Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  Her eyes ballooned. “What does a private investigator wanna talk to me about?”

  “Your boyfriend—Gregory Sinclair.”

  Without resistance, she showed me in, as if there was no room for denial. The studio apartment was modestly comfortable, but by no means extravagant. If she was looking for a windfall, it hadn’t come yet.

  She offered me a drink and a seductive smile. I declined on both counts. She wasn’t my style. I left cradle robbing to slimebags like Sinclair.

  After pouring some Diet Coke into a glass, Brooke said firmly: “Let’s get one thing straight. Gregory Sinclair is not my boyfriend! We’ve dated off and on, but that’s all—” She took a drink and licked her lips. “Anything else?”

  “You were hanging all over the man at his wife’s funeral,” I reminded her. “Don’t you think that was disrespectful to the dead and maybe a little too personal for someone you only dated occasionally?”

  She looked at me shamefully. “I didn’t wanna go, but Greg asked me to. He said he needed someone to mourn with him. I felt I owed him that much as a friend. He helped me get my job as a dancer.”

  “Do you know anyone else he’s dated?”

  She sneered. “What do I look like, his social calendar? Why don’t you ask Greg who he’s been sleeping with?”

  “Somehow I doubt he’d volunteer the information.” I sighed and looked her in the eye. “I think Sinclair might have murdered his wife and used a girlfriend to help set it up. If it wasn’t you, it had to be somebody else.” I paused while watching uneasiness creep over her face. “In these types of cases, the police come down just as hard on anyone who’s withholding evidence.”

  “You’re wrong about Greg,” Brooke insisted. “He was very upset over his wife’s death. You can’t fake that—not if he killed her—”

  The sad thing was, she seemed to truly believe her own words.

  I didn’t—not for one minute.

  If Sinclair was despondent, it wasn’t over his wife’s death, but more likely her life and how she chose to live it.

  I removed Brooke Carmichael from my suspect list.

  * * *

  Nighttime jogging really worked for me. Not only did the city light up at night, but you also got to run into or pass by nocturnal creatures you never saw during the daytime. With my ankle strong enough to run on again, I put in my five miles and worked up a tremendous thirst as I contemplated loose ends that had yet to be tied up.

  The Other Woman and The Worm belonged together. Both were slick, smart, and as elusive as The Fugitive’s one-armed man.

  I ended up at Jasmine’s on a quiet night. That was fine by me, as all I needed was a brew and table.

  “Can you believe that?” Gus made himself comfortable at my table. His distressed voice sounded as if I was supposed to know what the hell he was talking about.

  “Believe what?”

  “Then you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  I felt as if he’d hit me with a ton of bricks when he told me that the Seahawks’ new rookie tackle had torn his anterior cruciate ligament and would be out for the season. Kelly McIntosh had star written all over him when he came out of Grambling. He figured to be a mainstay for Seattle for years to come.

  “How did it happen?” I asked, not believing my ears. It couldn’t have been in the last game I watched, not unless I was going blind.

  “Pickup basketball game,” Gus said sadly. “Of all the rotten luck. Had surgery this morning. Out for the rest of the season—” he repeated as if the words somehow sounded foreign to him.

  I shook my head despondently, and put the mug to my lips. “Damn,” was all I could think to say.

  “Yeah, I know,” Gus muttered almost tearfully.

  We sat there for a moment as if we were at the guy’s funeral. In a sad way, maybe we were insofar as his football career was concerned. That was probably the worst injury he could have sustained and still be able to walk normally, much less run. Playing pro football again would be a long shot at best.

  “So what’s happenin’ with you, D.J.?” Gus broke the lamentation.

  “I don’t think you really want to know,” I replied.

  “Let me be the judge of that,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  I filled him in on my two unsolved cases, which included two missing persons and two bloodthirsty cops who may have been hunting for me like game. If Gus was overwhelmed, he refused to show it, instead he offered his undying support in any way he could help.

  I told him what I always told him: He was helping just by being there as a friend.

  He accepted this without making waves, giving me a bear hug before getting back to the business of running his club. I had another beer, thought about Kelly McIntosh, and eventually turned my attention to Vanessa King.

  I wondered if she liked jazz.

  “You look like you could use some company—” the deep voice boomed like it was being piped through a loudspeaker. I looked up into the face of big Al Johnson, the ex-linebacker turned dentist. It was the first time I’d seen him since that night I met the blonde bombshell bitch.

  I really wanted to be by myself, but said courteously to Al: “You offering some?”

  He smiled broadly. “Hey, man, I’m all yours as long as you want me.”

  We talked about Kelly McIntosh and football in general over beer. When that grew stale, Al beat me to the punch by asking: “What’s happenin’ with your love life these days?”

  I told him about Vanessa King. She was the closest thing I had to a love life right now. What lay ahead down the road, I couldn’t predict. But I had no problem dreaming about it.

  “To tell you the truth,” said Al, “when I first saw you tonight, I said to myself: Damn! That yellow-haired broad must have left D.J. hangin’ that night—”

  I looked at him. “You remember her?”

  “How could I not?” He wiped beer from his chin. “The bitch was hot! And she had her eyes on you from the moment she walked in...like she spotted you a mile away. I knew she was trying to pick up your ass.”

  I brooded. “Yeah. She was real good at getting what she wanted—”

  “Still is, if you ask me,” Al said lasciviously.

  I met his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s a stripper over at the X Club,” he said as if common knowledge. “I thought you knew—”

  My eyes opened wide. “We never got that far,” I fumbled with my words. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?”

  “As sure as I’m lookin’ at you, D.J.!” He narrowed his eyes for effect. “She’s a redhead now, but the face and body don’t lie. I hang out at the club every now and then,” he murmured guiltily. “You should see the men ogling and ohhing when she takes it all off. The broad is probably gettin’ rich on tips alone—”

  I finished off the beer and put money on the table to cover us both.

  “Thanks for the company, Al.” I stood. “Got some business to take care of. See you around, man.”

  He frowned. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

  I smiled. “Could be you said just the right words I’ve been waiting to hear.”

  I left him speechless.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The X Club was located on Cooper Street. It was probably Portland’s most popular burlesque club. But I wasn’t there for the entertainment, per se. If Al was right, I was about to find the woman who had set me up for murder and managed to disappear like a vamp in the night.

  The place was crowded and one woman after another strutted her stuff on stage to the delight of their audience. One of the women was Brooke Carmichael. So this was her job as a dancer that she credited Sinclair with helping her to land. I wondered if he owned a piece of the club.

  Had Brooke known about the other “dancer” Sinclair was involved with?

  How could she not, if they were working at the same club? Maybe Sinclair had played them against one another be
fore deciding which one to manipulate into helping him murder his wife.

  I watched as Brooke stripped naked and shimmied her silicone breasts across the stage. Two other women followed her. Neither was the woman I was looking for.

  I was beginning to question Al’s memory and wisdom, when she took the stage.

  The long hair, or wig, was auburn—almost purplish-red—instead of blonde, but it was definitely the same woman who had picked me up at Jasmine’s. The one who had led me down a path of steamy sex, lies, photographs, betrayal, and murder.

  She was sinuously clad in a see-through red dress, red nylons, and black stilettos. Heavy eye shadow and bright lights accentuated the blue of her eyes, while red lipstick set her mouth on fire.

  I watched as she sashayed around the stage in rhythm with the loud music, but seemingly in her own world. She enjoyed teasing men, I knew. She flaunted her beauty and sex appeal and then used it to her conniving advantage.

  Her acrobatic skills came into practice as she touched her toes with her legs spread wide. She licked a finger salaciously and did the splits before coming up slowly and seductively. Under other circumstances, I would have been taken in by her charms. But I saw her for what she really was. And I wasn’t about to be conned twice by the same woman.

  The dress slid down her body. Underneath was a red bra and red panties. She danced around the stage flirtatiously. The nylons came off first. She tossed them into the crowd to a roar of approval.

  The bra came off next. Her full breasts bounced like a basketball as she skipped to the beat.

  The panties were last to be removed, revealing a narrow strip of pubic hair and a tight ass. She twirled the panties over her head like a lasso and released them, where they disappeared into a sea of anxious hands.

  Naked, she played on the drunken, inflamed crowd masterfully with all her skills of seduction.

  Then she ran off the stage like she didn’t belong there and was replaced by another stripper.

  “What’s her name?” I asked the man next to me who had been frothing at the mouth during the still as yet mystery woman’s performance.

  “That’s Francesca,” he crooned. “Ain’t she somethin’?”

  “Oh, she’s something all right,” I groaned resentfully. “Something you can’t even begin to imagine—”

  Francesca, your time as a manipulating bitch has just about run out.

  I waited in the Bronco for her to leave the X Club.

  At one-thirty a.m., she came out alone and got into a blue Honda. Not exactly a red Porsche. That was strictly on loan, designed to make the scam as credible as possible.

  Perhaps Sinclair had promised the Porsche to his girlfriend once this was all over.

  * * *

  I followed her to an apartment building on Thirty-Eighth Street. Knocking on the door, I half expected to see Sinclair inside. In my mind, there was no doubt he was behind her charade.

  Francesca, if that was her real name, quickly opened the door as if she was expecting someone.

  Anyone, but me.

  It didn’t take long for reality to set in for her. Mouth agape, she tried to shut the door in my face. I easily flung it open and pushed her back inside.

  “Long time, no see, Catherine Ashley Sinclair—” I wasn’t smiling. “Don’t tell me you aren’t glad to see me again, lover girl.”

  She looked pale and was frozen in her tracks like her feet were nailed to the floor. She had ditched the sheer striptease outfit for a more conservative, but still tight to the body, baby blue dress.

  “Or do I call you, Francesca?”

  She licked her lips nervously and began to backpedal. “I know what you must be thinking—”

  My eyebrows lowered onto a feverish gaze. “Lady, you have no idea what’s going in my mind at the moment.” I approached her. “You’re one hard slut to track down. And now that I’ve found you, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.”

  She tried to make a run for it. I quickly grabbed her from behind and threw her on the couch.

  “Stay there!” I ordered.

  “I can explain—” Her whiny voice sounded about as phony as her identity had been.

  “You can do all the explaining you want to the police,” I told her. “For some reason, they had a hard time buying that I was seduced by a beautiful white woman who called herself Catherine Ashley Sinclair—but wasn’t really her—and set up to take the fall for rape and murder. But first, I want to know who the hell you are.”

  With one eye on her, I went to her purse on a chair. She sprang up like a tiger and attacked me, using her long fingernails as claws.

  “You have no right—” she seemed to say out of pure desperation, while managing to scratch my face.

  “Like hell I don’t!” I pushed her away. “You’re in no position to call the shots anymore. And I don’t mind telling you that my patience is wearing awfully damned thin where it concerns you!”

  She watched helplessly while I pulled a wallet from her purse. I pulled out her driver’s license. It said her real name was Marilyn Francesca Collins. Age thirty-three. Blue eyes. Red hair.

  Till she died it blonde.

  And back again.

  My gaze weighed down on her. “Lady, you’re a real piece of work. Sinclair couldn’t have picked a better liar and partner in crime.” I threw her wallet down. “I hope it was worth it to you, because if I have anything to say about it, you and your boyfriend will be on death row for the real Catherine Sinclair’s murder!”

  “I had nothing to do with that—” She whipped her red hair back and twisted her body rhythmically as if she were still on stage.

  “You had everything to do with it!” I lifted my voice an octave. “You really took me for a ride with your Catherine Ashley Sinclair routine as the unfaithful damsel in distress. How much did Sinclair pay you for this carefully orchestrated charade? Or did it come with the territory for being his whore?”

  Francesca tried to appear hurt. “It was never about sex,” she said sheepishly, “at least not between me and Gregory—” Her voice caught. “I only went along with it to make some extra money. When Gregory hired me, it was as an actress. He provided the clothes, car, and instructions. I was supposed to play the role of his wife as part of a sex fantasy game he said they were playing. He told me you were part of that game.” She sighed as our eyes locked.

  I wasn’t convinced. “Do you seriously expect me to believe anything you have to say?”

  “I never meant for anyone to get hurt,” she claimed. “I swear it! When I found out that the real Catherine Sinclair had been murdered and that you were suspected of doing it, I freaked out. I wasn’t sure what to believe. I didn’t know if the fantasy game had gone too far, or if you’d actually murdered her. For all I knew,” she whimpered, “you could have been in on it from the very beginning—”

  With Francesca, it was still hard to tell what she really believed and what she wanted me to believe. She was that good at deception.

  It didn’t change the hard, cold facts any, as far as I was concerned.

  “Why didn’t you go to the police and tell them your story?” I asked skeptically. “It would have made things a hell of a lot easier for me—and you—”

  She moseyed up to me and lifted her face up to mine. “I was afraid to. Gregory warned me that the same thing that happened to his wife could happen to me if I came forward. What choice did I have?” She batted her cool, calculating blue eyes at me. “I couldn’t prove anything, except that I impersonated Catherine Ashley Sinclair before she was found dead.”

  With her head resting on my chest, Francesca pled: “You have to believe me, D.J. I didn’t know any of this would lead to murder. All I was told was the part about the sex fantasy game.” She looked up at me. “It was supposed to be just that—a game!”

  A game of life and death. It had cost Catherine Sinclair her life and had damn near cost me mine.

  I studied the face within inches of mine. In spite of
the deception behind her hair, face and body, I found myself believing Francesca was also a victim to some degree. Though still dangerous.

  “You played the game all too well, lady,” I told her, still pissed about the detailed authenticity of her role-playing. “You deserve an Oscar for the superb performance you gave.”

  She licked her lips coquettishly, and cooed: “It wasn’t all acting.”

  At least not for me.

  It was suddenly getting warm in there.

  She kissed me. I let her do it for some reason, before my senses kicked in and I pushed her away.

  “Don’t waste your energy,” I said icily. “Not interested this time around.”

  She pouted. “Anything you say, D.J.”

  I wiped my mouth. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “The police station.”

  “We can’t!” she squealed.

  “We will,” I said brusquely, “even if I have to carry you—” I toned down my tough-guy act and said persuasively: “It’s the only way to clear both our names.”

  In fact, I had already been taken off the suspect list and gotten my gun back. But my credibility had taken a beating along the way. She would restore it to some degree.

  “What about Gregory Sinclair?” Francesca asked.

  “You let me worry about him. He’ll be dealt with accordingly.”

  She played with her crimson mane. “What’s going to happen to me?” Her eyes darted between mine, as if soul searching.

  “That’s not up to me,” I said honestly. Then I gave her some hope. “When this is over, maybe you should think about some serious acting that doesn’t involve anyone ending up dead. You definitely have what it takes to make it.”

  I knew that only too well.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Finding Marilyn Francesca Collins did not exactly give me the satisfaction I’d hoped for. she If was to be believed the second time around, she was not quite the heartless, cunning bitch I’d made her out to be. Sinclair had used her as a pawn in his master plan, just as he had his wife, his housekeeper, and me.