Free Rejection: Publishing Murder Mystery (Lou Drake Mysteries) by Thomas K. Matthews

guy we saw reading a crime novel at the bookstore?”
    “Yeah, that’s him,” Nesbit said.
    “Jesus, everybody in New York is here today,” Franny said.
    Pooter suddenly rushed out of the crowd and dropped, out of breath, into the chair next to Carl Nesbit. Sandy looked over his glasses and Pooter raised his hand in a gesture of apology.
    “You won’t believe this!” Pooter said after he caught his breath.
    “Don’t tell me,” Franny said. “You bumped into a tour group from the insane asylum and one of the girls agreed to go on a date with you.”
    Pooter ignored her and looked excitedly at Sandy. “I have a friend in NYPD traffic who helps me with my criminal stuff. He’s also writing a book and I just ran into him. He told me there were two murders in the village.”
    Sandy shrugged. “This is New York, after all.”
    “Yeah, but get this, they were both literary agents.”
    “Jesus,” Franny whispered.
    Sandy sat up straighter, no longer nonchalant. “Who were they?”
    “No idea, but my friend says the two victims were all cut up and mutilated.”
    The group was silent for a few moments as they processed the news. Around them the multitudes wandered and sat in groups talking. Franny was the first to speak again.
    “I wonder if the killer is here?”
    Sandy looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”
    “Think about it,” she said. “We’re sitting in the middle of a huge group of frustrated writers. Who else would be more motivated to kill agents? I mean, we’ve all received hundreds of rejection letters.”
    “Okay, sure,” Sandy said, “we all get frustrated, but not enough to actually kill someone.”
    Nesbit shrugged. “I don’t know. All it takes is one fruitcake who can’t stomach being turned down that many times.”
    “I suppose,” Sandy said. “It’s only human nature to hate being rejected, and I guess murder would be the ultimate revenge.”
    * * *
    Drake bought a tuna fish sandwich on a whole-wheat bun and a Diet Coke. He made his way through the crowd and found an open seat at one of the round tables. As he ate he flipped through the handouts he had collected on his information hunt. There were workshops and symposiums, contests and forums — all offering to help the average writer become published. So many of the programs were expensive, which made Drake chuckle. It had always been the same; desperate people attracted those who wanted to take advantage of their neediness.
    And Drake could tell he was surrounded by desperation. Again and again that morning he had stood near people who were trying to pitch their writing project to an agent or a publisher. The scene always seemed to play out the same way, with the quick summary of the book, polite interest that stopped well short of enthusiasm, and finally the obligatory offer: “You can send me the first ten pages if you like.” Drake knew full well that very few of those exchanges resulted in the agent asking to see the full manuscript, let alone an offer to sign the author and represent the book.
    Drake wondered, not for the first time, if that desperation could be a factor in the Petre and Orland murders. In the old days he would have examined that question with detachment, treating it as one more direction in which he could point his investigation. Now, however, he found himself dwelling more on the story behind the events. What was the killer feeling that made him decide to go down that dark path? What had his early life been like that made him capable of such acts?
    Drake suddenly had the prickly feeling of being watched. Feigning stiffness, he rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and rotated his head to look around. He immediately made eye contact with a woman across the room that quickly diverted her gaze. He recognized her as the black-clad, outspoken feminist from the bookstore. The other members of the group were there as well.
    As he returned to his sandwich, Drake tried to pinpoint the sad expression