Read Online Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) by Thomas K. Matthews - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas K. Matthews
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plowing through website after website Collins was starting to get a sense of how writers and agents interact. Clearly an overabundance of wannabe writers were trying to get a piece of an ever-shrinking pie of publishing opportunities, and an ever growing number of agents were available to help — for a cut of the pie, of course.
More than that, apparently not all agents were trustworthy. Collins found one site that listed thousands of agents, affiliated with as many agencies, and a small review after each name. Some were very clear; HIGHLY NOT RECOMMENDED! It seemed the publishing game was filled with con men just waiting to bilk vain writers out of a few bucks. Another message was constant; REAL AGENTS DO NOT CHARGE FEES! But Collins suspected there were a fair number of writers who ignored the warning. P.T. Barnum had been right. There was a sucker born every minute.
Unfortunately this research brought Collins no closer to narrowing down who the killer or killers might be. There had to be thousands and thousands of writers in New York alone, millions in the whole country. The more he tried to fit the two murders together, the less he believed the agent connection was viable. And if not, he was leaning toward two killers rather than one.
After all, the gloved handprints and footprints were sloppy intentional dupes at the cab driver’s place, whereas the Petre scene was careful and clean. Even though the two methods of death were both brutal, they were also dramatically different. There were no taunting clues, no obvious telltale signatures, no clever try and catch me calling cards.
“Shit,” he said to the early morning and decided to let it rest. He’d had too much coffee and his head was overfull with thoughts and theories. Collins took a pill and watched the late news until he fell asleep with the television on.
C HAPTER T EN
SERENA ENTERED THE back office of the cage and walked to the keypad on the opposite wall. She entered the security code and opened the metal door that led down to the old cells. The history of the place whispered to her from the stained brick walls as she descended the stairs.
Constructed in 1908, the Station Ten building originally housed only these two underground cells. By the thirties the station had expanded to a full precinct with a new bank of holding cells and an execution chamber, complete with an electric chair aptly named the last seat in the house. The electric chair and mementos from the old courthouse were currently displayed in the town museum, the last reminders of the small waterside village’s rough past.
The old cells were now used for storing boxes of hard copy files, the security archives, and the station’s holiday decorations. The rooms were environmentally controlled and Serena reigned here as queen. Lately she had been taking advantage of that to do a little reading each day related to her new pal Drake, especially looking through the old files on the Hennings case. She wasn’t doing it just to help Drake, but also to satisfy her own curiosity.
She was careful while she was doing this reading, making sure to keep her body between those particular boxes and the watching eye of the surveillance camera. Sly, that’s what she was. Her mama had always said so.
Serena was curious about this fat cop who acted so downtrodden. Her computer told her where he lived and his boilerplate life details. After that she delved into the password-protected information about his demotion. References to Hennings were a serious tease to her intensely curious nature, and they gave her the key to what to look for in the boxed files. From there it was a matter of digging, something Serena loved to do. More than that, she loved uncovering secrets.
When she was a girl in Spanish Harlem, her family knew if there was a piece of pie missing from supper’s dessert, a dollar out of Gramma’s purse, or a boy unwilling to look his girlfriend in the eye, most likely Serena was to
More than that, apparently not all agents were trustworthy. Collins found one site that listed thousands of agents, affiliated with as many agencies, and a small review after each name. Some were very clear; HIGHLY NOT RECOMMENDED! It seemed the publishing game was filled with con men just waiting to bilk vain writers out of a few bucks. Another message was constant; REAL AGENTS DO NOT CHARGE FEES! But Collins suspected there were a fair number of writers who ignored the warning. P.T. Barnum had been right. There was a sucker born every minute.
Unfortunately this research brought Collins no closer to narrowing down who the killer or killers might be. There had to be thousands and thousands of writers in New York alone, millions in the whole country. The more he tried to fit the two murders together, the less he believed the agent connection was viable. And if not, he was leaning toward two killers rather than one.
After all, the gloved handprints and footprints were sloppy intentional dupes at the cab driver’s place, whereas the Petre scene was careful and clean. Even though the two methods of death were both brutal, they were also dramatically different. There were no taunting clues, no obvious telltale signatures, no clever try and catch me calling cards.
“Shit,” he said to the early morning and decided to let it rest. He’d had too much coffee and his head was overfull with thoughts and theories. Collins took a pill and watched the late news until he fell asleep with the television on.
C HAPTER T EN
SERENA ENTERED THE back office of the cage and walked to the keypad on the opposite wall. She entered the security code and opened the metal door that led down to the old cells. The history of the place whispered to her from the stained brick walls as she descended the stairs.
Constructed in 1908, the Station Ten building originally housed only these two underground cells. By the thirties the station had expanded to a full precinct with a new bank of holding cells and an execution chamber, complete with an electric chair aptly named the last seat in the house. The electric chair and mementos from the old courthouse were currently displayed in the town museum, the last reminders of the small waterside village’s rough past.
The old cells were now used for storing boxes of hard copy files, the security archives, and the station’s holiday decorations. The rooms were environmentally controlled and Serena reigned here as queen. Lately she had been taking advantage of that to do a little reading each day related to her new pal Drake, especially looking through the old files on the Hennings case. She wasn’t doing it just to help Drake, but also to satisfy her own curiosity.
She was careful while she was doing this reading, making sure to keep her body between those particular boxes and the watching eye of the surveillance camera. Sly, that’s what she was. Her mama had always said so.
Serena was curious about this fat cop who acted so downtrodden. Her computer told her where he lived and his boilerplate life details. After that she delved into the password-protected information about his demotion. References to Hennings were a serious tease to her intensely curious nature, and they gave her the key to what to look for in the boxed files. From there it was a matter of digging, something Serena loved to do. More than that, she loved uncovering secrets.
When she was a girl in Spanish Harlem, her family knew if there was a piece of pie missing from supper’s dessert, a dollar out of Gramma’s purse, or a boy unwilling to look his girlfriend in the eye, most likely Serena was to
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