I followed Sinclair to Willamette Park for a clandestine meeting with someone. He had been careful to make sure he wasn’t being followed. But not careful enough. Could he finally be leading me to the woman I’d begun having nightmares about?
Turned out to be a false hope. A man approached Sinclair. They began to talk. Or argue was more like it, based on their contorted facial expressions.
Through the zoom lens of my camera, I recognized and photographed the man Sinclair was conversing with. Tom Greer. He worked as an investigator for the D.A.’s office.
What was he doing meeting with Sinclair? This left me more than a little piqued.
Within minutes, the two split up. Despite my reluctance to let Sinclair out of my sight, something told me to follow Greer instead. We once worked together on a case for the D.A. Greer was in his mid forties, about six-two, and medium build. His dark brown hair was wedge shaped on his pate. I’d known him to be an honest and dedicated person. Apparently I was wrong.
I followed Greer to a restaurant where, to my dismay, he met with Frank Sherman. My imagination began to run wild.
What was Sherman’s connection to Gregory Sinclair? Was the Deputy D.A. involved in Catherine Sinclair’s murder? Had he set me up? Or was I set up by Sherman and Sinclair with Greer acting as the go-between? Where did Muncie and Cornwell fit into this new development? What about Jessie Wylson and the missing blonde? The web of deception and treachery seemed to be growing each day like a cancer.
To say I was hot under the collar when I trailed Sherman to his house in one of the better neighborhoods in Portland did me a disservice. I felt as if he had tagged me as a man with more brawn than brains.
Sherman’s mouth hanging a mile open betrayed his surprise when he opened the door to my face. I knew him to be married to a woman nearly half his age, with two young children. Right now, I didn’t give a damn if they happened to hear what I had to say to him.
“What are you doing here, Drake?” He made no pretense in his resentment in seeing me there. His tie was loose, suit wrinkled, and he had a drink in hand.
My lips were pressed tightly as I said: “I need to talk to you, Sherman—”
He obviously didn’t get it. “Can’t it wait till tomorrow when I’m in my office?”
“Now—!” I gave him the weight of my fierce stare.
He gulped down his drink and, perhaps more out of genuine curiosity than anything, said: “Come in.”
I was whisked off into a study before I could lay eyes on the family, or they on me.
Sherman confronted me with anger in his eyes. “All right, Drake. What the hell is this about?”
I glared back. “It’s about Tom Greer meeting with Gregory Sinclair, then meeting with you—” I paused deliberately, gauging his initial reaction. It was one of a person who had just been caught red-handed with his fingers in the cookie jar.
Only it was not cookies we were talking about here.
“It struck me as just a little too coincidental that the man whose wife I was set up to look like I raped and killed should be meeting with one of your investigators,” I said. “Especially considering the fact you hired me to find Jessie Wylson—a man you wanted badly enough to have me released from police custody. I don’t like being played for a fool, not by the Deputy District Attorney, of all people. And, right now, my suspicions are threatening to boil over. You’d better come up with some damned good answers, Sherman—and fast!”
He turned away from me almost too calmly and walked to a bar in the room, as if it were his sanctuary. “Drink, Drake?”
“No—!” This wasn’t exactly a social call.
He gave himself a refill while I stood flat-footed, watching, and waiting.
“I suppose I did underestimate you, Drake,” he began deliberately, “and you’re right—you do deserve some answers.”
Sherman paused long enough for me to glance around the large, walnut paneled study. It was expensively furnished with real wood shelves, leather sofa, and marble table. I couldn’t help but wonder if it was paid for with dirty money.
Sherman put the drink to his mouth and with wet lips said: “Greer was meeting with Sinclair to supply him with false information—”
“About what?”
“We’re putting together a case against Sinclair,” he said evenly. “We believe he’s one of the largest suppliers of meth on the West Coast. Apparently he used his wife’s legitimate money to launder his illegal profits. Desperate to find out what he could about the case, Sinclair tried to bribe one of our other investigators.” He sighed. “So we decided to have Greer act as his source of knowledge, telling him what we wanted him to hear while learning what we could about his operation straight from the bastard’s mouth.”
This was interesting, to say the least. But I would reserve final judgment for later.
“Where does Jessie Wylson fit in?” I asked.
Sherman took another drink and frowned. “He’s every bit the lowlife I told you and guilty as charged,” he said, seemingly trying to convince me. “But he’s not the prime time player in the illicit drug business I made him out to be. He worked for Sinclair as a middleman between the supplier and street distributor. We were prepared to use Wylson as a key witness against Sinclair in exchange for dropping certain charges against him. But The Worm freaked out and decided he was better off hiding than in protective custody.”
“So you hired me to find him?”
Sherman nodded. “We needed someone outside the office who seemed incorruptible or, at the very least, did not figure to be a source of information for cops we suspected might be looking for Wylson for all the wrong reasons—”
“You mean Cornwell and Muncie?”
Another nod.
I peered at Sherman’s face with some misgiving. “Why not be up front about why you wanted The Worm?” I hissed. “Why give me this two-bit tale about this all powerful drug dealer turning schoolchildren into junkies?”
He emptied his glass. “The less you knew, the better off you’d be—”
I couldn’t help but twist my lips into a sardonic smile at the obvious miscalculation. This was quickly replaced by a dark scowl. “I’ve been framed for murder, beaten up, and nearly killed on at least three separate occasions,” I told him angrily. “How much worse off could I have been?”
Sherman gazed at me almost sympathetically while saying toughly: “Hazards of the profession, Drake. In your business, you take what you can get.”
“What about in your business?” My eyes became razor slits. “Is it the D.A.’s new policy to take whatever illegal twists and turns you need to get what you want?”
“Who says it’s new?” His jaw tightened. “We’ve always bent the law a little here and there in order to prosecute as many deserving assholes as we can.” After a pause, he added self-protectively: “Of course, that’s strictly off the record—”
I knew deep down he was telling it like it was. And there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. That didn’t stop me from feeling used and abused like a battered wife. I’d been made a scapegoat in the process of law and disorder.
“So who killed Catherine Sinclair?” I demanded, sensing he knew the answer. “Was it Gregory Sinclair? Cornwell? Muncie? Or someone else you’ve been holding back on?”
Sherman looked away. “We’re not sure—”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
He angled his eyes coldly at me. “Catherine Sinclair’s murder was unfortunate—and bad timing—but she’s never been part of the equation as far as our case against Sinclair is concerned.”
“What about as far as I’m concerned?”
“We know you were set up,” he said matter-of-factly. “We don’t know why. Either way, it doesn’t change the case against Gregory Sinclair any.”
My voice became hoarse. “So you’re telling me you don’t give a damn about my being a more than convenient patsy for rape and murder, not to mention the victim herself, so l
ong as you can put Sinclair away on the drug charges?”
He sighed. “Let’s just say Catherine Sinclair’s death is not at the top of our priority list right now.”
“Well, maybe it should be!” I pouted. “She should be worth at least as much dead as her husband is alive.”
“There are many more lives to think about than hers or his,” said Sherman judicially. “Or even yours, for that matter—”
“Like The Worm’s?” I asked nastily. “If Sinclair beat, raped, and strangled his own wife, then I’d hate to see what Jessie Wylson will look like if Sinclair ever gets his hands on him. Considering that The Worm’s testimony could put Sinclair away for the rest of his life—” I fixed the Deputy D.A. with unwavering eyes. “Let’s hope I find your witness for the prosecution before Sinclair does.”
Sherman took a long breath. “You want that drink now?”
“I’d say you need it more than I do,” I told him heartlessly.
He grimaced. “Believe it or not, Drake, none of this was ever personal.”
“Not for you, maybe,” I retorted callously. “But for me, it’s very personal. Being jerked around by too many people has a way of personalizing matters. I can find my way out—”
Now I had to figure out how to find my way out of this hole I was still knee deep in.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The gallery was in a part of town I almost never visited. It was surrounded by other art galleries and exhibits—part of a world that up to now had no place in my life. That was before Vanessa King made me see the beauty of art from a whole new perspective.
I still felt out of place when I walked into her professional world wearing a cheap suit that seemed equally ill-fitted to my surroundings.
Vanessa found me before I could find her. I had been almost in a daze as I lost myself amidst the collection.
“D.J.!” Her face lit as if she was looking at a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
“I just happened to be in the neighbor—” I stopped myself, deciding a worn out cliché somehow didn’t seem appropriate. “Oh, what the hell,” I said to her. “I came to see you...see where you worked.” I almost felt like I was intruding on her private space.
Vanessa grinned, suggesting she approved of my showing up uninvited. “How nice.” She took my hand. “Let me show you around.”
“Lead the way,” I told her, and actually began to feel relaxed.
“Most of our works right now are American contemporary,” she explained, indicating the art lining the walls. “Next week, we have a collection of Aborigine paintings from Australia coming in—”
I wondered if one could truly distinguish between one type of art and another. Obviously she could.
“Can I buy you lunch?” I looked optimistically into her brown eyes.
She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t. Lunchtime is our busiest.” A cute little smile dimpled her cheeks. “Can I take a rain check?”
With Vanessa King, even a rejection came out smelling like a rose. “Any time,” I told her, and meant it.
She continued with the grand tour. “So you never did tell me if you’re working on a case.”
“Didn’t want to bore you,” I said laconically. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to forget about what had become a nightmare in a professional capacity that had hit too close to home. With Vanessa, I felt as if I could set my troubles aside—at least temporarily.
“I doubt you could ever bore me, Mr. Drake,” she claimed, hitting me with another one of those devastating smiles. “Besides, I’d like to know all about the private investigator side of you and what cloak and dagger business you’re into these days.” Her voice broke thoughtfully. “Unless, of course, it’s top secret—”
I smiled, thinking that she had watched too many TV and movie detectives in action and misadventures. I wasn’t sure, quite honestly, if she had the stomach for the real nuts and bolts of my present caseload. Just as I was prepared to give her a watered down version, an accented male voice that reminded me of a friend from Kenya, said:
“There you are, Vanessa—”
A light-skinned man in his mid forties came from behind me and kissed her on the cheek. He had slicked back, thinning black hair mingled with gray, and was wearing an expensive double-breasted navy blue suit. I recognized him as the dude who had been cozy with Vanessa at the brownstone.
Suddenly the jealous side of me wanted nothing more than to find out all about him and the precise nature of their relationship.
Vanessa, who seemed relaxed enough, introduced us. “Charles, I’d like you to meet Dean Jeremy Drake.” Her eyes fell on me. “D.J., this is Charles Machungwa. He runs the gallery. Charles is from Nigeria,” Vanessa noted as if it was supposed to impress me.
It did.
“Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand for me to shake.
I nodded and shook his hand while trying to at least maintain an equal footing with this man who I suspected had more than a professional relationship with Vanessa.
She asked Charles casually: “When did you get back?”
“Just this afternoon—”
Were they friends? Lovers? Or was it just platonic affection between a boss and his employee? The realistic side of me recognized that I had no claim to Vanessa King, except in my mind. The less sensible side told me this was a woman worth fighting for at all costs.
“Charles just got back from Lagos,” Vanessa told me. “He was there visiting his parents and sisters.”
Maybe he should have stayed longer.
A young woman joined us. “There’s a phone call for you, Vanessa,” she said. “It’s from New York—”
Vanessa looked at me regretfully. “Will you excuse me?” she said to both of us. “I won’t be long—”
I winked at her, content to wait for as long as it took while she ran off to take the call. I had a feeling Charles wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry either.
“Are you an art fan, Mr. Drake?” he asked as if he already knew the answer.
I glanced at a painting of two African children with a village in the background, and back to him. “I’m becoming one more and more with each passing day.”
“That’s good to hear.” With deep, gray eyes, he scanned me from top to bottom as if appraising me for sale. “You know, you made quite an impression on Vanessa the other day—single-handedly catching a would-be thief and retrieving her purse.”
“It was no big deal,” I tried to say modestly. “I’m sure you would have done the same thing.”
This appeared to annoy him, though his face crinkled into a smile. “Vanessa told me that you’re a private investigator.”
I nodded and wondered how much Vanessa had told him about me. She hadn’t told me anything about him.
“Sounds fascinating,” he said with insincerity.
“It pays the rent,” I muttered.
“I may be able to send some business your way,” Charles said. “Interested?”
At what price? I wanted to say, but smartly said: “What type of business?”
“I know some people who have been victimized by art thieves.” He scratched his palm like he was about to come into some money. “Do you know anything about art theft?”
“Theft is theft, no matter what’s stolen,” I downplayed the question, then lied: “Yeah, I’ve looked into some cases of art theft from time to time.”
He seemed to accept this at face value. “Good. Then I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t holding my breath or knuckling under to possibly unspoken blackmail. Like staying away from Vanessa.
When she rejoined the party, Vanessa gave us the benefit of her pearly white teeth and said, as if we were joined at the hip as one big, happy family: “Now where were we?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I had been let off the hook for Catherine Sinclair’s murder. To Sherman, she was just another statistic—a victim who happened to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time with the wrong husband. If her death was left unsolved, few people would remember or care once her bones had turned to dust.
I was one of those few people.
Whether I liked it or not, I had become forever linked to this woman named Catherine Ashley Sinclair, and could not rest until her death had been solved and dealt with appropriately. That meant the woman who brought me into Catherine Sinclair’s life and death was not off my hook. And neither was Gregory Sinclair, the drug-trafficking, sleazebag husband who may have killed her.
The two were inexorably tied together in a not so neat package that included The Worm. And probably Muncie and Cornwell.
The office Gregory Sinclair used as a legitimate front was located in Portland’s downtown business district. Outside his door were the words: Gregory Sinclair, Investment Consultant. I wondered how much consultation involved investing, marketing, and distribution of drugs. And where did the mystery blonde chameleon fit into Sinclair’s illicit empire?
I figured that maybe I had been looking for her in all the wrong places. Instead of being his mistress, she might well be his business partner with stakes beyond the bedroom and his wife’s inheritance.
Since the office was closed and I didn’t have a key, I took the liberty of manipulating the lock, as any good P.I. worth his weight should be able to.
It worked.
Then there was the alarm system, making entering the premises without tripping it a tricky proposition. But not impossible. I had gotten better at this sort of thing with time and practice.
Under other circumstances, I might have wondered why a consulting firm would need a sophisticated alarm system. The answer was obvious. Sinclair needed to protect far more than consultation memos with his reputable clients, if he had any.
Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery Page 15