Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  “Mr. Drake?” Her voice quavered.

  “That’s me.”

  “My name is Rita,” she said softly.

  She was in her late teens, anorexic thin, with big black eyes and curly, black hair.

  “Are you looking for a ride, Rita?” I asked guardedly. “Or is this where you tell me you know Jessie Wylson after all?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I do know Worm. Did Nate tell you where to find him?”

  I nodded, for some reason surprised that she knew the Rose Clown.

  “He was here,” she said tersely.

  “Was?”

  “Worm left just before you came.”

  “Who tipped him off?”

  “He got scared,” she said. “He sensed you, or someone else found out where he was.”

  “Did this come from his psychic reading?” I asked. “Or did Madam Harriet use more common means to warn him?”

  Her eyes stared straight ahead. “What difference does it make? He’s gone now.”

  I studied her profile. “Do you know where I can find him, Rita?” Encouraging her, I said: “You might be saving his life.”

  She faced me and sighed. “Worm was bad news for my sister. She’s a crack addict. He supplied her with drugs and she gave him a safe place to stay.” Another long pause. “I’m only telling you this because I care about what happens to her—”

  “I understand,” I told her tenderly.

  Through barely opened lips, Rita said: “I think Worm is at a house on Drummond Street. His sister lives there—”

  Something told me that his sister was the woman who claimed to have distanced herself from The Worm and Terri, apparently for my ears only.

  Unless, of course, Rita was lying.

  I looked sharply into her eyes while tightening my grip on the gun straddling my lap. “How do I know this isn’t some deadly game Jessie Wylson concocted to set me up?”

  She gave me the benefit of a composed stare. “I’m not tryin’ to lead you to a trap!” she spat. “I only want to do what’s best for my sister.” After taking a breath, she said thoughtfully: “I’m also tryin’ to look after myself and my baby.”

  I believed her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The house on Thirty-Third Street and Drummond had several lights on as I approached. A familiar looking Pontiac was parked behind a Cadillac in the driveway. It was the same car driven by The Worm when he tried to run me down. The license plate was still missing from the back.

  I knocked twice, my eyes open to any sign of trouble, the Glock ready to fire.

  The door opened to the bruised face of the woman I’d last met at the house.

  “Remember me?” I said tensely. Her frightened expression told me she did. “Who did this to you?” I asked, though the answer was painfully obvious. “It was Jessie Wylson, wasn’t it?”

  She looked at me with swollen eyes as if I had just trampled upon a guarded family secret.

  “Where is he?” I demanded.

  She batted her lashes flippantly like I was her enemy, not him. “He ain’t here—”

  Her body language told me otherwise.

  “Why do you want to protect a man who beat the hell out of you?” I sucked in a deep breath. “Is this what you call respect?” I glared at her pitiful face.

  “Just leave,” she pleaded.

  “I can’t. I know Wylson’s in there and I’m here to take him into custody.” I watched as she wrung her hands. “He’s a bad man and he’s made a lot of enemies. If I don’t get to him now, believe me, it’ll get worse for him later. And they won’t care who gets hurt in the process.”

  I forced my way past her, preparing myself for any scenario I might encounter.

  She made little effort to stand in my way, but shouted: “He’s got a gun!”

  For an instant, I wasn’t sure if it was a warning for me. Or him.

  She was signaling danger to The Worm.

  I went down a first floor hallway, making sure the barrel of my gun saw everything I did. I could hear noise coming from one of the rooms. After psyching myself up, I kicked the door open. In bed was a partially naked, brown-skinned woman. She sloppily covered herself up and looked towards the window. It was open.

  No sooner had I crossed the room and peeked through the window when I heard an engine start up. I climbed outside and made tracks toward the front of the house in time to see the Pontiac screeching backwards then careening down the street.

  Jessie The Worm Wylson was behind the wheel.

  I wasn’t sure if the Bronco was up to another high-speed chase so soon. But I was about to find out.

  Jessie Wylson led me from one street to another with the pop sound of bullets whizzing my way. He seemed to have no sense of direction, let alone respect for the rights of other drivers.

  I followed him onto Martin Luther King Boulevard, a main thoroughfare running from one end of the city to another. Like a man knowing he was going down, one way or the other, The Worm drove recklessly at speeds approaching eighty miles an hour.

  I still managed to close in on the fugitive from justice as we darted between traffic like it wasn’t there, and sped through red lights as if they didn’t apply to us.

  Jessie Wylson didn’t know the meaning of the words: give up.

  Neither did I.

  We ended up back on a residential street where The Worm quickly lost control and ran the Pontiac flush into a telephone pole. He was doing at least fifty at the time. The front end of the car had been flattened like a pancake and the pole was knocked off its foundation.

  I stopped and called 911 on my cell phone to report an accident with a man seriously injured. I didn’t give The Worm much chance of worming his way out of the wreck in one piece. On the other hand, he had shown an uncanny ability to stay alive against all odds.

  Not taking any chances, I left the Bronco with my gun aimed and ready as I approached the steaming vehicle. It didn’t take long for the curious and fearless to make their presence known, if only at arm’s length.

  For some reason, I almost expected Jessie Wylson to come out firing to his last breath. He didn’t.

  I thought I saw movement in the car, aware that even an injured man could still fire a gun.

  “Make it easy on yourself, man,” I warned. “It’s all over—”

  Even though The Worm had tried to take me out on at least one occasion, I didn’t want to see him meet his maker just yet. A dead witness who was also a wanted drug dealer wouldn’t be much help to Sherman in prosecuting Sinclair or going after rogue cops, Muncie and Cornwell.

  Closing in, I could see that the person inside the car was slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving. I managed to pry open the driver’s side door, while keeping my eyes and gun peeled on The Worm for any signs of aggression. There were none.

  He was bleeding badly from the head. The nature of the wound was not from his head smashing into the dashboard or shattered windshield. Experience told me the gaping hole on the back of his head came from a bullet.

  I hadn’t fired a shot.

  Jessie Wylson was dead.

  Was this a suicide by a rat who felt himself cornered?

  Had The Worm shot himself in the back of the head?

  Why now? I wondered. After the man had successfully eluded the Deputy D.A., the police, and me for weeks, had he suddenly decided there was no other way out for him?

  Or did someone else decide to help him out?

  As if that thought was my wake-up call, I swiveled away from the car in time to see the bright lights of a fast approaching vehicle, nearly blinding me. It was coming directly at me with a volley of bullets.

  I did the only thing I could, with barely seconds to spare from either being run over or shot to death. Diving to the pavement, I rolled around and around, dodging bullets like daggers. I returned fire, unloading my gun in the process.

  I watched from my chin as the car sideswiped The Worm’s Pontiac, did a somersault, and burst
into flames, illuminating the twilight hour like the Fourth of July. It took only three guesses as to the identity of the person who tried to put me out of commission and had succeeded with Jessie Wylson.

  * * *

  The charred corpse was tentatively identified as Officer Rick Muncie. It was a good bet that when the bullet was removed from The Worm’s brain it would have Muncie’s signature all over it. Officer William Cornwell had escaped death the hard way by making Muncie go this one alone.

  It looked as if Gregory Sinclair’s second biggest headache had been permanently eliminated. But that still left me to contend with.

  Sherman drove up and ran toward me, looking flustered and remorseful as if he’d just lost his best friend.

  “How could this happen?” he asked with an edge to his voice.

  “It’s not that difficult to figure out,” I said. “Too many players, back stabbers, lives, and careers at stake.” We both watched as the body bag containing Jessie Wylson was taken away. “Hope you have enough to hang Sinclair without The Worm now that you as good as gave Muncie the green light to execute anyone who stood between him and his pension.”

  The lines between Sherman’s brows deepened. “My hands were tied and you damn well know it, Drake! Until they were found guilty in a court of law, there was no way we could lock Muncie and Cornwell up and swallow the keys.”

  “Maybe police surveillance on two crooked police officers would have been the next best thing,” I said without sympathy. “It might have saved Jessie Wylson’s life, even if it wasn’t much worth saving.” I fronted Sherman. “My guess is that Cornwell is a loose cannon out there somewhere with nothing left to lose. I wouldn’t wait too long before you find him. Otherwise you may end up with more corpses.”

  “We’ll find him,” Sherman muttered lowly, but resolutely. He paused, looked at me and said, almost as an afterthought: “How you holding up?”

  “Other than skinned elbows and a bruised chin, I think I’ll live.”

  Sherman nodded. “Too bad the same can’t be said for The Worm.”

  “So what happens now to your case against Sinclair?” While Sherman pondered my question, I added: “Of course, you could always try the asshole for first degree murder, starting with his wife, Catherine. He probably also did in Michael Touchas—”

  Sherman licked his lips mindfully. “Nice of Ms. Collins to finally volunteer to come forward.”

  “Probably had something to do with a guilty conscience,” I cracked, “and a sudden desire to see Gregory Sinclair held accountable for his sins.”

  Sherman read between the lines. “Right. And I’m sure you didn’t twist her arm maybe just a little bit.”

  “Strictly in the interest of justice,” I said humorlessly.

  We both turned to look at O’Malley who must have been looking for some friendly faces after chatting with numerous, mostly hostile, eyewitnesses to what amounted to an execution and a fiery death.

  O’Malley’s brow was deeply furrowed as he said: “Just received the call over the radio. They found Cornwell dead in his bathtub. Shot in the face. His Glock was lying on the floor by the tub. They’re calling it a suicide—”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Gregory Sinclair was the last one to be dealt with. I doubted he would follow Cornwell’s lead and end his own miserable life. That would be too hard for a gutless bastard like him who found it easier to rape and beat his own wife to death. Fortunately, his days as a free and wealthy drug dealer and murderer were numbered. If Sherman and O’Malley were to be believed, Sinclair’s arrest was imminent.

  If not, I would deal with him in my own way.

  In the meantime, I felt obliged to pay Sinclair a courtesy visit in advance of his impending fall from grace. Between Francesca’s testimony and other evidence linking him to his wife’s death, including DNA tests of semen taken from the victim, there was enough to convict Sinclair of the rape and murder of Catherine Ashley Sinclair.

  Whether or not he would face charges in connection with Jessie Wylson’s life and death remained to be seen.

  The gate was open when I got there. Sinclair’s Mercedes was there, but the Porsche was gone. Maybe he had gotten rid of everything that reminded him of his wife.

  The housekeeper answered the door. Her expression was anything but relaxed.

  “Where is he?” I asked her.

  “Mr. Sinclair left—” Her frightened eyes stared at me.

  I stared back perceptively. The fear she felt was not due to my presence, but something else. Or someone else.

  “What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

  She gulped. “I think he went to find you.”

  Nuff said. If Sinclair wanted me, I would be happy to make myself available to him.

  “I expect all hell to break loose around here any time now,” I warned her. “For your sake, I hope you don’t get caught in the crossfire—”

  I drove to my office. It seemed like the first place he would go.

  After reloading my gun, I went up. The light was on and the door looked as if it had been tampered with. I entered cautiously.

  There was no sign of Sinclair, but he left a calling card. A nude picture of Catherine Ashley Sinclair was sitting on my desk. It was one of the pictures Agnoski took, minus Nancy Mackenzie, who had been clipped from view as if insignificant. Sinclair obviously wanted me to know he was here and found the perfect way to get my attention.

  He had.

  “Son of a bitch,” I cursed aloud.

  I left the office and headed home, figuring Sinclair had probably already been arrested. Either that or he was trying to make a run for it.

  He wouldn’t get very far.

  I credited myself with having had something to do with that.

  As well as a lady I never got to know, but wished I had.

  * * *

  Vanessa King greeted me outside the brownstone. Already things were beginning to look up.

  “Were you expecting company?” she asked, concern spilling from her voice.

  “That depends on the company.”

  “It was going to be me,” she said with obvious disappointment. “But when I went to your apartment, I saw a man and woman going in. She looked scared to death.” Vanessa’s gaze narrowed. “What’s going on, D.J.?”

  “The less you know,” I told her protectively, “the better off you’ll be.” Since I knew that was inadequate, especially for a woman I wanted to build some type of meaningful relationship with, I said flatly: “That man murdered his wife and wants to get rid of the two people who just might get him a lethal injection—”

  “You and that woman?” Vanessa looked horrified.

  “Afraid so,” I responded gravely.

  Putting on a brave face, Vanessa asked: “How can I help?”

  “Call the D.A.’s office,” I said. “Ask for Deputy D.A. Frank Sherman. Tell him if he wants to wrap up his case, he’d better get his ass over here as soon as he can—and bring backup!”

  She twitched and eyed me worriedly. “D.J., you’re not going up there, are you?”

  I sucked in a breath. “He hasn’t left me much choice.” I caressed her soft shoulders. “I’ll be all right.” I tried to assure her, even though I was less certain.

  Before she could talk me out of it, I raced towards the front door of the brownstone, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time I saw Vanessa King’s beautiful face.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  At my apartment door, I listened as if I expected to hear Sinclair laying in wait. Instead, I heard nothing but silence. With my gun pointed at the door, I turned the knob.

  I opened the door and heard Sinclair’s expectant voice say: “Come on in, Drake.”

  He was standing in a corner of the darkened living room. Next to him was Francesca. Even in the low light coming from the bedroom, I could see that he was holding a gun to her head.

  And I was pointing my Glock at him. It didn’t seem to faze Sinclair.

  “Close t
he door!” he ordered. I did. “So you got my message?”

  “I got it,” I snapped, never losing sight of him.

  He smiled, self-satisfied. “You were smart to come alone,” he said, “or dumb, depending on how you look at it.”

  I kept my cool, aware he was trying to bait me into doing something that could blow up in my face. That included killing him before he could go to trial for murdering his wife and being a total bastard.

  “Whatever you say, man,” I told him, hoping to buy some time. “The point is I’m here.”

  Francesca looked like a frightened child next to Sinclair. Not at all like the highly charged, sexual woman I remembered from the last time she was in my apartment.

  “I’m sorry, D.J.—” uttered Francesca, as if she also remembered.

  “Shut up, bitch!” Sinclair brought the gun closer to her head. He almost seemed to get off on terrifying her by force. I could only imagine the agony Catherine Sinclair must have endured in her final moments.

  “Let her go, Sinclair,” I said in vain, my gun aimed to fire right between his eyes. “This is between you and me.”

  He grumbled. “I should have gotten rid of her from the start—and you!”

  “But that wouldn’t have jibed with your plans, would it?” I glared at him, waiting to make my move and hoping he didn’t make his. “Killing her and me would have only made the police ask more questions and given you fewer plausible answers.”

  “I have the only answer I need now—” He glanced at his insurance policy and back to me. “You’ve been like an albatross around my neck, Drake. I’ll never be allowed to get on with my life until I clip your wings once and for all. And this bitch is going to help me do it.”

  “You mean the way she helped you kill your wife?”

  He thought about it. “You could say that. Only this time, she’ll get to play the role of her life—and death!”

  I was stalling. “You kill her, and I’ll blow your damned head off. It’s as simple as that. I’d say we’re at a standstill—”