. I stayed the night to ensure the prisoner was safe and the evidence was secure.”

“Drake, this is unbelievable,” Smythe said.

“I reached his lawyer just before you came in and he’ll be here any minute.”

Smythe pointed to the page he had just read. “This Nancy Callahan, isn’t she the agent you and Collins interviewed?”

“Yes sir.”

“Have you checked on her?”

“I did, and she’s fine. I didn’t explain my concern, only that we’d received a tip she might be in danger. I assured her she was now safe and I’d contact her later.”

“Well, Lou,” Smythe said and actually laughed with surprise. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Now I get to inform the public we’ve taken a serial killer off the streets. I have to tell you, it’ll be a nice change to give a press conference where I’m handing out good news.”

“I can imagine.”

“And I was going to talk to you this afternoon after I worked out a few details, but I might as well give you the high points now. After what Thibido had to say yesterday, I called the Commissioner. He agreed there should be an investigation into the events leading to your demotion. And I have to say, you breaking the literary killer case won’t hurt your chances of success.”

An amazing feeling of redemption washed over Drake. He wanted to smile, laugh, cry and run in circles, all at the same time.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

Smythe stood up, so Drake did the same.

“The best way you can thank me,” the Chief said, “is to keep going with this Shakespeare guy. I need you to finish putting together the case on him so it’s tied up tighter than a cow’s ass in fly season.”

“I’m happy to do that sir, but wouldn’t you normally assign that job to a Detective?”

Smythe smiled and clapped a hand on Drake’s shoulder.

“I believe I just did.”

* * *

When Drake finally broke away from the station house, he decided to stop by the hospital to check on Sandy. His uniform got him as far as the unit where Sandy’s room was located, but there he found Officer Denny guarding the door.

“Sorry Lou, Detectives only.”

“I understand,” Drake said, “but Sandy’s a friend of mine. Do you at least know how he’s doing?”

Denny shrugged. “I just make sure he doesn’t go anywhere. Why don’t you ask at the nurse’s station?”

“Sure, I can do that. Did he ever say anything about why he was waving a gun around in the bookstore like that?”

“No idea, but I feel bad having to put one in his leg like I did. Turns out his damn pistol wasn’t even loaded.”

Drake spoke with three different nurses before he managed to find one who knew something about Sandy.

“The gunshot wound is healing fine,” she said. “And Mr. Alexander just had a visit a short time ago with one or our staff psychiatrists. I believe he’s still here. Let me get him.”

To Drake, the psychiatrist looked like a cartoon character. He was short, bald and wore owl-like glasses, a brown sweater and a striped tie.

“I’m Dr. Henley,” he said. “Can I help you officer?”

“I was hoping to get the prognosis on Sandy Alexander.”

“Are you family?”

“Closest thing to it he has.”

The doctor looked doubtful.

“We’re really good friends,” Drake said. “Please, I’m worried about him.”

“Okay. From what I could ascertain, Mr. Alexander was intoxicated and suffering from some sort of post-stress reaction at the time of the incident in the bookstore.”

“What kind of stress.”

“As a child, he was sexually abused by a priest.”

“Wow,” Drake said softly.

“Mr. Alexander seems to have buried the memory for many years, but from what I got, this priest took advantage of him repeatedly over a period of time. The priest told the boy this was what God wanted him to do, and afterward he would wash the poor child’s hands with holy water. It was his way of cleaning away the sin with the blood of Christ. Thus, I have blood on my hands.”

“Jesus,” Drake said.

“Exactly,” the doctor said. “Not to put too fine a point on it.”

“What now?” Drake asked.

“We’ll treat him with medication and talk therapy. Hopefully he’ll be fine once he finally processes the shame and the guilt.”

“Thank you doctor,” Drake said.

C
HAPTER
F
ORTY

THE LOBBY OF New York’s Children’s Hospital was transformed into a gala holiday party scene, complete with ice sculptures, refreshment stations and black tie waters roving with hors d’oeuvres. Balloons in red, green and white clusters drifted languidly from the ceiling. Long trails of Mylar ribbon cascaded over tables like frozen, Technicolor waterfalls. Enlarged photos of smiling children adorned the walls. Donation boxes shaped like cartoon mailboxes were positioned by each drink station. Everyone in attendance wore a green and red crossed ribbon pin, the emblem of the fundraiser.

“Hell of a turnout,” Norwich yelled over the talking crowd into Hennings’ ear. “We’ll hit the target dollar amount easily.”

“I think we already have,” Hennings yelled back.

“Probably right.”

“Has Smythe shown up yet?”

Norwich shook his head. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Fucking asshole. I wanted to drag him up in front of this crowd and have my picture with him in the Post tomorrow morning.”

“He may still show.”

“Just a second,” Hennings said. He answered his cell phone with his finger stuck in his open ear. “Yes? Got it. That’s great!”

“What’s up?”

“That was Riana. We just passed the one million dollar mark. It’s show time.”

Hennings made his way through the crowd, excusing himself repeatedly as he dodged intoxicated, well-dressed attendees. He finally made it to the raised podium at the rear of the lobby. Three steps up and he was on the platform, looking down on the crowd.

“Excuse me,” Hennings said happily into the microphone. “Party goers and generous patrons, may I have your attention please.”

The crowd slowly quieted like the trailing sputters at the end of a fireworks display. A sea of faces looked up at him. Hennings reveled in the moment. He smiled down on those who had once shunned him. This night was the culmination of ten years of good public relations and generous donations, all of which had been designed to erase the stigma of the man who got away with murder. Tonight he was the man of the hour, and what an hour it was.

“Thank you,” he boomed into the microphone. “I hope you’ve all been having a good time.”

The crowd cheered. Hennings smiled and waited for the clapping and whistling to settle down before continuing.

“Thanks to your generosity, I’ve just been informed that tonight’s festivities have officially raised over one million dollars!”

If anything, the cheers were even louder this time.

“As you know we have two anonymous benefactors who have pledged to match whatever money we raised, so tonight’s benefit has raised over three million dollars towards the remodel and retrofit of this wonderful hospital!”

The raised voices were deafening.

“This is an auspicious occasion. The New York Children’s Hospital is indeed a deserving charity. With this money and our continued support the planned renovation will begin with a completion date of two years from today!”

“Here, here!” Norwich yelled from the floor and the crowd echoed him.

“This doesn’t mean the party is over,” Hennings said with a huge grin. “We have the hall for another hour, so if the urge should grab you, the mailbox drops will be available for any checks, cash or other valuables you may want to separate yourself from.”

“You first Joshua,” somebody called out.

“Okay,” he said.

He took a one hundred dollar bill from his pocket, waved it in the air and made a dramatic spectacle of descending the podium and putting it in the nearest donation box. The crowd cheered him again.

“That should insure another few grand,” Hennings said when he re-joined Norwich.

Norwich pointed towards the main entrance to the hospital lobby.

“Hey, look who finally showed up.”

Hennings looked where Norwich was pointing. He saw Chief Smythe with a younger man.

“This will be bad form for him,” Hennings said gleefully.

He made his way through the crowd to greet the newcomers. He wanted to wallow in his success and make sure everyone noticed Smythe’s tardiness.

“Hello Chief,” he said. “You just missed my announcement about hitting our target.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Smythe said. “Do you know Detective Paul Kellerman?”

“No,” Hennings said and extended his hand.

Kellerman ignored his gesture.

Hennings noticed four uniformed officers waiting outside the glass doors. Norwich cut through the crowd and arrived to take a defensive position next to his boss. He had noticed the officers too.

“Mr. Hennings,” Smythe said, “I need to have a word with you outside, please.”

“What’s this about?” Norwich said.

“I was hoping we could do this quietly,” Smythe said.

“Do what?” Norwich demanded in a confrontational tone.

“I’d advise you to stand back, sir,” Kellerman said.

Smythe gestured over his shoulder for the officers to join him. They came through the door with grim expressions and arranged themselves behind Hennings and Norwich, separating them from the crowd.

“Joshua Fairbanks Hennings,” Chief Smythe said, “you are under arrest for the capital murder of your wife, Angela Katherine Hennings.”

“Now just wait a minute,” Norwich said, putting an arm in front of his boss.