Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  I stared at him. “So what the hell am I supposed to do until they’re substantiated, make myself an easy target?”

  He gulped down cappuccino like it was water. “From where I sit, you’ve got a hell of a lot more to be worried about than two cops who haven’t been found guilty of a damned thing, other than using bad judgment.” His eyes narrowed. “If I were you, I’d concentrate on trying to clear my own name of Catherine Sinclair’s murder. At this stage of the investigation, word is the deck is still stacked heavily against you.”

  But who was shuffling the cards? I wondered. Sinclair? The mystery woman who may or may not have been his co-conspirator? The Worm? Vincente? Muncie and Cornwell?

  Even the Deputy D.A. himself couldn’t be ruled out. I eyed him bleakly. “Don’t try to intimidate me, Sherman,” I told him with a stiff upper lip. “We both know if the evidence was there, my ass would be in jail right now.”

  He sighed. “Don’t press your luck, Drake. It may be just a matter of time. In the interim, Jessie Wylson is still the man I’m looking for and paying you to find. I suggest you get to him before he gets to you—”

  Was that a warning? Or a promise? Neither sounded very appealing at the moment. Nor did the notion of being arrested and charged with Catherine Sinclair’s rape and murder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I put on my best dark blue suit for my date with Vanessa King. Lately, I wasn’t accustomed to cooking for anyone other than yours truly. Not to mention cleaning the place. I even changed the sheets, though something told me that wouldn’t be necessary. Vanessa turned me on like no other woman had in recent memory. But as hard as it would no doubt be, I had to keep my libido in check with this lady. It was too special an occasion not to act like the gentleman I could be when I wanted to. I hadn’t met many women with such class, presence, and sensuality. I wasn’t about to blow it.

  Vanessa showed up at seven o’clock sharp.

  “Right on time.” I smiled at her, and got a whiff of what smelled like Obsession. It was definitely working.

  Without being overly obvious, I studied my dream lady. She was even more appealing than usual, if that was possible. Her raven hair was freshly curled around a high-cheeked face dotted with several tiny, sexy moles. Just a hint of shadow made her walnut eyes sparkle, while her thin lips glowed from pinkish-red lipstick. Her petite frame sizzled in a snug-fitting gray dress. Completing her outfit were gray heels.

  “It’s always easier to keep an appointment when you only have to go down one floor.” Vanessa grinned, and I wondered if this was just an appointment to her.

  We ended up standing awkwardly in the living room for a moment or two before Vanessa sniffed, and said: “Mmmm. Something smells good. I’ll bet it’s just as tasty.”

  “If it isn’t,” I joked nervously, “I may have to lock myself in my room for being a bad boy.”

  She batted her lashes flirtatiously. “I doubt that my knight in shining armor could ever be accused of being a bad boy.”

  Never with her. It remained to be seen if my cooking could live up to its advance billing.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I asked.

  “I’ll have some wine, thank you.”

  I had to dig out a tablecloth I bought some time ago, but never used. Vanessa insisted on helping set the table, as long as I insisted she stay out of the kitchen. It seemed like a match made in heaven.

  Ribs, mashed potatoes, salad, rolls, and red wine had a nice ring to it, especially when Vanessa gave it her stamp of approval.

  “You can cook for me any time, D.J.,” she suggested, sucking on a rib. “It’s delicious!”

  I sipped wine boastfully while drinking in the sight of her. My ideal woman sitting at my table, eating my ribs. I doubted it got much better than this.

  “So what is it you do when you’re not stopping thieves from harassing women or getting into accidents?” A curious glance slanted her face.

  I bit into a roll. “I jog a lot,” I said lightly before telling her what she really wanted to know. “I’m a private investigator.”

  She looked surprised. “Like Shaft, huh?”

  I chuckled. “Yeah. Only I’m about three inches taller and its’ a lot less glamorous than Richard Roundtree made it seem.”

  She dabbed a napkin at the corners of her mouth. “What’s it like being a real private eye?”

  I thought about it for a moment, only because I didn’t want to scare her off about tales of fistfights, bullets flying, and people trying to kill you or frame you for murder.

  I finally said: “Mostly boring stuff like surveillance, dead end streets, chasing missing cats up trees—”

  She smiled. “Are you serious?”

  “Every now and then something juicy will come along,” I confessed.

  “Such as?”

  “Adulterous, conniving spouses, murder-for-hire plots, dangerous felons on the loose—” I told her, sounding more enthusiastic than I really was. “But usually you can count those cases on two fingers.”

  She wrinkled her nose in contemplation.

  I used a short pause to turn the tables. “What about you, Vanessa?”

  She cocked a brow playfully. “What about me?”

  “What do you do for a living?”

  I found myself wanting to know everything about this woman, especially who that man was who had his hands all over her the other day. All in good time.

  She forked some salad. “I work in an art gallery.”

  I remembered the painting I had carried into her apartment. Should have guessed she was into something that spelled cultured in bold letters.

  “I admit I don’t know a damned thing about real art.” I was hoping she could give me some private lessons.

  “It’s a wonderful world of creative illusions, expression, and artistic talent.” Enthusiasm spread over her face. She was clearly a woman who definitely had command of her professional world. “Perhaps you can come to the gallery where I work sometime? I’d be happy to show you around.”

  An offer I couldn’t refuse. “I’d like that.” There seemed little about this woman that I didn’t like.

  From the table, we ended up on the couch with our wine glasses and about an inch between us. Which, in this case, was an inch too many. I had put on a Whitney Houston CD and it made the mood just right.

  I learned that Vanessa King was originally from Detroit, divorced, and had two daughters—one in college, the other living with her father in Boston. Still no word on the man I assumed she had been dating. The fact Vanessa was sitting so close that I could feel heat radiating from her body, led me to believe the mystery man had become another ex in her life. Which was good news for me.

  When my turn came to spill the background beans, Vanessa learned that I grew up in Portland, was raised by my mother, and saw my father whenever the mood struck him, which wasn’t too often. I’d put in a dozen years as a cop, got my B.A., never married, and had no children that I knew of.

  “Why haven’t you ever gotten married, D.J.?” Vanessa asked, seemingly more out of curiosity than admonition.

  People asked me this all the time and I always gave the same answer, or at least the only one that I seemed to be able to justify. “I suppose the right woman has never come along,” I said, for some reason feeling foolish in stating the cliché.

  I looked into her mesmerizing eyes, watching the curve of her smile. If there was a right woman for me, she’s definitely the one!

  I narrowed the inch separating us so our bodies touched. I desperately wanted to kiss her. My senses told me she was in agreement, but I remained cautious in coming on too strong. Like fine wine, some things just couldn’t be rushed.

  When I got close to her mouth and she showed no resistance, I kissed Vanessa King for the first time. Her lips were soft, moist, and very inviting. The kiss was sweet and short.

  It was she who drew the line. “That was nice,” she cooed, wiping lipstick from my mouth with her pinky. �
��Let’s try to get to know each other more first and see where this is headed. Agreed?”

  I steadied the rapid beat of my heart. “Agreed.” I had too much respect for her or any woman to try and force the action.

  I offered to walk Vanessa to her apartment, but she insisted it wasn’t necessary. She told me she enjoyed the food and company. I told her I enjoyed the company. We made plans to get together soon. It was a promise I was not about to renege on or allow her to.

  I spent the next two and a half hours watching a tape of the Seahawks last game. All the while I was thinking about Vanessa King.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  They say every man must face his worst demons sooner or later. I faced mine by returning to the site of the chemical explosion that was supposed to leave me dead. Instead, it ended up giving me a new lease on life.

  All that was left of the trailer was shards of metal and glass. The spot where it once sat was charred, as was much of the surrounding area. I searched for clues the police techs might have missed, but came up with nothing that would point a finger at whoever set me up. As far as I was concerned, The Worm, who had already tried unsuccessfully to take me out, had failed again.

  I still had an uneasy feeling that Jessie Wylson was more or less a fall guy for something or someone bigger—and badder. Meaning the trailer explosion could just as easily have been meant for him. There were plenty of suspects who had a motive to want to see us both dead.

  I drove away from death’s door and headed back into the city’s core when the rearview mirror told me I had company. A black pickup truck was on my tail and seemed anxious to introduce itself to my Bronco. I felt a jolt as the pickup slammed into my vehicle like it was standing still. Seconds later, it hit me again, only harder.

  I stepped on the accelerator while trying to shake off the stars and stripes I was seeing. Someone meant business and wanted to make sure I didn’t leave this car alive.

  It didn’t take long before the pickup had pulled up alongside me. Suddenly, I was staring at the barrel of a high-powered automatic rifle sticking out through the passenger window like a cannon.

  I pressed on the accelerator and ducked as gunfire exploded and shattered my passenger window into a million pieces. The stakes had been raised and someone had decided to put me out of my misery once and for all. Only I wasn’t ready to meet my maker just yet. At least not without an all-out fight for survival.

  I had moved ahead of the pickup, but not before recognizing that it was Clarence who had fired at me. Dirk was behind the wheel of the pickup. Another shot shattered the back window of the Bronco. I stayed low, even as I’d taken my Glock out and fired back. The assholes rear-ended me twice before managing to once again pull up beside me on the bumpy street.

  I heard Clarence yell: “You’re gonna die, bastard!” And he fired another shot that blew out my driver’s side window.

  Once more I forged ahead while firing behind. Trying to drive without seeing what the hell you’re doing could be a bitch. But it beat having my damned head blown off.

  I shifted the Bronco into high gear and managed to put some distance between my pursuers and me. At least enough space to be able to focus on the road without taking a bullet. With Dirk and Clarence in hot pursuit, this cat and mouse game of life and death became even more interesting as I cut sharply onto Thirty-Third Drive and headed north. Vincente’s gorillas stayed within striking distance and weren’t shy about shooting randomly at anything that moved.

  I negotiated the road expertly as some other drivers got the message and got the hell out of the way. When you’re caught in a struggle to stay alive, it’s easy to lose sight of how you got from point A to point B.

  In this instance, point B was Marine Drive. The airport was on my right, the Columbia River on my left. I did my best to zigzag between cars on the curvy road with the fat boys managing to keep pace every step of the way, seemingly determined to complete the hit.

  Luckily, I never gave them a stationary target—that is, not until I veered onto a lookout point off the road, designed to give one breathtaking views of the mighty Columbia River. I drove as far as I could without taking a swim in the river and got out. Readying my Glock, I waited for my would-be assassins, making sure they saw my pretty face. They didn’t disappoint me.

  Dirk seemed content to simply run me down. But Clarence had other ideas. His head and arm were sticking out of the truck like a stuffed animal as he tried to line me up for one good shot.

  I felt the same way, hoping to get off two good shots. On one knee, I waited as long as possible to still be able to talk about it, before firing at the approaching pickup. Eyes focused and hand steady, the windshield shattered as I hit my targets flush.

  Bull’s-eye! Bull’s-eye again!

  Dirk lost control of the vehicle and it flew off the road, plunging into the Columbia River with two bodies trapped inside.

  * * *

  Divers pulled up the dripping corpses of Vincente’s henchmen while O’Malley took my statement.

  “Why the hell does everything always have to be so dramatic with you, Drake?” He puffed on a cigarette, anguish creasing his brow in several places.

  “Maybe you should ask whoever it is that’s trying to kill me.”

  “I can’t—they’re dead,” he said humorlessly, “thanks to you!”

  “Self-defense was something they taught us in the academy.” My eyes found his. “Or have you forgotten that in your own pursuit of justice—or injustice?”

  O’Malley rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “No, I haven’t forgotten,” he said lamely. “We have witnesses to back up your side of the story. Looks like you’re off the hook on this one, Drake. I just wonder how many more dead bodies are going to show up with you caught right in the middle.”

  I resented the insinuation, so I said bluntly: “As many as it takes to keep my own body out of the river or morgue.” I sucked in a deep breath. “I think I should see what Ben Vincente has to say about this.”

  O’Malley frowned. “Don’t bother. Vincente was found dead in his car this afternoon. Shot once in the back of the head.” He gave me a suspicious look. Or, more specifically, he stared at the Glock currently resting inside the waist of my pants. “Looks like a 9 millimeter,” he said knowingly.

  “So you know your weapons,” I responded quick-wittedly.

  “Your Glock 40 is still in police lockup,” he informed me, as if I’d forgotten. “Maybe you should have limited yourself to one weapon, Drake. I hope Vincente didn’t take a bullet from your gun.”

  “He didn’t,” I assured him. “I’m not that stupid, O’Malley. I doubt I’d shoot the man with my own gun—no matter how many I owned.”

  I had to admit the news of Vincente’s death was neither all that surprising nor depressing.

  O’Malley looked relieved.

  “Maybe you should check Cornwell and Muncie’s weapons,” I suggested. Then I decided to come clean with what I knew. “Or aren’t you aware that they’ve been on the take, extorting money from drug dealers such as Vincente and Jessie Wylson?”

  O’Malley looked out at the river with a long scowl. He sucked on his cigarette and tossed it into the Columbia before saying drearily: “They’ve been suspended pending an I.A. investigation.” He faced me; smoke filtering from his nostrils like a chimney. “I didn’t know about them when you pointed the finger at crooked cops—”

  I believed him, and accepted his way of apologizing. “They might have been involved in the murder of Catherine Sinclair, but I’m not sure of their motive yet.”

  O’Malley lifted a brow. “You’re sayin’ you think this attempt on your life is somehow connected to Catherine Sinclair’s death.”

  Admittedly, my suspicions were on shaky ground. Except that I didn’t believe in coincidences, especially when there was one too many.

  “Don’t you?” I asked. “I’m set up for Catherine Sinclair’s murder at the same time that I’m trying to stick my hooks into The Wor
m. Lo and behold, Cornwell and Muncie show up out of nowhere and arrest me. Then I find out they’re after Wylson. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

  O’Malley lit another cigarette. “You’re right, something strange is definitely going on here. What it is, I’m not sure. But,” he conceded, “it does seem like someone’s out to get you—”

  I took that as a vote of confidence in my innocence, at least for Catherine Sinclair’s death. O’Malley, stubborn and all, was too good of a cop not to know a frame-up when it was staring him in the face.

  “So where do you plan to go from here?” I asked O’Malley, curious.

  He drew on the cigarette. “I’ll let you know when I get there. Meanwhile, I suggest you lay low for a while.”

  My brows touched. “You mean hide out?”

  “I’m mean stay alive!”

  “I’ve never been good at locking myself in the closet and counting on others to solve my problems, least of all the police.” I figured he could relate under the circumstances.

  If he could, he preferred to play hardball with me. “Look, I’m warnin’ you, Drake, don’t get in this too deep. Whatever you’ve managed to get yourself involved in, it’s still an official investigation. And that includes Catherine Sinclair’s death. Am I getting through to you?”

  I glared down at him. “I promise not to get in your way, Detective,” I said defiantly. “Just don’t get in mine—”

  With that, I walked off, determined to hold my ground. O’Malley did not come after me. We both knew what we had to do. If he could solve my cases for me, more power to him. But I wasn’t about to be a sitting duck for anyone. And that included Muncie and Cornwell.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It took three days to replace the windows and bumper before the Bronco was in shape to drive again. With no leads as to the whereabouts of the woman who tricked me into spying on the woman who turned out to be the real Catherine Ashley Sinclair, I continued my surveillance of Gregory Sinclair. Though I couldn’t tie him to the mystery lady, I remained convinced they were in this together. Proving it while trying to stay alive had become a test of courage and willpower.