Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

“Such as?” I found myself mildly intrigued.

  She shrugged evasively. “I’m not really sure,” she claimed. “I’ve overheard him when he’s been on the phone or having late night meetings in the study. There’s been talk of drugs, money laundering, even extortion. If I had proof of some of his doings, I would have greater leverage against him.”

  This seemed plausible to me, if not dangerous for her. “If your husband’s the vindictive man you seem to think he is,” I said, “how do you think he’ll react if you try to blackmail him with something more threatening than proof that he’s having an affair?”

  Catherine rolled her eyes. “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. My husband is cold-blooded and ruthless, but he’s also very sensible and reasonable when he has to be.”

  I blinked with askance. “If you say so.”

  Her face lit up. “Does that mean you’ll work for me again, D.J.?”

  My common sense said no. But my sense of obligation said yes. “I’ll see what I can find out in a couple of days,” I gave in. “Now I suggest you put your clothes on before something happens we’ll both regret.”

  “Why should we regret anything that happens?” she declared, and opened up the robe, revealing her naked, moist body. “If Gregory’s allowed to play, then why can’t I?”

  I could think of a couple of practical reasons, but I doubted she wanted to hear them.

  She cozied up to me and allowed the robe to fall to the floor. “Am I really asking too much of you, D.J.?”

  Yes, she was. But she was making it damned difficult to let her leave, and she seemed intent on playing that for all it was worth. Her mind had obviously already been made up the moment she conned her way in here.

  She cooed: “I really don’t want to go home right now.”

  I regarded her sinfully. “What the hell do you want, Catherine?” I had to ask, a raging desire burning in me like molten hot liquid.

  Raising her chin, she brushed her lips across mine. “You!” she said pointedly.

  Between that and the sexy way she fluttered her lashes, I once again found myself throwing caution to the wind and abandoning my professional discretion for my lustful indiscretion. I scooped her up in my arms like she was weightless, and took her to bed.

  The passion was intense with neither of us holding anything back, yet was strictly physical. I think we both knew that. But that was enough to disregard all the warning signs that I was playing with fire. At the moment, the only thing burning was the heat of our mouths searching one another’s ravenously and our bodies wrapped tightly around each other in perpetual movement, as if riding the wave of erotic chemistry to the end of the earth.

  * * *

  In the afterglow, I poured wine while Catherine put on what she came in, a snug fitting purple dress and black low heeled pumps.

  “Maybe you ought to cut your losses and get what you can out of your marriage,” I suggested strongly, handing her a glass of white wine. I settled for beer.

  “That would make it too easy for him,” Catherine countered stubbornly over the rim of her glass. “I don’t intend to give in without a fight.”

  “If it’s a fight you want,” I warned, “you could lose.”

  She smiled insightfully. “Never!”

  I almost believed her.

  She was about to hand me money, but I stopped her. “Wait until we see what I come up with.” I wasn’t making any promises or looking to somehow make everything right for her and wrong for the husband.

  “All right.” Catherine put her small hands to my waist and, looking wistful, said: “Maybe when this is all over—”

  “Then we go our separate ways,” I stated flatly, removing her hands. “Understand? No reason to even kid ourselves into believing there can be a future for us. We both know it won’t happen.” At least one of us did.

  Catherine seemed thankful that I had put our relationship in the proper context. Neither of us could afford to look ahead.

  Today there was still the important fact that she was a married woman, even if she appeared to be inexorably headed for divorce court. And I was a single man who had his eyes squarely on another woman—one who apparently saw me as little more than a tall, good-looking handy man.

  Not to mention there was a slippery, sneaky assed Worm still on the loose that I needed to find.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I went for my morning jog, enjoying the solitude of my own company. Working up a sweat was easy when the temperature was unseasonably warm, the humidity high, and the pace steady.

  I ended my run at the newsstand. Glancing at the front page of the Oregonian, I expected to find just your average murders, crime, and mayhem. What my eyes saw instead on the lower half in bold print was: Woman Found Shot To Death.

  Instincts made me read on before I could digest it with coffee and donuts. “The woman has been identified as Terri Nicole Hawthorne, thirty-two, a native Portlander...” The accompanying black and white photograph was grainy and not very recent, but it was almost certainly the same Terri Nicole ex-girlfriend of Jessie Wylson.

  Breakfast ended up being a trip to the morgue. Something told me that Terri Hawthorne’s death was not coincidental by any stretch of the imagination. Even as a homicide cop, going to the morgue had been a task that didn’t agree with me. Seeing stiffs who looked like stiffs had an eerie morbidity to it. But someone had to do it.

  “Do you know the deceased?” the assistant M.E. asked. He reminded me a lot of Anthony Perkins.

  “I might,” I responded, clinging to the possibility that it was someone else who had met her maker.

  “Let’s hope not.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse,” he admitted. “She took one bullet in the forehead and three in the chest. Someone wanted to make sure she was good and dead.”

  He pulled the drawer out halfway. The face was bloated and discolored, with a quarter sized hole in the center of the forehead. The chest was torn open, as if a sharp knife had carved her up like a turkey, ripping apart all vital organs.

  “Well, do you know her?” he asked in a monotone voice.

  I gazed a moment longer than I should have, before saying bleakly: “No, not really.”

  It was Terri, the woman who had made the mistake of getting involved with The Worm. And she had paid the ultimate price with her life.

  I left the morgue wondering who had done the honors of silencing Terri Nicole Hawthorne. Jessie Wylson, who had tried to run me down just yesterday? A man who couldn’t afford to leave behind any witnesses with intimate knowledge of his deeds and misdeeds? Vincente? Dirk? Clarence? All men who seemed determined to protect The Worm at any cost.

  Who would be next? I sure as hell didn’t intend for it to be me!

  * * *

  I found Nate hanging out at his usual spot in Pioneer Courthouse Square. It seemed smart to fill him in on Terri Hawthorne’s untimely death and my own recent brushes with death and permanent disability. Despite Nate’s lack of productivity lately, he was still my best source of information on the street.

  “It’s a warnin’, D.J.,” sighed Nate, “to quit while you’re ahead, man. It sho ain’t worth laying your life on the line for. I’m sorry.” His voice strained to stay above the quavering point.

  “Don’t be,” I told him, feeling as if he may have been onto something there. “No sorrier than The Worm will be if I ever get my paws on him.”

  “I could teach you how to be a clown,” Nate said in earnest, looking very much the part. “Beats chasing down dope heads for a living. If you’re good, you can make some money out here on the streets.”

  I had a private laugh. That was the second time of late that a career change had been suggested. I wondered if it was something in the air, food, or water. P.I. work had its ups and downs...seemingly more downs than ups lately. But I could think of plenty of alternatives to being a clown. Or a security guard.

  I told Nate: “Forget it, man. I was never very funny.”


  He pulled on his red nose, snapping it back into place like a dislocated joint. “Too bad. You don’t know what you’re missin’ out here.”

  “Oh, I think I have an idea,” I replied. It was time to get back to business. “So what do you know about Terri Hawthorne’s death?”

  Nate hesitated like a chicken bone was caught in his throat. “I heard about that.” Another nervous pause. “Can’t tell you why the woman was wasted.” He eyed me speculatively. “Guess somebody felt she had to go before she said the wrong things to the wrong people.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “You mean like me?”

  He bit into his lower lip. “You said it, man, not me.”

  I got up in his face, baring my teeth like a rabid dog. “If you know something you’re not telling me, Nate, I’m going to come down real hard on your ass.”

  He shriveled up like a burnt piece of bacon. “Hey, be cool, D.J. You know I wouldn’t be holdin’ back on you.”

  I knew no such thing, but didn’t want to press the issue. “Just give me something I can use,” I said in a calmer voice. “Someone must know where The Worm is hiding.”

  Nate wrung his hands restlessly. “I ain’t no magician and I ain’t got no x-ray vision either. All I got is acquaintances. They tell me things. I tell you.”

  And I appreciated it, even if I rarely told him so. “Keep talking to your acquaintances,” I pressed. “Jessie Wylson is starting to get personal for me. The sooner I find him, the sooner you and I can sleep a little easier.”

  Nate sniffed petulantly. “I’ll keep askin’ ‘round,” he promised tonelessly. “If I find out anything, I know where to find you.”

  My eyes drifted off into the distance where I knew Mount Hood hovered above everything like King Kong. It brought me back to nature and, for some reason, made me imagine enjoying a lifetime of natural beauty and tranquility.

  Then I came back to the real world.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The football season was now in full swing, exhibition style! On this Monday night, the sultry sounds of jazz had to take a back seat at Jasmine’s to the Seahawks and Rams on the big screen. Most experts picked the Rams to go all the way this year. I was putting my money and mouth squarely on the team from Seattle.

  “How ‘bout it, D.J.?” said one of my bar buddies, Lim Jefferson. He was a forty-year-old, insurance salesman who happened to be from St. Louis. “Care to wager on the outcome of the game?”

  “Sure, why not.” I told him, ever confident. “Twenty says the Seahawks run the Rams right into the ground.” This despite the fact that St. Louis was a seven point favorite on their home turf.

  “You’re on,” Jefferson said gleefully, his skinny frame looking as if it might snap in two at any time. We shook on it. “And that’s cash only,” he insisted. “Your checks have a strange way of bouncing.”

  Only when I wanted them to, usually when I was stalling till I could break even the next time around. This was by no means a sure bet, but somehow I felt lucky tonight as if I had some insight into the future. I could only hope that some of that would rub off on my team.

  I pulled out a crisp twenty from my wallet and set it on the table. “Put up, man,” I demanded. “Or shut up.”

  Lim placed a crinkled twenty atop mine.

  The waitress brought another pitcher over just in time for the second half. Neither team had scored yet. Gus joined the party, and sweetened the pot, taking the spread. The bet now stood at sixty dollars, winner takes all.

  “Maybe they’ll call the game due to boredom,” Gus complained. He played with his beard and yawned.

  I told him, with an eye toward Jefferson: “Hell of a defensive battle. But it only takes a touchdown to win.”

  Jefferson laughed uneasily. “Or lose.”

  Inside I was sweating bullets. Though ugly to watch, I hung in there until the bitter end. The defense bailed me and the team out with a last minute forced fumble, recovery, and touchdown run. Final score: Seahawks 7 and Rams 3. Without the spread.

  I used my winnings for another round of drinks, with a few bucks left over to take with me. Welcome to the football season. I was more optimistic than ever that the Northwest team was well on its way to the Super Bowl.

  * * *

  Following a long, hot shower, I called it a night. An erotic dream made sleep a friendly companion. But you had to be a psychologist to try and figure it out. First it seemed like I was with Catherine in bed then on the floor, in one position, then another. Only when the moonlight hit her face, she turned out to be Vanessa King.

  Just when it seemed that I might have struck gold in a world where anything goes, the phone ringing brought me back to life.

  It was three in the morning. I could barely hide my disappointment over the bad timing. My fingers dug under the sports section of the newspaper on the floor, where the phone had somehow ended up. I was ready to curse the sucker who would do this to me just when I had Vanessa King right where I wanted her.

  “Who the hell is it?” My sleepy voice growled.

  It was Catherine Sinclair. Her voice sounded tense. “D.J., you’ve got to help me! Gregory found out about us. He says he’s going to kill me—and then you!”

  “Calm down,” I coaxed her, suddenly fully awake “How did he find out?”

  “I don’t know,” she insisted. “I didn’t volunteer the information, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Why would Sinclair want to kill either of us when he’s planning to divorce you anyway?” It seemed reasonable to ask.

  In the back of my mind, I could think of at least one reason. If Sinclair knew about us, then he probably knew about me. A black man having an affair with a white man’s white wife was still looked upon by some as unforgivable.

  “You fool!” Catherine’s voice wailed. “Because Gregory’s a bastard and his manly pride has been wounded. It’s okay for him to take a lover, but for me it’s punishable by death!”

  I could hear short, erratic breaths. She sounded like she had been drinking.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked as if it would somehow make a difference.

  “Where is he now?” I began putting my pants on.

  “Downstairs,” she said in a whisper, “I think—”

  “And you?”

  “In the bedroom.” She sighed heavily into the phone. “He has a gun, D.J. And he knows how to use it!”

  There seemed little time to think about this logically or search for quick fix answers. As I threw on my shirt, I told her as calmly as I could: “Listen to me, Catherine. Is there a lock on the bedroom door?” The answer was obvious. A house that looked like their house probably had locks on the faucets and light switches, much less every door in the place.

  She moaned into the phone.

  “Lock the damned door, Catherine! Maybe he just went to cool off.” Somehow I didn’t really believe that. “I’m coming over—”

  “Hurry—!” she said with desperation, and the phone went dead as if suddenly given its last rites.

  I could only hope that Gregory Sinclair didn’t do something he would live to regret as I slipped my shoes on.

  The last thing I grabbed before racing out the door was my gun. I had a feeling I might need it.

  * * *

  The best and worst possible scenarios played in my mind as I broke the speed limit across town.

  Would my affair with Catherine Ashley Sinclair cost the sexy blonde her life? Or was Sinclair simply applying scare tactics to her as leverage to get out of the marriage without losing anything of value in the process?

  I didn’t know what I expected to find when I arrived at the house. The gate was open and I parked right behind the Porsche and Mercedes. That meant, at the very least, we were all due for a confrontation.

  The front door was slightly ajar when I reached it. Entering slowly, I took out the Glock, expecting a jealous, hypocritical husband to come charging at me like a raging bull. Instead, I got a potent dose of the trapp
ings of success. Everything looked either custom made or imported, and very expensive. Under any other circumstances, I would definitely have been out of my league.

  As it was, I felt some sense of belonging. I owed that to the lady of the house.

  There was no sign of either Sinclair or Catherine downstairs. An overhead balcony off a massive living room led to a winding stairwell. No sooner had I begun to mount the stairs when I heard a female’s piercing scream, followed by a gunshot.

  I accelerated my climb, gun cocked and ready. Reaching the second floor landing, I listened for any errant sounds. Suddenly it was strangely and uncomfortably silent, like being in a mausoleum.

  There were at least a half dozen rooms stretching down a long hall. I called out to Catherine, desperation in my tone. If she was capable of answering, she either chose not to or was prevented from doing so.

  Between being a cop and private investigator, I had developed a sixth and seventh sense when something smelled fishy—or more like a dead rat. I chose to ignore the warning bells in favor of my concern for Catherine’s safety and well-being.

  A sound that resembled heavy footsteps on wet carpet came from one of the rooms. Knowing I may not have had a second to lose, I went for it. The door was partially open, as if beckoning me to come in. Barely allowing myself to suck in a deep breath, I kicked it wide, following my Glock in and aiming it for any sign of a possibly armed and dangerous Gregory Sinclair. He was nowhere to be seen.

  My eyes rested on the bed. Catherine, or so I assumed, was lying there motionless, spread eagle, and stark naked. Her faced was turned away from me, but her golden hair was a dead giveaway, no pun intended. I couldn’t tell if she was dead or alive, but figured that whoever fired that shot had to still be somewhere in the room.

  At that moment, I thought I heard a sound to my left. I swiveled the gun in that direction. Before I could see anyone, much less react, I was hit flush on the back of the head hard enough to make me see my life flash before me. I wilted like a rose starving for water, fully expecting that I had quite possibly worked my last case.