Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  Yet something inside told me that I hadn’t seen the last of the woman who had dragged me into a nightmare I’d just as soon forget, but doubted I ever could.

  Gus and I ignored each other and my problems when the Teddy Pendergrass look-alike began crooning another jazzy tune.

  O’Malley finally showed up. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, huffing and puffing like he had just run a marathon. “Had to work overtime.”

  “So what else is new,” I said caustically.

  It had been that way ever since his divorce ten years ago from his high school sweetheart. She had left him for another cop. As far as I knew, no one had come along since to make O’Malley want to work less.

  We talked about my brush with death and the still open investigation of Catherine Sinclair’s murder, in which I was still the closest thing they had to a suspect.

  I was saving the best for last.

  “You should have stayed a cop, Drake,” said O’Malley, the trademark cigarette dangling from his mouth. “It was a hell of a lot safer.”

  “Trouble is, these days you can’t tell the good guys from the bad,” I hinted insightfully.

  “Sure you can,” he said firmly. “You just have to know what to look for.”

  “What about crooked cops?”

  O’Malley eyed me suspiciously. “What about ‘em?”

  I put beer to my lips. “The explosion may have been caused by dirty cops,” I told him pointblank.

  A deep sigh escaped O’Malley. “You sayin’ you think cops tried to kill you?”

  “Or kill Jessie Wylson,” I said. “Maybe even the two of us for the price of one. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Gimme a damned break!” O’Malley bristled. “If you’re accusing someone on the force of being responsible for that trailer explosion, let’s have it, Drake—name, rank, and serial number.”

  “I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” I said louder than I intended to. “Not yet anyway.”

  “Then what the hell is this?” O’Malley shot burning eyes at me, his bushy mustache practically sticking straight out as if he’d been given an electrical charge.

  I knew I was opening a can of worms that no one wanted to deal with, much less the Portland Police Bureau. But it was a potentially deadly problem that was not going to just go away. I wasn’t ready to dismiss the notion that cops may have set me up to get fried. Whatever else I may have thought of O’Malley, deep down I knew he was a good and honest cop. I just wished I could be so certain about some of my other ex-colleagues.

  I tasted more beer, sighed, and put my cards on the table. “My stoolie says word on the street is that certain cops may want Jessie Wylson dead. If that’s true, then they may also rather see me dead before I can find him.”

  An irregular line formed between O’Malley’s brows. “You don’t mean you got your information from that Clown downtown, do you?”

  For some reason Nate had always rubbed O’Malley the wrong way when we worked together. “My source is reliable,” I said simply, going out on a limb.

  “What the hell’s reliable?” he barked. “Does this source have any proof? Or is this just hearsay?”

  Our eyes connected. “It’s rumor, man,” I said singularly. “Unsubstantiated, but the same solid word-of-mouth on the street we both know is often more bankable than any hard core police investigation.”

  O’Malley drew hard on his cigarette. “Rumor or not, I wouldn’t go around pointing the finger or making false accusations unless you have proof. Solid proof. For your own safety, Drake—”

  My blood pressure rose. “That sounds like a threat, O’Malley.” I fixed his face. “Is it?”

  “Why should I threaten you?” he said, softening his tone. “I’m just giving you some solid advice. Do the hell what you want with it.”

  I scooted my chair closer to his and, sensing his reluctance to get involved, said in a strained voice: “What are you afraid of—losing your pension? Or finding out that certain people in your own department have their hands dirty and bloody?”

  O’Malley looked as if he was ready to boil over.

  I felt a lump go down my throat. “All I’m asking is for you to check it out. At worst, you’ll find nothing to substantiate the rumors. At best, you’ll make my job a lot easier by narrowing down my list of enemies. And maybe yours,” I added as a distinct possibility.

  O’Malley drew a sharp breath. “Okay, I’ll make some inquiries.” Finishing off his beer, he wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. “But I sure as hell hope you’re wrong!”

  “So do I,” I said for what it was worth. Once a cop, always a cop. At least as it related to honor and integrity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  I met Ned Manchester again at the same spot in the Columbia Gorge. He played with his glasses nervously before saying: “Sorry I haven’t been able to get back to you sooner. But, uh, you know how it is—”

  Yes, I knew. I was too hot of a potato right now for cops to be associated with, if they valued their own lives and careers. Ned was no exception.

  “Thanks for coming,” I told him sincerely. “What did you find out?”

  I noted the bag in his hand, then the frown on his face.

  “I’m afraid the news isn’t good, D.J.” Ned removed the glass from the bag. “There were solid prints, but when I ran them through the computer, I only came up with a positive match on your prints.”

  I was shocked. Had she wiped her prints from the glass? Was this all part of blondie’s scheme?

  I suddenly realized that it all made perfect sense. She obviously planned this from the very start. Making sure I had no way of tracking her down by her fingerprints, or otherwise, was all part of the grand scheme to frame me and me alone for the brutal murder of Catherine Ashley Sinclair. And I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.

  Ned coughed. “There were some partials,” he indicated, “but nothing we could do anything with. Sorry.”

  “It was a long shot at best,” I said, trying to sound convincing.

  It appeared as if the blonde Lolita had anticipated my every move. She had cleverly wormed her way into my bed and head while setting me up piece by piece as the fall guy in a murder scheme.

  “What now?” Ned peered at me.

  “I keep looking till I find out what rock she’s crawled under,” I answered tautly.

  He planted a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. “Good luck, D.J. Something tells me you’ll need it.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered, while thinking that there probably wasn’t enough luck out there to cover all the bases.

  I had greatly underestimated the imposter Catherine Ashley Sinclair. Whoever she really was, she had no intention of sharing it with me. If she had a record, which I doubted, I was on too shaky ground with the police to uncover it through conventional means. The best thing I had going for me at the moment was sheer determination.

  * * *

  Catherine Ashley Sinclair’s estate was worth about two million dollars. And with no offspring, Gregory Sinclair stood to walk away with every cent—unless he could be implicated in his wife’s murder. Then he wouldn’t see a penny. I intended to be the one to hand him a blank check in the purest sense.

  It was two-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon when Sinclair drove away from his house. I slipped onto the property before the gate closed. If anyone knew more than Sinclair was willing to part with, it was the housekeeper.

  She opened the door absentmindedly after one ring, and then tried to close it once she realized who the visitor was.

  “Wait!” I yelled. I stuck my foot in the door as an added measure of my desire not to be denied.

  “Mr. Sinclair isn’t here now,” she stammered, her black eyes betraying alarm.

  No kidding. “It’s you I want to talk to.”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” she insisted, applying pressure to my foot.

  “Oh, I think you do—” I glared at her, inching the door open against her resi
stance. “I don’t want to hurt you, regardless of what you may think you know about me. But I do intend to have this discussion.” My strident tone let her know I meant business. “Why don’t you make it easy on both of us?”

  We stared each other down for a long moment before she relented, easing the door open as if blocked by a ton of bricks. She began to mumble something in Spanish. Since I didn’t speak the language, I could only guess what she was saying.

  Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood to even speculate. There were more important things on my mind. I broke through the language barrier once inside by overriding her voice with my own. “In spite of Sinclair’s insinuations, I didn’t kill Catherine Sinclair! I never even knew her, except from a distance—”

  The housekeeper stared at me fearfully. “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Because I need your help to prove who really is behind Catherine Sinclair’s death.”

  Trepidation and uncertainty swept across her face like a shadow. “I don’t know anything—” she insisted.

  “You knew enough to identify her body at the morgue, didn’t you?” I stared down at her with a mean gaze. “Where were you the night she was murdered?” I wasn’t above using my six-five, muscular frame to intimidate her into cooperating.

  “It was my off day,” she uttered hastily. “I spend it with my daughter.”

  “Who gave you the day off?”

  She sighed pensively. “Mr. Sinclair.”

  “How nice of him,” I said cynically, “and convenient—”

  “He would never hurt Mrs. Sinclair,” she said, obediently defending him. “He loved her.”

  “What about the other woman?” The housekeeper looked at me as if I’d struck a sore spot. I wanted to build on the momentum. “There was an attractive blonde woman, late twenties to early thirties. She told me she was Catherine Sinclair. She hired me to prove that Sinclair was having an affair, if that makes any sense. This woman phoned me the night Catherine was murdered, supposedly from this house, and said that Sinclair was going to kill her. Only the victim turned out to be the real Catherine Sinclair.” I sucked in a deep breath. “So who is this woman pretending to be Sinclair’s wife? His lover—?”

  The housekeeper turned her back to me, as if to hide from the truth.

  “It’s going to come out sooner or later,” I told her. Adding with bite: “By then you could find yourself an accessory to murder—”

  This seemed to inject a dose of self-preservation in her as she faced me. “I never saw the woman you talk of,” she mumbled unconvincingly. “But Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair were having problems.”

  “You mean marital problems?”

  She winced. “They had separate bedrooms.”

  I’ll bet they did. “But did they sleep together?” I asked bluntly.

  She colored, and after a moment or two said almost humorously: “Every once in a while.”

  “What about in between once in a while?” I eased up to her, realizing she was but a pawn herself in this deadly web of deceit and murder. “Was Catherine having an affair?”

  It occurred to me that it could have worked both ways. Maybe the woman who gave me the hard luck tale in my bed was mirroring the real Catherine Ashley Sinclair’s life. Finding out his wife was cheating on him may have motivated Sinclair to plot her murder.

  “I’m j-just housekeeper,” she stuttered in broken English. “I don’t spy on my employers’ private lives.” She paused thoughtfully, adding shakily: “I can’t afford to lose my job—”

  I was sympathetic to a point, but more realistic. “There may not be a job left for you to lose,” I warned her, “once this all comes out in the open. Maybe you know someone else who can give me some answers.”

  She hesitated before saying: “I know Mrs. Sinclair was pretty close to Mrs. Mackenzie.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The health spa was filled to capacity with women who didn’t look like they needed to get in shape. I watched anyway as they moved their lean thighs and tight asses in harmony to the beat of a disco song. Then I remembered, with lament, the reason I was there. I was told that Nancy Mackenzie was the instructor. I had hoped this might be the alias for the buxom blonde who seduced me into playing a patsy for sex, lies, and murder. But it was not to be.

  Nancy was at the front of the class and seemed to have no trouble masterfully leading the women who were following her every move to perfection. I recognized Nancy Mackenzie as the emotionally stricken redhead at Catherine Sinclair’s funeral.

  I liked her better today. She looked to be in her late thirties and was petite, at no more than five-two in height. Tight black leotards accentuated taut buttocks and shapely legs. Her short, curly, crimson locks were tucked behind her ears and her small, green eyes offered a steady gaze.

  I hated to interrupt this sweat session, but they probably needed a break anyway. The instructor gave it to them when I approached her.

  “This is an exercise class,” she said, panting, as if I couldn’t tell. “Whatever you’re selling, I hope it’s worth the intrusion on their time.”

  “It’s worth it to me,” I assured her. “And probably you as well.” I eyed her intently. You are Nancy Mackenzie, aren’t you?”

  She seemed to think about it for a moment. “Yes.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said, as if that in itself was enough to stop the collective hearts from pumping vigorously.

  She wiped her face and hair with a towel, and waited for the punch line.

  I gave it. “I’m looking into the death of Catherine Sinclair—”

  A note of sorrow swept over her. Or was it nervousness? Apprehension?

  She stood mute a moment or two while the class continued to disperse and distance themselves from us. When she did speak, her voice was shaky. “I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “I understand that you and Catherine were best friends.”

  She fluttered her curly lashes. “I don’t know where you got your information, Mr.—”

  “Drake. Dean Drake. Her housekeeper told me,” I said succinctly as if that was the gospel. In fact, the housekeeper had said they were pretty close. Which, in my book, was basically the same as close enough to be best friends.

  “Well she was mistaken,” Nancy said without hesitation.

  Perhaps, I conceded. Or maybe she was right on target. “But you were her friend?”

  She paused. “Yes, we were friends, but only casually.”

  I studied her overly detached expression. “Do you know if Catherine was having an affair when she died?”

  A nervous twitch came from her neck. “How would I know that?”

  “She could have told you,” I stated flatly. “Even casual friends share intimate information.”

  “She didn’t,” Nancy countered testily. Her tone changed when she said: “From what I’ve read, she was having an affair with the man accused of murdering her—” She suddenly gave me a strange look, as though it was just beginning to register who I was.

  “Don’t believe everything you read,” I said defensively, while at the same time trying to make clear that I was not the bad guy. Or at least not the one who battered, raped, and strangled Catherine Sinclair. “I think Catherine was seeing someone,” I offered speculatively. “Possibly the real person who killed her or someone who may have caused a jealous Gregory Sinclair to murder his wife.”

  Nancy Mackenzie was definitely on edge. “Like I said, I didn’t know Catherine all that well. I have no idea who would want to kill her.”

  I could think of two people without blinking an eye.

  I studied the aerobics instructor’s well-toned body as I said: “I’ve been told that Catherine Sinclair and her husband had separate bedrooms.” Our eyes met. “Tell me, Mrs. Mackenzie,” I said, “do you and your husband share the same bed?”

  She colored apple red. “That’s none of your damned business!”

  “I hope it wasn’t Catherine Sinclair’s business either�
�” I let that sink in for a moment before saying tartly: “Thanks for your time.”

  I had a feeling Nancy Mackenzie had something to hide. Like maybe guilt and a cheating husband.

  Was Catherine Sinclair her husband’s lover? If so, did Gregory Sinclair know about it? Or even Nancy for that matter? Could this have led to any of the three plotting separately or together to murder Catherine?

  I realized I was grasping at straws now. At the same time, cheating spouses and friends could make for strange and deadly bedfellows. And I couldn’t afford to rule out anything—or anyone—at this point.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was Thursday evening and that meant it was time for my weekly grocery shopping. I stood in a long checkout line for maybe fifteen minutes at Safeway. It gave me ample time to catch up on the latest gossip in Hollywood, at least according to People magazine.

  With a cart filled with four plastic bags, I was out the door, salivating at the thought of some shake and bake chicken thighs, rice with gravy, and cornbread patties.

  A woman’s stifled scream caught my attention. Darting my eyes about the parking lot, I spotted a young Asian man snatch a woman’s purse, knock her down, and sprint away like a track star.

  It was only upon second glance that I realized the victim of the assault was Vanessa King. She was on the ground and appeared dazed.

  Abandoning my cart, I raced to her aid. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I think so,” she muttered.

  I helped my ideal woman to her feet. It was our first encounter since she offered to help me after I got out of the hospital. Even now, the notion of her assistance in any capacity gave me goose bumps. Now it was my turn to help her. I felt the ire, as if I had been attacked, that the son of a bitch had accosted her of all people.

  “Good,” I said, steaming. “Wait here—”

  Thinking more like a pissed off detective than a man awash with gallantry, I took off after the assailant. He darted through heavy pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk, aware he was being pursued. Being a jogger had its advantages, as I dodged curious onlookers and narrowed the gap.