Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (15 page)

At the moment, work was the farthest thing
from my mind, though it should have been the nearest in many
respects. I took a beer out of the fridge and sank onto the couch.
All of a sudden I began to feel as if things were definitely
starting to look up for me. And I owed that to a classy lady named
Vanessa King.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Two days later, I was in Frank Sherman’s
office. I was still not totally satisfied with his story of going
to the wrong trailer. It was just one more missing piece of the
puzzle. Right now, I wanted to know what he’d come up with on the
explosion that had nearly killed me.

“How’s the arm?” asked Sherman, studying me
from across his desk.

It hurt like hell sometimes. “If not for the
cast, I’d never know it was broken.”

He looked at me doubtfully. “You know, you
really ought to take it easy for a while, Drake.”

Was he telling me to back off the
case
?
I wondered. “Your concern is touching,” I said
sarcastically. “Too bad it came only after I discovered the trailer
was booby trapped.”

His brow furrowed. “Are you suggesting I had
something to do with that?”

I leaned forward with a hard stare. “You left
me hanging. What the hell am I supposed to think?” My words were
meant mainly to see if he would bite the bait.

He didn’t. “I told you it was a mix-up! You
called
me
about The Worm being there, remember?” He paused
theatrically. “No one told you to play the Lone Ranger, Drake.
Especially if you suspected there might be trouble—”

In spite of Sherman’s innocent facade, it
occurred to me that if he hadn’t wanted a Lone Ranger on this case,
he wouldn’t have hired me in the first place. But that was still a
long way from proof that he was crooked, much less a would-be
killer.

“So why don’t you tell me what you found out
about the trailer,” I suggested.

Sherman sat back. “It belonged to a man named
Michael Touchas. Apparently he was a onetime chemist turned illegal
drug manufacturer.”

“Have you been able to locate him?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact we have.” He fixed
my face solemnly. “Touchas was found two days ago floating in the
Columbia River.”

I muttered an expletive and flexed my good
arm.

Sherman asked: “You think he was the one that
phoned you?”

“Not likely,” I said. “I doubt he’d want to
blow up his own meal ticket. Someone used him to try to get to
me—and nearly succeeded!”

“You mean Jessie Wylson?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe someone else with
a good reason to want me dead.” I could think of a few people who
might fit the bill.

Sherman seemed just as aware. “Better watch
your step. You won’t be much good to either of us dead.”

“Don’t worry about me dying before my time,”
I told him with conviction. “I’m not going anywhere until I settle
a few scores.”

Sherman looked at me as if he knew something
I didn’t. “Don’t wait too long to settle up, Drake. You’re running
out of time—”

Was he telling me that my arrest for the
murder of Catherine Sinclair was imminent or that if I didn’t find
Jessie Wylson soon, it might be too late for him? Or me?

“By the way,” said Sherman, his mouth a
crooked line, “I want The Worm alive. Just in case you decide you
don’t already have enough dead bodies on your hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I promised, irked
by his thinly veiled insinuations. “But we both know that we don’t
always get what we want—”

It was clear that Sherman wanted Jessie
Wylson as much as I did. But I wasn’t sure of the Deputy D.A.’s
motives. Maybe only The Worm himself could provide the answers.

* * *

I tracked Nate down at a Starbucks where he
and his latest girlfriend—a long-haired, brunette with a deep tan
and a rose tattoo just above her ample cleavage—were cozying up to
one another at a table while sipping espresso. My ankle had gotten
strong enough that I was able to walk gingerly on my own two feet,
minus the crutches. Running would take a bit longer.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” I
lied.

Nate opened his wide mouth to the limit as he
surveyed me. “Heard you were in an accident, D.J. You all right,
man?”

“Been better—and worse,” I said nonchalantly,
and gave the girlfriend a “get lost” look.

She stood and said to Nate: “I think I’ll go
to the ladies’ room.”

“Good idea,” he concurred
unenthusiastically.

I watched her strut away, wondering where
Nate found his women.

Nate hit me with a look of annoyance. “This
ain’t the right time or place, D.J.,” he said in a harsh voice.

I sat down. “Be cool,” I told him, and lifted
a chocolate chip cookie from a napkin. “Your friend can survive
without you for a few minutes.”

He pouted. “That’s easy for you to say,
man.”

Probably was. “You left a message on my
machine.” Our eyes connected. “What’s up?”

Nate sighed while darting his eyes around the
place, as if in possession of the world’s top secret. In a low
voice, he said: “Word on the street is The Worm has vanished. You
know—poof.” He angled his hands apart in demonstration like a
magician.

I felt a knot in my stomach. “You mean he’s
dead?”

Nate hunched a shoulder. “Could be. All I
know is he’s out of circulation and you ain’t the only one lookin’
for him—”

“Oh?” He definitely got my attention. “Who
else is?”

He paused. “Cops.”

This was not exactly news, considering that
Jessie Wylson was a wanted fugitive.

“Tell me something I don’t already know,” I
said colorlessly.

Nate leaned across the table, so close that I
could count the moles on his face. “The word is out that
certain
cops
would rather see The Worm
dead
than caught ‘cause
of what he knows.”

“You got any names?” Now it was getting
really interesting.

“No names,” said Nate tightly. “Knowin’ the
wrong names can get you killed.”

I got the message. Whoever the crooked cops
were, they had too much to lose to let anyone live who was onto
them and willing to talk. Apparently The Worm fell into this trap.
And possibly Nate, too.

But right now, he was still the best lead I
had. I took a fifty from my wallet and slid it under Nate’s palm.
“I could sure use a name, if not two—”

Nate slid the fifty back to me like it was
tainted with HIV. “There ain’t enough money in the world worth
losing your life over.”

I added a second fifty, and put both bills
under his palm. “One name, man,” I said almost desperately. “If you
get it, I’ll double this. Two hundred can go a long way, if you use
it smartly.”

He squeezed his fingers around the cash like
a tarantula on its prey. “I’ll ask around real discreetly,” he
said. “Can’t promise nothing.”

I stood, feeling hopeful. “I’ll be waiting to
hear from you.” Grabbing another cookie and tossing it in my mouth,
I told Nate lightly: “Better go get your friend before she drowns
in a toilet.”

It seemed like The Worm case was getting more
complex by the day. People were dying while others, like me, were
barely surviving. Now crooked cops might be involved. And there was
the distinct possibility that Jessie Wylson could already be a dead
fugitive from justice.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

I showed up at Jasmine’s hoping in part to
relax with some good jazz. I wasn’t disappointed. The featured
singer looked and sounded like a young Teddy Pendergrass. A sexy
saxophonist provided foot-tapping accompanying music.

I had asked Lew O’Malley to meet me there. I
was still waiting. Gus came over to my table instead. I told him
more about the explosion and how the trailer’s owner was even less
fortunate.

“Man, you’re like two cats with eighteen
lives,” Gus said with amazement. “How many you figure you got
left?”

I stared at the question before answering:
“Probably not many. Who’s to say?” Every now and then I got like
that, where I was pretty damned blasé about the world I worked and
lived in.

“What’s the latest word on the blonde broad
who picked you up and dropped you like a hot potato on another
woman’s death bed?” Gus asked.

Like me, Gus knew how to put words in a not
so subtle, not too watered down, comical fashion.

I frowned. “That’s the problem, Gus,” I
muttered, “there aren’t enough words to go around. I’m still at a
loss as to who she is or even where the hell she is. But I
definitely know what she is—” I put suds to my mouth bitterly.

“She’ll materialize,” Gus said encouragingly.
“They always do, sooner or later. Broads like that are a dime a
dozen. If she’s still alive and hasn’t left the country, she’s
gonna want to step out of the shadows and spend whatever Sinclair
paid her to frame your ass.”

My problem was, I couldn’t be sure blondie
was still alive. Or, for that matter, still in Portland. At this
point, I couldn’t put anything past Gregory Sinclair if it meant
saving his own ass, including eliminating his accomplice girlfriend
and making sure no one ever found the body.

Yet something inside told me that I hadn’t
seen the last of the woman who had dragged me into a nightmare I’d
just as soon forget, but doubted I ever could.

Gus and I ignored each other and my problems
when the Teddy Pendergrass look-alike began crooning another jazzy
tune.

O’Malley finally showed up. “Sorry I’m late,”
he said, huffing and puffing like he had just run a marathon. “Had
to work overtime.”

“So what else is new,” I said
caustically.

It had been that way ever since his divorce
ten years ago from his high school sweetheart. She had left him for
another cop. As far as I knew, no one had come along since to make
O’Malley want to work less.

We talked about my brush with death and the
still open investigation of Catherine Sinclair’s murder, in which I
was still the closest thing they had to a suspect.

I was saving the best for last.

“You should have stayed a cop, Drake,” said
O’Malley, the trademark cigarette dangling from his mouth. “It was
a hell of a lot safer.”

“Trouble is, these days you can’t tell the
good guys from the bad,” I hinted insightfully.

“Sure you can,” he said firmly. “You just
have to know what to look for.”

“What about crooked cops?”

O’Malley eyed me suspiciously. “What about
‘em?”

I put beer to my lips. “The explosion may
have been caused by dirty cops,” I told him pointblank.

A deep sigh escaped O’Malley. “You sayin’ you
think cops tried to kill you?”

“Or kill Jessie Wylson,” I said. “Maybe even
the two of us for the price of one. Stranger things have
happened.”

“Gimme a damned break!” O’Malley bristled.
“If you’re accusing someone on the force of being responsible for
that trailer explosion, let’s have it, Drake—name, rank, and serial
number.”

“I’m not accusing anyone of anything,” I said
louder than I intended to. “Not yet anyway.”

“Then what the hell is this?” O’Malley shot
burning eyes at me, his bushy mustache practically sticking
straight out as if he’d been given an electrical charge.

I knew I was opening a can of worms that no
one wanted to deal with, much less the Portland Police Bureau. But
it was a potentially deadly problem that was not going to just go
away. I wasn’t ready to dismiss the notion that cops may have set
me up to get fried. Whatever else I may have thought of O’Malley,
deep down I knew he was a good and honest cop. I just wished I
could be so certain about some of my other ex-colleagues.

I tasted more beer, sighed, and put my cards
on the table. “My stoolie says word on the street is that certain
cops may want Jessie Wylson dead. If that’s true, then they may
also rather see me dead before I can find him.”

An irregular line formed between O’Malley’s
brows. “You don’t mean you got your information from that
Clown
downtown, do you?”

For some reason Nate had always rubbed
O’Malley the wrong way when we worked together. “My source is
reliable,” I said simply, going out on a limb.

“What the hell’s reliable?” he barked. “Does
this source have any proof? Or is this just hearsay?”

Our eyes connected. “It’s rumor, man,” I said
singularly. “Unsubstantiated, but the same solid word-of-mouth on
the street we both know is often more bankable than any hard core
police investigation.”

O’Malley drew hard on his cigarette. “Rumor
or not, I wouldn’t go around pointing the finger or making false
accusations unless you have proof. Solid proof. For your own
safety, Drake—”

My blood pressure rose. “That sounds like a
threat, O’Malley.” I fixed his face. “Is it?”

“Why should I threaten you?” he said,
softening his tone. “I’m just giving you some solid advice. Do the
hell what you want with it.”

I scooted my chair closer to his and, sensing
his reluctance to get involved, said in a strained voice: “What are
you afraid of—losing your pension? Or finding out that certain
people in your own department have their hands dirty and
bloody?”

O’Malley looked as if he was ready to boil
over.

I felt a lump go down my throat. “All I’m
asking is for you to check it out. At worst, you’ll find nothing to
substantiate the rumors. At best, you’ll make my job a lot easier
by narrowing down my list of enemies. And maybe yours,” I added as
a distinct possibility.

O’Malley drew a sharp breath. “Okay, I’ll
make some inquiries.” Finishing off his beer, he wiped his mouth
roughly with the back of his hand. “But I sure as hell hope you’re
wrong!”

“So do I,” I said for what it was worth. Once
a cop, always a cop. At least as it related to honor and
integrity.