Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (14 page)

It was only a matter of time before he
slipped up. And I intended to be there when he did. I hoped his
lady friend would make it a threesome.

* * *

When all else failed, and lately it seemed
to, the one thing I could count on was the contentment of running.
I made it five miles along the river, admiring boats making gentle
waves, before going to the office.

I washed up, changed clothes, and was in the
process of playing with possible leads in the hunt for the phony
Catherine Sinclair when the phone rang.

“Dean Drake, Private Investigations—”

The voice sounded like sandpaper might if it
could talk. “If you wanna find Jessie Wylson, go to a trailer on
Willouby Street.”

“Who is this?” I asked, straining to
recognize the voice that seemed equally determined to remain
anonymous.

“Never mind,” the caller said. “You want him
or not?”

More than he knew
.
That didn’t
stop warning sirens from sounding in my head, as was often the case
when someone I didn’t know volunteered “useful” information. I
asked warily: “How do I know this isn’t a set up?”

“I’m risking my life calling you,” the
sandpaper voice said with trepidation. “What you do with the
information is up to you.”

The chance to nab The Worm was almost too
good to pass up. I took the location from the caller. Since my
Glock had been confiscated by the police, I had replaced it in my
waistband with a backup Glock 9 millimeter. I made sure it was
loaded before leaving the office.

In the Bronco, I phoned Frank Sherman’s
office. I recalled him saying he wanted to be there to personally
slap the cuffs on The Worm. If he really wanted Jessie Wylson, he
could have him.

Sherman’s secretary must have put me on hold
for five minutes before he came to the phone. “Sherman,” he said
lazily.

“Thought you should know that your boy is
hiding out in a trailer on Willouby Street,” I informed him. “I’m
on my way over there right now.”

“Where did you get your information?” Sherman
asked skeptically.

“Does it matter?” I responded for lack of a
more credible answer. “I’m just telling you what I heard. If you
want the man, I suggest you be there—and bring anyone else you want
to ride on your coattails. I have a feeling Wylson may not give up
quietly.”

“I’ll meet you there,” he said tersely. Then
added, almost as a prophetic afterthought: “And be careful,
Drake—”

* * *

Finding the trailer had proven to be more
difficult than I thought. It was isolated and surrounded by
overgrown grass and weeds. It was the perfect place for a Worm to
hide or an unsuspecting private investigator to fall right into a
deadly trap.

Rather than go it alone, I waited in my car
for Sherman and the calvary. When they failed to show up after
nearly an hour, I wondered if there had been a mix-up in the
location.
Or had Sherman never intended to come?

A number of thoughts rotated through my head.
None of them good.
Was I somehow being set up by the
D.A.
’
s office? Who was the caller? Could he have been
working for Sherman?
None of this made any sense to me, except
for the fact that it all seemed too damned convenient.

After ten more minutes of no-shows of Sherman
or anyone else on behalf of the D.A.’s office, I came to the
conclusion that it wasn’t going to happen. I refused to waste the
time contemplating why. If Jessie Wylson was in the trailer, I owed
it to myself to earn my pay and some payback by bringing his ass
in. Even if it meant going it on my own.

I left the Bronco and carefully made my way
through the grass and weeds, mindful of hidden dangers. My Glock
was held low as I approached the trailer. Rap music was blaring as
if the person inside was almost deaf.

It was broad daylight, which meant I could
see and be seen easier in a direct approach. I doubled back and
came up behind the trailer. There was an old beat up Isuzu Trooper
behind it parked on a dirt path.

No sign of anyone inside.

Once more, I converged on the trailer. It
occurred to me that there was a good possibility The Worm might not
be in there alone, if at all. I had to be prepared to take out
anyone who came within my eyesight if this turned into the gun
battle from hell.

I could hear nothing but the loud rap music.
Guardedly and quietly, I rounded the trailer until I got to the
door. After a moment or two of gearing myself up, I knocked once.
There was no response.

I knocked again, this time harder. Again, no
response or indication of human movement.
Was The Worm
inside?

My instincts told me this was probably a
mistake that I wanted no part of. Had Jessie Wylson been staying
here, but tipped off that I was coming? Or worse, could The Worm be
dead, leaving me to find his body?

I psyched myself up, as all P.I.’s inevitably
have to do when danger lurks and there is no backup. Throwing
caution and perhaps common sense to the wind, I clutched the
doorknob and turned it with the ease of a door that was
unlocked.

I knew the element of surprise was my best
weapon at this point. My trigger finger was pulsating like crazy
and I knew it was now or never.

The door may have opened an inch or so before
the explosion occurred. All I could see were bright lights
interspersed with dark flashes. For a moment, I thought the whole
world had suddenly come to an end. Then I realized it may have only
been my world.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The white light blinded me before I became
airborne. I don’t remember where I landed, but it seemed like I
floated there and came crashing down with a thud. The last thought
to go through my mind was that I had probably watched my last
Seahawks game. I wondered if I’d end up in heaven or hell for
eternity.

Then I heard: “He’s coming to...”

The voice sounded distinctly human. My eyes
opened and began to gain some clarity on faces hovering over me
like white angels. One I recognized as no angel. It was Frank
Sherman’s mug, something resembling a concerned smile resting on
his lips.

A pretty, raven-haired young woman wearing a
nurse’s uniform beamed beside him. On the other side of her was a
slender man of about thirty-five, with matted, short blonde hair.
He wore glasses, doctor’s attire, and a look of professional
delight.

I’m alive!
Either that or somebody was
playing a cruel hoax on me.

“Mr. Drake?” said the man dressed as a
doctor. “Can you hear me?”

I made my lips move, wishing more than
anything that I could wet my dry throat with a cold beer. “Loud and
clear,” I told him eagerly, if not weakly.

“You gave us quite a scare,” he said.

“Then you can imagine how I felt,” I uttered
wryly.

It took me a moment before I realized that my
head was wrapped in bandages, along with my right ankle. My left
arm was in a cast. The pain seemed to come from nowhere and
everywhere. It shot up and down my body as though I’d been struck
by lightning.

“I’m Doctor Ziegler,” the man hovering above
me said. “Do you remember what happened?”

I was straining to do just that, but it
wasn’t all clicking at the moment. I winced in pain. “Sorry, Doc,
my memory is playing tricks on me right now.”

“There was an explosion, Mr. Drake—”

Yes, it was coming back to me now. The
trailer. The Worm. I opened the door... “I remember,” I groaned in
a voice I hardly recognized.

“You must be Superman, Drake,” voiced Sherman
with astonishment. “You blew the lid off a mini chemical factory
that was apparently being used to manufacture meth and who knows
what else.” He gazed down at me ruefully. “Looks like you caught
the brunt of it—”

I gulped. More of my memory was resurfacing.
Sherman was supposed to provide back up. Only he never bothered to
show up, leaving me to fend for myself.

I narrowed my eyes fiercely at him. “Where
the hell were you and the S.W.A.T. team?” I roared, lifting up as
far as I could before being driven back down by pain. “You set me
up, you son of a bitch!”

“It’s not what you think, Drake,” he said
with an effort to remain poised. “No one set you up. We were there,
but at another trailer on the same street. It was a damned mix-up
of the address.” He sighed, red-faced. “I’m truly sorry this
happened.”

I had no choice but to believe him,
considering I had no real reason not to. I was just glad that I
hadn’t gone up with the trailer. Why I didn’t, I’ll probably never
know. Maybe it had something to do with fate watching over me.
Keeping me around for another day until the time to move on was
more appropriate. That notwithstanding, I knew I still wasn’t
entirely out of the woods. The pain I felt surging through my body
told me I hadn’t escaped unharmed.

“So how bad off am I, Doc?” I looked at him
with trepidation.

“Not nearly as bad off as you could be,” he
remarked confidently. “You suffered a mild concussion, sprained
ankle, and a fractured arm.” He flashed me a broad smile. “Other
than that, Mr. Drake, I’d say you’re in remarkably good shape.”

I took solace in that, all things considered.
“How soon do I get out of here?” I asked Ziegler.

“Not for a few days,” he said. “We need to
run a few precautionary tests and you need some rest and
recuperation.”

My eyes met the pretty nurse’s eyes, still
beaming as if she was looking at the man of her dreams. “Right
now,” I told her with a parched throat, “I’d settle for some
water.”

“Coming right up,” she said cheerfully, and
moved from my view. Moments later I was sipping warm water through
a straw, and requested more.

I finally got around to asking Sherman what
had been on the back of my mind since regaining my memory: “Did
they scoop The Worm’s charred remains from the trailer?”

He looked at me glumly. “There were no bodies
other than yours—” A long pause. “It appears this was a
well-orchestrated setup to get rid of you.” He lowered his head
shamefully. “The Worm is still on the loose, apparently alive and
well.”

If Sherman was disappointed—and clearly he
seemed to be—I was at least equally pissed off. While Jessie Wylson
seemed too elusive for his own good, I was being dealt a blow at
seemingly every turn. It was as if the same fate that kept me from
frying was equally determined to test my resolve and patience.

This only made me more intent on finishing
what I’d started. Right now, the only satisfaction I would get was
seeing The Worm put away, if not dead.

Then there was the not so small matter of
unfinished business in locating my other quarry—the mysterious
blonde, blue-eyed woman who suckered me into facing a possible
rape-murder wrap.

* * *

After a week, I left the hospital on
crutches. I had all but recovered from the concussion and the
sprained ankle was progressing nicely. The broken arm was still in
a cast and would take longer to come around. But not as long as the
mental wounds that came with being only a few steps from death’s
door.

Gus drove me home in his new black-on-black
van. “Man, you musta been outta your mind to go after this Worm
dude,” he remarked, disgust etched in his bearded face. “It’s
gotten you beaten up, nearly run over, and almost blown to pieces.
Give it up, D.J. It ain’t worth the aggravation.”

“Thanks for the advice, Gus,” I told him
sorely. “Maybe I have bitten off more than I can chew. Only time
will tell.”

Like the good friend he was, Gus didn’t press
the point.

I didn’t either. I never threw in the towel
on a case until it was completed one way or another. And, as far as
I was concerned, Jessie Wylson was definitely unfinished business.
As was the missing woman who had duped me.

Gus dropped me in front of my building. “Are
you gonna be all right, man?”

“I’ve made it this far,” I said gratefully,
leaning on the crutches. “The rest should be a breeze.”

I went inside just as Vanessa King was
leaving. She noted my less than fit condition. “What on earth
happened to you?” Her concern seemed genuine.

“Had a little accident,” I told her
sheepishly. What I didn’t tell her was that just talking to her
seemed to wipe all my blues away.

She frowned. “I’m so sorry. Was anyone else
hurt?”

Not yet
.
Hoping to elicit some
sympathy, I said: “I was the lone victim.”

Her face softened into a sweet smile and she
touched my unbroken arm. “You should really be more careful.”

“I will,” I promised ardently, touching her
hand and feeling as if the close call was almost worth it to have
captured the fancy of this woman, even if temporary.

We gazed at each other for what seemed an
eternity, before she turned away abruptly, as if her head had been
yanked.

She faced me again, and said softly: “My
name’s Vanessa King.”

“I know,” I admitted. “Dean Drake. You can
call me D.J. The J is for Jeremy.”

She licked her lips into a thoughtful smile.
“If there’s anything I can do to help, D.J., just ask—”

That was an invitation I would take to heart.
“I will,” I practically guaranteed her.

Her soulful brown eyes twinkled. “Well, you
take care now.”

“You, too.”

I watched as she moved effortlessly away from
the building without looking back. She was definitely one fine
lady, Halle Berry again coming to mind. My mother used to tell me
that good always came out of bad. I hadn’t really put much stock
into her words, until now.

Inside, I phoned the office and listened to
the messages for the past week that were left on my answering
machine. One was from Nate Griffin saying he had info for me.
Another was from my landlady reminding me that a ten percent late
fee was levied for rent payments made after the fifth of the month.
There were messages from an assortment of nuts, solicitors, and
potential paying clients.