Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (19 page)

BOOK: Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery
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I stepped on the accelerator while trying to
shake off the stars and stripes I was seeing. Someone meant
business and wanted to make sure I didn’t leave this car alive.

It didn’t take long before the pickup had
pulled up alongside me. Suddenly, I was staring at the barrel of a
high-powered automatic rifle sticking out through the passenger
window like a cannon.

I pressed on the accelerator and ducked as
gunfire exploded and shattered my passenger window into a million
pieces. The stakes had been raised and someone had decided to put
me out of my misery once and for all. Only I wasn’t ready to meet
my maker just yet. At least not without an all-out fight for
survival.

I had moved ahead of the pickup, but not
before recognizing that it was Clarence who had fired at me. Dirk
was behind the wheel of the pickup. Another shot shattered the back
window of the Bronco. I stayed low, even as I’d taken my Glock out
and fired back. The assholes rear-ended me twice before managing to
once again pull up beside me on the bumpy street.

I heard Clarence yell: “You’re gonna die,
bastard!” And he fired another shot that blew out my driver’s side
window.

Once more I forged ahead while firing behind.
Trying to drive without seeing what the hell you’re doing could be
a bitch. But it beat having my damned head blown off.

I shifted the Bronco into high gear and
managed to put some distance between my pursuers and me. At least
enough space to be able to focus on the road without taking a
bullet. With Dirk and Clarence in hot pursuit, this cat and mouse
game of life and death became even more interesting as I cut
sharply onto Thirty-Third Drive and headed north. Vincente’s
gorillas stayed within striking distance and weren’t shy about
shooting randomly at anything that moved.

I negotiated the road expertly as some other
drivers got the message and got the hell out of the way. When
you’re caught in a struggle to stay alive, it’s easy to lose sight
of how you got from point A to point B.

In this instance, point B was Marine
Drive
.
The airport was on my right, the Columbia River on my
left. I did my best to zigzag between cars on the curvy road with
the fat boys managing to keep pace every step of the way, seemingly
determined to complete the hit.

Luckily, I never gave them a stationary
target—that is, not until I veered onto a lookout point off the
road, designed to give one breathtaking views of the mighty
Columbia River. I drove as far as I could without taking a swim in
the river and got out. Readying my Glock, I waited for my would-be
assassins, making sure they saw my pretty face. They didn’t
disappoint me.

Dirk seemed content to simply run me down.
But Clarence had other ideas. His head and arm were sticking out of
the truck like a stuffed animal as he tried to line me up for one
good shot.

I felt the same way, hoping to get off two
good shots. On one knee, I waited as long as possible to still be
able to talk about it, before firing at the approaching pickup.
Eyes focused and hand steady, the windshield shattered as I hit my
targets flush.

Bull’s-eye! Bull’s-eye again!

Dirk lost control of the vehicle and it flew
off the road, plunging into the Columbia River with two bodies
trapped inside.

* * *

Divers pulled up the dripping corpses of
Vincente’s henchmen while O’Malley took my statement.

“Why the hell does everything always have to
be so dramatic with you, Drake?” He puffed on a cigarette, anguish
creasing his brow in several places.

“Maybe you should ask whoever it is that’s
trying to kill me.”

“I can’t—they’re dead,” he said humorlessly,
“thanks to you!”

“Self-defense was something they taught us in
the academy.” My eyes found his. “Or have you forgotten that in
your own pursuit of justice—or injustice?”

O’Malley rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “No, I
haven’t forgotten,” he said lamely. “We have witnesses to back up
your side of the story. Looks like you’re off the hook on this one,
Drake. I just wonder how many more dead bodies are going to show up
with you caught right in the middle.”

I resented the insinuation, so I said
bluntly: “As many as it takes to keep my own body out of the river
or morgue.” I sucked in a deep breath. “I think I should see what
Ben Vincente has to say about this.”

O’Malley frowned. “Don’t bother. Vincente was
found dead in his car this afternoon. Shot once in the back of the
head.” He gave me a suspicious look. Or, more specifically, he
stared at the Glock currently resting inside the waist of my pants.
“Looks like a 9 millimeter,” he said knowingly.

“So you know your weapons,” I responded
quick-wittedly.

“Your Glock 40 is still in police lockup,” he
informed me, as if I’d forgotten. “Maybe you should have limited
yourself to one weapon, Drake. I hope Vincente didn’t take a bullet
from your gun.”

“He didn’t,” I assured him. “I’m not that
stupid, O’Malley. I doubt I’d shoot the man with my own gun—no
matter how many I owned.”

I had to admit the news of Vincente’s death
was neither all that surprising nor depressing.

O’Malley looked relieved.

“Maybe you should check Cornwell and Muncie’s
weapons,” I suggested. Then I decided to come clean with what I
knew. “Or aren’t you aware that they’ve been on the take, extorting
money from drug dealers such as Vincente and Jessie Wylson?”

O’Malley looked out at the river with a long
scowl. He sucked on his cigarette and tossed it into the Columbia
before saying drearily: “They’ve been suspended pending an I.A.
investigation.” He faced me; smoke filtering from his nostrils like
a chimney. “I didn’t know about them when you pointed the finger at
crooked cops—”

I believed him, and accepted his way of
apologizing. “They might have been involved in the murder of
Catherine Sinclair, but I’m not sure of their motive yet.”

O’Malley lifted a brow. “You’re sayin’ you
think this attempt on your life is somehow connected to Catherine
Sinclair’s death.”

Admittedly, my suspicions were on shaky
ground. Except that I didn’t believe in coincidences, especially
when there was one too many.

“Don’t you?” I asked. “I’m set up for
Catherine Sinclair’s murder at the same time that I’m trying to
stick my hooks into The Worm. Lo and behold, Cornwell and Muncie
show up out of nowhere and arrest me. Then I find out they’re after
Wylson. What the hell am I supposed to think?”

O’Malley lit another cigarette. “You’re
right, something strange is definitely going on here. What it is,
I’m not sure. But,” he conceded, “it does seem like someone’s out
to get you—”

I took that as a vote of confidence in my
innocence, at least for Catherine Sinclair’s death. O’Malley,
stubborn and all, was too good of a cop not to know a frame-up when
it was staring him in the face.

“So where do you plan to go from here?” I
asked O’Malley, curious.

He drew on the cigarette. “I’ll let you know
when I get there. Meanwhile, I suggest you lay low for a
while.”

My brows touched. “You mean hide out?”

“I’m mean stay alive!”

“I’ve never been good at locking myself in
the closet and counting on others to solve my problems, least of
all the police.” I figured he could relate under the
circumstances.

If he could, he preferred to play hardball
with me. “Look, I’m warnin’ you, Drake, don’t get in this too deep.
Whatever you’ve managed to get yourself involved in, it’s still an
official investigation. And that includes Catherine Sinclair’s
death. Am I getting through to you?”

I glared down at him. “I promise not to get
in your way, Detective,” I said defiantly. “Just don’t get in
mine—”

With that, I walked off, determined to hold
my ground. O’Malley did not come after me. We both knew what we had
to do. If he could solve my cases for me, more power to him. But I
wasn’t about to be a sitting duck for anyone. And that included
Muncie and Cornwell.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 

It took three days to replace the windows and
bumper before the Bronco was in shape to drive again. With no leads
as to the whereabouts of the woman who tricked me into spying on
the woman who turned out to be the real Catherine Ashley Sinclair,
I continued my surveillance of Gregory Sinclair. Though I couldn’t
tie him to the mystery lady, I remained convinced they were in this
together. Proving it while trying to stay alive had become a test
of courage and willpower.

I followed Sinclair to Willamette Park for a
clandestine meeting with someone. He had been careful to make sure
he wasn’t being followed.
But not careful enough
. Could he
finally be leading me to the woman I’d begun having nightmares
about?

Turned out to be a false hope. A man
approached Sinclair. They began to talk. Or argue was more like it,
based on their contorted facial expressions.

Through the zoom lens of my camera, I
recognized and photographed the man Sinclair was conversing with.
Tom Greer. He worked as an investigator for the D.A.’s office.

What was he doing meeting with Sinclair? This
left me more than a little piqued.

Within minutes, the two split up. Despite my
reluctance to let Sinclair out of my sight, something told me to
follow Greer instead. We once worked together on a case for the
D.A. Greer was in his mid forties, about six-two, and medium build.
His dark brown hair was wedge shaped on his pate. I’d known him to
be an honest and dedicated person. Apparently I was wrong.

I followed Greer to a restaurant where, to my
dismay, he met with Frank Sherman. My imagination began to run
wild.

What was Sherman’s connection to Gregory
Sinclair? Was the Deputy D.A. involved in Catherine Sinclair’s
murder? Had he set me up? Or was I set up by Sherman and Sinclair
with Greer acting as the go-between? Where did Muncie and Cornwell
fit into this new development? What about Jessie Wylson and the
missing blonde? The web of deception and treachery seemed to be
growing each day like a cancer.

To say I was hot under the collar when I
trailed Sherman to his house in one of the better neighborhoods in
Portland did me a disservice. I felt as if he had tagged me as a
man with more brawn than brains.

Sherman’s mouth hanging a mile open betrayed
his surprise when he opened the door to my face. I knew him to be
married to a woman nearly half his age, with two young children.
Right now, I didn’t give a damn if they happened to hear what I had
to say to him.

“What are you doing here, Drake?” He made no
pretense in his resentment in seeing me there. His tie was loose,
suit wrinkled, and he had a drink in hand.

My lips were pressed tightly as I said: “I
need to talk to you, Sherman—”

He obviously didn’t get it. “Can’t it wait
till tomorrow when I’m in my office?”

“Now—!” I gave him the weight of my fierce
stare.

He gulped down his drink and, perhaps more
out of genuine curiosity than anything, said: “Come in.”

I was whisked off into a study before I could
lay eyes on the family, or they on me.

Sherman confronted me with anger in his eyes.
“All right, Drake. What the hell is this about?”

I glared back. “It’s about Tom Greer meeting
with Gregory Sinclair, then meeting with you—” I paused
deliberately, gauging his initial reaction. It was one of a person
who had just been caught red-handed with his fingers in the cookie
jar.

Only it was not cookies we were talking about
here.

“It struck me as just a little too
coincidental that the man whose wife I was set up to look like I
raped and killed should be meeting with one of your investigators,”
I said. “Especially considering the fact
you
hired me to
find Jessie Wylson—a man you wanted badly enough to have me
released from police custody. I don’t like being played for a fool,
not by the Deputy District Attorney, of all people. And, right now,
my suspicions are threatening to boil over. You’d better come up
with some damned good answers, Sherman—and fast!”

He turned away from me almost too calmly and
walked to a bar in the room, as if it were his sanctuary. “Drink,
Drake?”

“No—!” This wasn’t exactly a social call.

He gave himself a refill while I stood
flat-footed, watching, and waiting.

“I suppose I did underestimate you, Drake,”
he began deliberately, “and you’re right—you do deserve some
answers.”

Sherman paused long enough for me to glance
around the large, walnut paneled study. It was expensively
furnished with real wood shelves, leather sofa, and marble table. I
couldn’t help but wonder if it was paid for with dirty money.

Sherman put the drink to his mouth and with
wet lips said: “Greer was meeting with Sinclair to supply him with
false information—”

“About what?”

“We’re putting together a case against
Sinclair,” he said evenly. “We believe he’s one of the largest
suppliers of meth on the West Coast. Apparently he used his wife’s
legitimate money to launder his illegal profits. Desperate to find
out what he could about the case, Sinclair tried to bribe one of
our other investigators.” He sighed. “So we decided to have Greer
act as his source of knowledge, telling him what we wanted him to
hear while learning what we could about his operation straight from
the bastard’s mouth.”

This was interesting, to say the least. But I
would reserve final judgment for later.

“Where does Jessie Wylson fit in?” I
asked.

Sherman took another drink and frowned. “He’s
every bit the lowlife I told you and guilty as charged,” he said,
seemingly trying to convince me. “But he’s not the prime time
player in the illicit drug business I made him out to be. He worked
for Sinclair as a middleman between the supplier and street
distributor. We were prepared to use Wylson as a key witness
against Sinclair in exchange for dropping certain charges against
him. But The Worm freaked out and decided he was better off hiding
than in protective custody.”

BOOK: Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery
5.06Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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