Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  I knew the element of surprise was my best weapon at this point. My trigger finger was pulsating like crazy and I knew it was now or never.

  The door may have opened an inch or so before the explosion occurred. All I could see were bright lights interspersed with dark flashes. For a moment, I thought the whole world had suddenly come to an end. Then I realized it may have only been my world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The white light blinded me before I became airborne. I don’t remember where I landed, but it seemed like I floated there and came crashing down with a thud. The last thought to go through my mind was that I had probably watched my last Seahawks game. I wondered if I’d end up in heaven or hell for eternity.

  Then I heard: “He’s coming to...”

  The voice sounded distinctly human. My eyes opened and began to gain some clarity on faces hovering over me like white angels. One I recognized as no angel. It was Frank Sherman’s mug, something resembling a concerned smile resting on his lips.

  A pretty, raven-haired young woman wearing a nurse’s uniform beamed beside him. On the other side of her was a slender man of about thirty-five, with matted, short blonde hair. He wore glasses, doctor’s attire, and a look of professional delight.

  I’m alive! Either that or somebody was playing a cruel hoax on me.

  “Mr. Drake?” said the man dressed as a doctor. “Can you hear me?”

  I made my lips move, wishing more than anything that I could wet my dry throat with a cold beer. “Loud and clear,” I told him eagerly, if not weakly.

  “You gave us quite a scare,” he said.

  “Then you can imagine how I felt,” I uttered wryly.

  It took me a moment before I realized that my head was wrapped in bandages, along with my right ankle. My left arm was in a cast. The pain seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. It shot up and down my body as though I’d been struck by lightning.

  “I’m Doctor Ziegler,” the man hovering above me said. “Do you remember what happened?”

  I was straining to do just that, but it wasn’t all clicking at the moment. I winced in pain. “Sorry, Doc, my memory is playing tricks on me right now.”

  “There was an explosion, Mr. Drake—”

  Yes, it was coming back to me now. The trailer. The Worm. I opened the door... “I remember,” I groaned in a voice I hardly recognized.

  “You must be Superman, Drake,” voiced Sherman with astonishment. “You blew the lid off a mini chemical factory that was apparently being used to manufacture meth and who knows what else.” He gazed down at me ruefully. “Looks like you caught the brunt of it—”

  I gulped. More of my memory was resurfacing. Sherman was supposed to provide back up. Only he never bothered to show up, leaving me to fend for myself.

  I narrowed my eyes fiercely at him. “Where the hell were you and the S.W.A.T. team?” I roared, lifting up as far as I could before being driven back down by pain. “You set me up, you son of a bitch!”

  “It’s not what you think, Drake,” he said with an effort to remain poised. “No one set you up. We were there, but at another trailer on the same street. It was a damned mix-up of the address.” He sighed, red-faced. “I’m truly sorry this happened.”

  I had no choice but to believe him, considering I had no real reason not to. I was just glad that I hadn’t gone up with the trailer. Why I didn’t, I’ll probably never know. Maybe it had something to do with fate watching over me. Keeping me around for another day until the time to move on was more appropriate. That notwithstanding, I knew I still wasn’t entirely out of the woods. The pain I felt surging through my body told me I hadn’t escaped unharmed.

  “So how bad off am I, Doc?” I looked at him with trepidation.

  “Not nearly as bad off as you could be,” he remarked confidently. “You suffered a mild concussion, sprained ankle, and a fractured arm.” He flashed me a broad smile. “Other than that, Mr. Drake, I’d say you’re in remarkably good shape.”

  I took solace in that, all things considered. “How soon do I get out of here?” I asked Ziegler.

  “Not for a few days,” he said. “We need to run a few precautionary tests and you need some rest and recuperation.”

  My eyes met the pretty nurse’s eyes, still beaming as if she was looking at the man of her dreams. “Right now,” I told her with a parched throat, “I’d settle for some water.”

  “Coming right up,” she said cheerfully, and moved from my view. Moments later I was sipping warm water through a straw, and requested more.

  I finally got around to asking Sherman what had been on the back of my mind since regaining my memory: “Did they scoop The Worm’s charred remains from the trailer?”

  He looked at me glumly. “There were no bodies other than yours—” A long pause. “It appears this was a well-orchestrated setup to get rid of you.” He lowered his head shamefully. “The Worm is still on the loose, apparently alive and well.”

  If Sherman was disappointed—and clearly he seemed to be—I was at least equally pissed off. While Jessie Wylson seemed too elusive for his own good, I was being dealt a blow at seemingly every turn. It was as if the same fate that kept me from frying was equally determined to test my resolve and patience.

  This only made me more intent on finishing what I’d started. Right now, the only satisfaction I would get was seeing The Worm put away, if not dead.

  Then there was the not so small matter of unfinished business in locating my other quarry—the mysterious blonde, blue-eyed woman who suckered me into facing a possible rape-murder wrap.

  * * *

  After a week, I left the hospital on crutches. I had all but recovered from the concussion and the sprained ankle was progressing nicely. The broken arm was still in a cast and would take longer to come around. But not as long as the mental wounds that came with being only a few steps from death’s door.

  Gus drove me home in his new black-on-black van. “Man, you musta been outta your mind to go after this Worm dude,” he remarked, disgust etched in his bearded face. “It’s gotten you beaten up, nearly run over, and almost blown to pieces. Give it up, D.J. It ain’t worth the aggravation.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Gus,” I told him sorely. “Maybe I have bitten off more than I can chew. Only time will tell.”

  Like the good friend he was, Gus didn’t press the point.

  I didn’t either. I never threw in the towel on a case until it was completed one way or another. And, as far as I was concerned, Jessie Wylson was definitely unfinished business. As was the missing woman who had duped me.

  Gus dropped me in front of my building. “Are you gonna be all right, man?”

  “I’ve made it this far,” I said gratefully, leaning on the crutches. “The rest should be a breeze.”

  I went inside just as Vanessa King was leaving. She noted my less than fit condition. “What on earth happened to you?” Her concern seemed genuine.

  “Had a little accident,” I told her sheepishly. What I didn’t tell her was that just talking to her seemed to wipe all my blues away.

  She frowned. “I’m so sorry. Was anyone else hurt?”

  Not yet. Hoping to elicit some sympathy, I said: “I was the lone victim.”

  Her face softened into a sweet smile and she touched my unbroken arm. “You should really be more careful.”

  “I will,” I promised ardently, touching her hand and feeling as if the close call was almost worth it to have captured the fancy of this woman, even if temporary.

  We gazed at each other for what seemed an eternity, before she turned away abruptly, as if her head had been yanked.

  She faced me again, and said softly: “My name’s Vanessa King.”

  “I know,” I admitted. “Dean Drake. You can call me D.J. The J is for Jeremy.”

  She licked her lips into a thoughtful smile. “If there’s anything I can do to help, D.J., just ask—”

  That was an invitation I would take to heart. “I will,” I
practically guaranteed her.

  Her soulful brown eyes twinkled. “Well, you take care now.”

  “You, too.”

  I watched as she moved effortlessly away from the building without looking back. She was definitely one fine lady, Halle Berry again coming to mind. My mother used to tell me that good always came out of bad. I hadn’t really put much stock into her words, until now.

  Inside, I phoned the office and listened to the messages for the past week that were left on my answering machine. One was from Nate Griffin saying he had info for me. Another was from my landlady reminding me that a ten percent late fee was levied for rent payments made after the fifth of the month. There were messages from an assortment of nuts, solicitors, and potential paying clients.

  At the moment, work was the farthest thing from my mind, though it should have been the nearest in many respects. I took a beer out of the fridge and sank onto the couch. All of a sudden I began to feel as if things were definitely starting to look up for me. And I owed that to a classy lady named Vanessa King.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Two days later, I was in Frank Sherman’s office. I was still not totally satisfied with his story of going to the wrong trailer. It was just one more missing piece of the puzzle. Right now, I wanted to know what he’d come up with on the explosion that had nearly killed me.

  “How’s the arm?” asked Sherman, studying me from across his desk.

  It hurt like hell sometimes. “If not for the cast, I’d never know it was broken.”

  He looked at me doubtfully. “You know, you really ought to take it easy for a while, Drake.”

  Was he telling me to back off the case? I wondered. “Your concern is touching,” I said sarcastically. “Too bad it came only after I discovered the trailer was booby trapped.”

  His brow furrowed. “Are you suggesting I had something to do with that?”

  I leaned forward with a hard stare. “You left me hanging. What the hell am I supposed to think?” My words were meant mainly to see if he would bite the bait.

  He didn’t. “I told you it was a mix-up! You called me about The Worm being there, remember?” He paused theatrically. “No one told you to play the Lone Ranger, Drake. Especially if you suspected there might be trouble—”

  In spite of Sherman’s innocent facade, it occurred to me that if he hadn’t wanted a Lone Ranger on this case, he wouldn’t have hired me in the first place. But that was still a long way from proof that he was crooked, much less a would-be killer.

  “So why don’t you tell me what you found out about the trailer,” I suggested.

  Sherman sat back. “It belonged to a man named Michael Touchas. Apparently he was a onetime chemist turned illegal drug manufacturer.”

  “Have you been able to locate him?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact we have.” He fixed my face solemnly. “Touchas was found two days ago floating in the Columbia River.”

  I muttered an expletive and flexed my good arm.

  Sherman asked: “You think he was the one that phoned you?”

  “Not likely,” I said. “I doubt he’d want to blow up his own meal ticket. Someone used him to try to get to me—and nearly succeeded!”

  “You mean Jessie Wylson?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe someone else with a good reason to want me dead.” I could think of a few people who might fit the bill.

  Sherman seemed just as aware. “Better watch your step. You won’t be much good to either of us dead.”

  “Don’t worry about me dying before my time,” I told him with conviction. “I’m not going anywhere until I settle a few scores.”

  Sherman looked at me as if he knew something I didn’t. “Don’t wait too long to settle up, Drake. You’re running out of time—”

  Was he telling me that my arrest for the murder of Catherine Sinclair was imminent or that if I didn’t find Jessie Wylson soon, it might be too late for him? Or me?

  “By the way,” said Sherman, his mouth a crooked line, “I want The Worm alive. Just in case you decide you don’t already have enough dead bodies on your hands.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I promised, irked by his thinly veiled insinuations. “But we both know that we don’t always get what we want—”

  It was clear that Sherman wanted Jessie Wylson as much as I did. But I wasn’t sure of the Deputy D.A.’s motives. Maybe only The Worm himself could provide the answers.

  * * *

  I tracked Nate down at a Starbucks where he and his latest girlfriend—a long-haired, brunette with a deep tan and a rose tattoo just above her ample cleavage—were cozying up to one another at a table while sipping espresso. My ankle had gotten strong enough that I was able to walk gingerly on my own two feet, minus the crutches. Running would take a bit longer.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I lied.

  Nate opened his wide mouth to the limit as he surveyed me. “Heard you were in an accident, D.J. You all right, man?”

  “Been better—and worse,” I said nonchalantly, and gave the girlfriend a “get lost” look.

  She stood and said to Nate: “I think I’ll go to the ladies’ room.”

  “Good idea,” he concurred unenthusiastically.

  I watched her strut away, wondering where Nate found his women.

  Nate hit me with a look of annoyance. “This ain’t the right time or place, D.J.,” he said in a harsh voice.

  I sat down. “Be cool,” I told him, and lifted a chocolate chip cookie from a napkin. “Your friend can survive without you for a few minutes.”

  He pouted. “That’s easy for you to say, man.”

  Probably was. “You left a message on my machine.” Our eyes connected. “What’s up?”

  Nate sighed while darting his eyes around the place, as if in possession of the world’s top secret. In a low voice, he said: “Word on the street is The Worm has vanished. You know—poof.” He angled his hands apart in demonstration like a magician.

  I felt a knot in my stomach. “You mean he’s dead?”

  Nate hunched a shoulder. “Could be. All I know is he’s out of circulation and you ain’t the only one lookin’ for him—”

  “Oh?” He definitely got my attention. “Who else is?”

  He paused. “Cops.”

  This was not exactly news, considering that Jessie Wylson was a wanted fugitive.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” I said colorlessly.

  Nate leaned across the table, so close that I could count the moles on his face. “The word is out that certain cops would rather see The Worm dead than caught ‘cause of what he knows.”

  “You got any names?” Now it was getting really interesting.

  “No names,” said Nate tightly. “Knowin’ the wrong names can get you killed.”

  I got the message. Whoever the crooked cops were, they had too much to lose to let anyone live who was onto them and willing to talk. Apparently The Worm fell into this trap. And possibly Nate, too.

  But right now, he was still the best lead I had. I took a fifty from my wallet and slid it under Nate’s palm. “I could sure use a name, if not two—”

  Nate slid the fifty back to me like it was tainted with HIV. “There ain’t enough money in the world worth losing your life over.”

  I added a second fifty, and put both bills under his palm. “One name, man,” I said almost desperately. “If you get it, I’ll double this. Two hundred can go a long way, if you use it smartly.”

  He squeezed his fingers around the cash like a tarantula on its prey. “I’ll ask around real discreetly,” he said. “Can’t promise nothing.”

  I stood, feeling hopeful. “I’ll be waiting to hear from you.” Grabbing another cookie and tossing it in my mouth, I told Nate lightly: “Better go get your friend before she drowns in a toilet.”

  It seemed like The Worm case was getting more complex by the day. People were dying while others, like me, were barely surviving. Now croo
ked cops might be involved. And there was the distinct possibility that Jessie Wylson could already be a dead fugitive from justice.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I showed up at Jasmine’s hoping in part to relax with some good jazz. I wasn’t disappointed. The featured singer looked and sounded like a young Teddy Pendergrass. A sexy saxophonist provided foot-tapping accompanying music.

  I had asked Lew O’Malley to meet me there. I was still waiting. Gus came over to my table instead. I told him more about the explosion and how the trailer’s owner was even less fortunate.

  “Man, you’re like two cats with eighteen lives,” Gus said with amazement. “How many you figure you got left?”

  I stared at the question before answering: “Probably not many. Who’s to say?” Every now and then I got like that, where I was pretty damned blasé about the world I worked and lived in.

  “What’s the latest word on the blonde broad who picked you up and dropped you like a hot potato on another woman’s death bed?” Gus asked.

  Like me, Gus knew how to put words in a not so subtle, not too watered down, comical fashion.

  I frowned. “That’s the problem, Gus,” I muttered, “there aren’t enough words to go around. I’m still at a loss as to who she is or even where the hell she is. But I definitely know what she is—” I put suds to my mouth bitterly.

  “She’ll materialize,” Gus said encouragingly. “They always do, sooner or later. Broads like that are a dime a dozen. If she’s still alive and hasn’t left the country, she’s gonna want to step out of the shadows and spend whatever Sinclair paid her to frame your ass.”

  My problem was, I couldn’t be sure blondie was still alive. Or, for that matter, still in Portland. At this point, I couldn’t put anything past Gregory Sinclair if it meant saving his own ass, including eliminating his accomplice girlfriend and making sure no one ever found the body.