Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (18 page)

“Cornwell and Muncie!” He blurted the names
out like a man who felt the odds were stacked entirely against him.
“They’re playing both sides of the street and are out to get The
Worm before he squeals.”

Officers William Cornwell and Rick Muncie?
The same cops who conveniently showed up and arrested me for
Catherine Sinclair’s murder! I thought about it for a moment. Was
this just coincidence? Or were Catherine’s death and The Worm’s
drug trafficking and being on the lam somehow connected? And where
did the phony Catherine Ashley Sinclair fit into the picture?

First, I had to deal with the fact that there
were two dirty cops who were apparently after Jessie Wylson. And I
strongly suspected they might be trying to kill me, too.

I removed the gun from Vincente’s face.
“Thanks for your help, man,” I told him wryly. “I’m sure Cornwell
and Muncie will thank you, too.”

“Go to hell,” he said, sounding very much
like a dead man.

“I’d rather not,” I chuckled tonelessly. “But
I’m betting you’ll find your way there, probably sooner than
later.”

In that moment, something possessed Dirk to
lunge at me like a lunatic. In the process, the Glock went flying
from my hand. He had already put his fat head into my stomach
before I could recover the gun. Since I knew I was never going to
beat this gorilla in a wrestling match, I decided to keep it short
and sweet.

I used my fists and smashed them against his
temples. The impact was enough to make him dizzy. While he was
trying to recover, I used his belly as a punching bag, and then ran
his ass into the table where Clarence was just starting to get up.
Both men tumbled to the floor in a heap of flesh and bones.

I scooped up my gun and was ready to fire in
the blink of an eye. It never came to that. Neither Vincente nor
his hired goons were ready to die—at least not yet.

“I’ll see myself out,” I told them
tauntingly.

On my way to the office, I thought about the
man in the middle of this web of police corruption and drug
trafficking.

Jessie Wylson was apparently still alive
after all
.
But for how long?

If Muncie and Cornwell had their way, The
Worm had far more to fear from them than me.

* * *

I took my case against Cornwell and Muncie
straight to Frank Sherman, deciding it was too hot for O’Malley to
handle. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how much I could trust Sherman.
But, under the circumstances, I didn’t feel I had much choice.

He seemed to take my allegations against the
corrupt duo in stride.

“Yeah, we know about Cornwell and Muncie,” he
said equably. He was sitting across the table from me at a downtown
deli where we had agreed to meet.

I watched Sherman stuff half a corned beef
sandwich in his mouth, then say: “They’re our problem. We’ll deal
with them—”

I pointed my eyes at his cherub face. “You
made them my problem when you hired me to find Jessie Wylson. I
don’t take it lightly when renegade cops would rather see me dead
than stay on this case.”

“Don’t go ballistic on me, Drake.” Sherman
wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Scum like Ben Vincente would
implicate his own mother and daughter if it meant taking the heat
off himself.”

The chicken sandwich before me tasted like it
should have been given last rites a week ago. I washed it down with
warm coffee, and then said to Sherman: “Are you telling me Cornwell
and Muncie aren’t out for The Worm’s blood?”

“They’re cops, dammit,” he muttered as if
this made them somehow infallible. “They may not be playing by all
the rules, but that doesn’t make them killers.”

“They’re crooked cops!” I chose not to mince
words. “In my book, that means they’re capable of anything.”

Sherman leaned forward, mayonnaise hanging
from a corner of his mouth like it had been painted on. “They’re
under investigation, that’s all I can tell you. Let’s not go
jumping to any conclusions that haven’t been substantiated.”

I stared at him. “So what the hell am I
supposed to do until they’re substantiated, make myself an easy
target?”

He gulped down cappuccino like it was water.
“From where I sit, you’ve got a hell of a lot more to be worried
about than two cops who haven’t been found guilty of a damned
thing, other than using bad judgment.” His eyes narrowed. “If I
were you, I’d concentrate on trying to clear my own name of
Catherine Sinclair’s murder. At this stage of the investigation,
word is the deck is still stacked heavily against you.”

But who was shuffling the
cards
?
I wondered. Sinclair? The mystery woman who may
or may not have been his co-conspirator? The Worm? Vincente? Muncie
and Cornwell?

Even the Deputy D.A. himself couldn’t be
ruled out. I eyed him bleakly. “Don’t try to intimidate me,
Sherman,” I told him with a stiff upper lip. “We both know if the
evidence was there, my ass would be in jail right now.”

He sighed. “Don’t press your luck, Drake. It
may be just a matter of time. In the interim, Jessie Wylson is
still the man I’m looking for and paying you to find. I suggest you
get to him before he gets to you—”

Was that a warning? Or a promise?
Neither sounded very appealing at the moment. Nor did the notion of
being arrested and charged with Catherine Sinclair’s rape and
murder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

I put on my best dark blue suit for my date
with Vanessa King. Lately, I wasn’t accustomed to cooking for
anyone other than yours truly. Not to mention cleaning the place. I
even changed the sheets, though something told me that wouldn’t be
necessary. Vanessa turned me on like no other woman had in recent
memory. But as hard as it would no doubt be, I had to keep my
libido in check with this lady. It was too special an occasion not
to act like the gentleman I could be when I wanted to. I hadn’t met
many women with such class, presence, and sensuality. I wasn’t
about to blow it.

Vanessa showed up at seven o’clock sharp.

“Right on time.” I smiled at her, and got a
whiff of what smelled like
Obsession
. It was definitely
working.

Without being overly obvious, I studied my
dream lady. She was even more appealing than usual, if that was
possible. Her raven hair was freshly curled around a high-cheeked
face dotted with several tiny, sexy moles. Just a hint of shadow
made her walnut eyes sparkle, while her thin lips glowed from
pinkish-red lipstick. Her petite frame sizzled in a snug-fitting
gray dress. Completing her outfit were gray heels.

“It’s always easier to keep an appointment
when you only have to go down one floor.” Vanessa grinned, and I
wondered if this was just an appointment to her.

We ended up standing awkwardly in the living
room for a moment or two before Vanessa sniffed, and said: “Mmmm.
Something smells good. I’ll bet it’s just as tasty.”

“If it isn’t,” I joked nervously, “I may have
to lock myself in my room for being a bad boy.”

She batted her lashes flirtatiously. “I doubt
that my knight in shining armor could ever be accused of being a
bad boy.”

Never with her. It remained to be seen if my
cooking could live up to its advance billing.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I
asked.

“I’ll have some wine, thank you.”

I had to dig out a tablecloth I bought some
time ago, but never used. Vanessa insisted on helping set the
table, as long as I insisted she stay out of the kitchen. It seemed
like a match made in heaven.

Ribs, mashed potatoes, salad, rolls, and red
wine had a nice ring to it, especially when Vanessa gave it her
stamp of approval.

“You can cook for me any time, D.J.,” she
suggested, sucking on a rib. “It’s delicious!”

I sipped wine boastfully while drinking in
the sight of her. My ideal woman sitting at
my
table, eating
my
ribs. I doubted it got much better than this.

“So what is it you do when you’re not
stopping thieves from harassing women or getting into accidents?” A
curious glance slanted her face.

I bit into a roll. “I jog a lot,” I said
lightly before telling her what she really wanted to know. “I’m a
private investigator.”

She looked surprised. “Like Shaft, huh?”

I chuckled. “Yeah. Only I’m about three
inches taller and its’ a lot less glamorous than Richard Roundtree
made it seem.”

She dabbed a napkin at the corners of her
mouth. “What’s it like being a real private eye?”

I thought about it for a moment, only because
I didn’t want to scare her off about tales of fistfights, bullets
flying, and people trying to kill you or frame you for murder.

I finally said: “Mostly boring stuff like
surveillance, dead end streets, chasing missing cats up trees—”

She smiled. “Are you serious?”

“Every now and then something juicy will come
along,” I confessed.

“Such as?”

“Adulterous, conniving spouses,
murder-for-hire plots, dangerous felons on the loose—” I told her,
sounding more enthusiastic than I really was. “But usually you can
count those cases on two fingers.”

She wrinkled her nose in contemplation.

I used a short pause to turn the tables.
“What about you, Vanessa?”

She cocked a brow playfully. “What about
me?”

“What do you do for a living?”

I found myself wanting to know everything
about this woman, especially who that man was who had his hands all
over her the other day. All in good time.

She forked some salad. “I work in an art
gallery.”

I remembered the painting I had carried into
her apartment. Should have guessed she was into something that
spelled cultured in bold letters.

“I admit I don’t know a damned thing about
real art.” I was hoping she could give me some private lessons.

“It’s a wonderful world of creative
illusions, expression, and artistic talent.” Enthusiasm spread over
her face. She was clearly a woman who definitely had command of her
professional world. “Perhaps you can come to the gallery where I
work sometime? I’d be happy to show you around.”

An offer I couldn’t refuse. “I’d like that.”
There seemed little about this woman that I didn’t like.

From the table, we ended up on the couch with
our wine glasses and about an inch between us. Which, in this case,
was an inch too many. I had put on a Whitney Houston CD and it made
the mood just right.

I learned that Vanessa King was originally
from Detroit, divorced, and had two daughters—one in college, the
other living with her father in Boston. Still no word on the man I
assumed she had been dating. The fact Vanessa was sitting so close
that I could feel heat radiating from her body, led me to believe
the mystery man had become another ex in her life. Which was good
news for me.

When my turn came to spill the background
beans, Vanessa learned that I grew up in Portland, was raised by my
mother, and saw my father whenever the mood struck him, which
wasn’t too often. I’d put in a dozen years as a cop, got my B.A.,
never married, and had no children that I knew of.

“Why haven’t you ever gotten married, D.J.?”
Vanessa asked, seemingly more out of curiosity than admonition.

People asked me this all the time and I
always gave the same answer, or at least the only one that I seemed
to be able to justify. “I suppose the right woman has never come
along,” I said, for some reason feeling foolish in stating the
cliché.

I looked into her mesmerizing eyes, watching
the curve of her smile.
If there was a right woman for me, she’s
definitely the one!

I narrowed the inch separating us so our
bodies touched. I desperately wanted to kiss her. My senses told me
she was in agreement, but I remained cautious in coming on too
strong. Like fine wine, some things just couldn’t be rushed.

When I got close to her mouth and she showed
no resistance, I kissed Vanessa King for the first time. Her lips
were soft, moist, and very inviting. The kiss was sweet and
short.

It was she who drew the line. “That was
nice,” she cooed, wiping lipstick from my mouth with her pinky.
“Let’s try to get to know each other more first and see where this
is headed. Agreed?”

I steadied the rapid beat of my heart.
“Agreed.” I had too much respect for her or any woman to try and
force the action.

I offered to walk Vanessa to her apartment,
but she insisted it wasn’t necessary. She told me she enjoyed the
food and company. I told her I enjoyed the company. We made plans
to get together soon. It was a promise I was not about to renege on
or allow her to.

I spent the next two and a half hours
watching a tape of the Seahawks last game. All the while I was
thinking about Vanessa King.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

They say every man must face his worst demons
sooner or later. I faced mine by returning to the site of the
chemical explosion that was supposed to leave me dead. Instead, it
ended up giving me a new lease on life.

All that was left of the trailer was shards
of metal and glass. The spot where it once sat was charred, as was
much of the surrounding area. I searched for clues the police techs
might have missed, but came up with nothing that would point a
finger at whoever set me up. As far as I was concerned, The Worm,
who had already tried unsuccessfully to take me out, had failed
again.

I still had an uneasy feeling that Jessie
Wylson was more or less a fall guy for something or someone
bigger—and badder. Meaning the trailer explosion could just as
easily have been meant for him. There were plenty of suspects who
had a motive to want to see us both dead.

I drove away from death’s door and headed
back into the city’s core when the rearview mirror told me I had
company. A black pickup truck was on my tail and seemed anxious to
introduce itself to my Bronco. I felt a jolt as the pickup slammed
into my vehicle like it was standing still. Seconds later, it hit
me again, only harder.