Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (20 page)

“So you hired me to find him?”

Sherman nodded. “We needed someone outside
the office who seemed incorruptible or, at the very least, did not
figure to be a source of information for cops we suspected might be
looking for Wylson for all the wrong reasons—”

“You mean Cornwell and Muncie?”

Another nod.

I peered at Sherman’s face with some
misgiving. “Why not be up front about why you wanted The Worm?” I
hissed. “Why give me this two-bit tale about this all powerful drug
dealer turning schoolchildren into junkies?”

He emptied his glass. “The less you knew, the
better off you’d be—”

I couldn’t help but twist my lips into a
sardonic smile at the obvious miscalculation. This was quickly
replaced by a dark scowl. “I’ve been framed for murder, beaten up,
and nearly killed on at least three separate occasions,” I told him
angrily. “How much worse off could I have been?”

Sherman gazed at me almost sympathetically
while saying toughly: “Hazards of the profession, Drake. In your
business, you take what you can get.”

“What about in your business?” My eyes became
razor slits. “Is it the D.A.’s new policy to take whatever illegal
twists and turns you need to get what you want?”

“Who says it’s new?” His jaw tightened.
“We’ve always bent the law a little here and there in order to
prosecute as many deserving assholes as we can.” After a pause, he
added self-protectively: “Of course, that’s strictly off the
record—”

I knew deep down he was telling it like it
was. And there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. That
didn’t stop me from feeling used and abused like a battered wife.
I’d been made a scapegoat in the process of law and disorder.

“So who killed Catherine Sinclair?” I
demanded, sensing he knew the answer. “Was it Gregory Sinclair?
Cornwell? Muncie? Or someone else you’ve been holding back on?”

Sherman looked away. “We’re not sure—”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He angled his eyes coldly at me. “Catherine
Sinclair’s murder was unfortunate—and bad timing—but she’s never
been part of the equation as far as our case against Sinclair is
concerned.”

“What about as far as I’m concerned?”

“We know you were set up,” he said
matter-of-factly. “We don’t know why. Either way, it doesn’t change
the case against Gregory Sinclair any.”

My voice became hoarse. “So you’re telling me
you don’t give a damn about my being a more than convenient patsy
for rape and murder, not to mention the victim herself, so long as
you can put Sinclair away on the drug charges?”

He sighed. “Let’s just say Catherine
Sinclair’s death is not at the top of our priority list right
now.”

“Well, maybe it should be!” I pouted. “She
should be worth at least as much dead as her husband is alive.”

“There are many more lives to think about
than hers or his,” said Sherman judicially. “Or even yours, for
that matter—”

“Like The Worm’s?” I asked nastily. “If
Sinclair beat, raped, and strangled his own wife, then I’d hate to
see what Jessie Wylson will look like if Sinclair ever gets his
hands on him. Considering that The Worm’s testimony could put
Sinclair away for the rest of his life—” I fixed the Deputy D.A.
with unwavering eyes. “Let’s hope I find your witness for the
prosecution before Sinclair does.”

Sherman took a long breath. “You want that
drink now?”

“I’d say you need it more than I do,” I told
him heartlessly.

He grimaced. “Believe it or not, Drake, none
of this was ever personal.”

“Not for you, maybe,” I retorted callously.
“But for me, it’s very personal. Being jerked around by too many
people has a way of personalizing matters. I can find my way
out—”

Now I had to figure out how to find my way
out of this hole I was still knee deep in.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The gallery was in a part of town I almost
never visited. It was surrounded by other art galleries and
exhibits—part of a world that up to now had no place in my life.
That was before Vanessa King made me see the beauty of art from a
whole new perspective.

I still felt out of place when I walked into
her professional world wearing a cheap suit that seemed equally
ill-fitted to my surroundings.

Vanessa found me before I could find her. I
had been almost in a daze as I lost myself amidst the
collection.

“D.J.!” Her face lit as if she was looking at
a ghost. “What are you doing here?”

“I just happened to be in the neighbor—” I
stopped myself, deciding a worn out cliché somehow didn’t seem
appropriate. “Oh, what the hell,” I said to her. “I came to see
you...see where you worked.” I almost felt like I was intruding on
her private space.

Vanessa grinned, suggesting she approved of
my showing up uninvited. “How nice.” She took my hand. “Let me show
you around.”

“Lead the way,” I told her, and actually
began to feel relaxed.

“Most of our works right now are American
contemporary,” she explained, indicating the art lining the walls.
“Next week, we have a collection of Aborigine paintings from
Australia coming in—”

I wondered if one could truly distinguish
between one type of art and another. Obviously she could.

“Can I buy you lunch?” I looked
optimistically into her brown eyes.

She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t. Lunchtime is
our busiest.” A cute little smile dimpled her cheeks. “Can I take a
rain check?”

With Vanessa King, even a rejection came out
smelling like a rose. “Any time,” I told her, and meant it.

She continued with the grand tour. “So you
never did tell me if you’re working on a case.”

“Didn’t want to bore you,” I said
laconically. In fact, I wanted nothing more than to forget about
what had become a nightmare in a professional capacity that had hit
too close to home. With Vanessa, I felt as if I could set my
troubles aside—at least temporarily.

“I doubt you could ever bore me, Mr. Drake,”
she claimed, hitting me with another one of those devastating
smiles. “Besides, I’d like to know all about the private
investigator side of you and what cloak and dagger business you’re
into these days.” Her voice broke thoughtfully. “Unless, of course,
it’s top secret—”

I smiled, thinking that she had watched too
many TV and movie detectives in action and misadventures. I wasn’t
sure, quite honestly, if she had the stomach for the real nuts and
bolts of my present caseload. Just as I was prepared to give her a
watered down version, an accented male voice that reminded me of a
friend from Kenya, said:

“There you are, Vanessa—”

A light-skinned man in his mid forties came
from behind me and kissed her on the cheek. He had slicked back,
thinning black hair mingled with gray, and was wearing an expensive
double-breasted navy blue suit. I recognized him as the dude who
had been cozy with Vanessa at the brownstone.

Suddenly the jealous side of me wanted
nothing more than to find out all about him and the precise nature
of their relationship.

Vanessa, who seemed relaxed enough,
introduced us. “Charles, I’d like you to meet Dean Jeremy Drake.”
Her eyes fell on me. “D.J., this is Charles Machungwa. He runs the
gallery. Charles is from Nigeria,” Vanessa noted as if it was
supposed to impress me.

It did.

“Nice to meet you.” He stuck out his hand for
me to shake.

I nodded and shook his hand while trying to
at least maintain an equal footing with this man who I suspected
had more than a professional relationship with Vanessa.

She asked Charles casually: “When did you get
back?”

“Just this afternoon—”

Were they friends? Lovers? Or was it just
platonic affection between a boss and his employee? The realistic
side of me recognized that I had no claim to Vanessa King, except
in my mind. The less sensible side told me this was a woman worth
fighting for at all costs.

“Charles just got back from Lagos,” Vanessa
told me. “He was there visiting his parents and sisters.”

Maybe he should have stayed
longer
.

A young woman joined us. “There’s a phone
call for you, Vanessa,” she said. “It’s from New York—”

Vanessa looked at me regretfully. “Will you
excuse me?” she said to both of us. “I won’t be long—”

I winked at her, content to wait for as long
as it took while she ran off to take the call. I had a feeling
Charles wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry either.

“Are you an art fan, Mr. Drake?” he asked as
if he already knew the answer.

I glanced at a painting of two African
children with a village in the background, and back to him. “I’m
becoming one more and more with each passing day.”

“That’s good to hear.” With deep, gray eyes,
he scanned me from top to bottom as if appraising me for sale. “You
know, you made quite an impression on Vanessa the other
day—single-handedly catching a would-be thief and retrieving her
purse.”

“It was no big deal,” I tried to say
modestly. “I’m sure you would have done the same thing.”

This appeared to annoy him, though his face
crinkled into a smile. “Vanessa told me that you’re a private
investigator.”

I nodded and wondered how much Vanessa had
told him about me. She hadn’t told me anything about him.

“Sounds fascinating,” he said with
insincerity.

“It pays the rent,” I muttered.

“I may be able to send some business your
way,” Charles said. “Interested?”

At what price?
I wanted to say, but
smartly said: “What type of business?”

“I know some people who have been victimized
by art thieves.” He scratched his palm like he was about to come
into some money. “Do you know anything about art theft?”

“Theft is theft, no matter what’s stolen,” I
downplayed the question, then lied: “Yeah, I’ve looked into some
cases of art theft from time to time.”

He seemed to accept this at face value.
“Good. Then I’ll make some calls and get back to you.”

I nodded, though I wasn’t holding my breath
or knuckling under to possibly unspoken blackmail. Like staying
away from Vanessa.

When she rejoined the party, Vanessa gave us
the benefit of her pearly white teeth and said, as if we were
joined at the hip as one big, happy family: “Now where were
we?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I had been let off the hook for Catherine
Sinclair’s murder. To Sherman, she was just another statistic—a
victim who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with
the wrong husband. If her death was left unsolved, few people would
remember or care once her bones had turned to dust.

I was one of those few people.

Whether I liked it or not, I had become
forever linked to this woman named Catherine Ashley Sinclair, and
could not rest until her death had been solved and dealt with
appropriately. That meant the woman who brought me into Catherine
Sinclair’s life and death was not off my hook. And neither was
Gregory Sinclair, the drug-trafficking, sleazebag husband who may
have killed her.

The two were inexorably tied together in a
not so neat package that included The Worm. And probably Muncie and
Cornwell.

The office Gregory Sinclair used as a
legitimate front was located in Portland’s downtown business
district. Outside his door were the words: Gregory Sinclair,
Investment Consultant. I wondered how much consultation involved
investing, marketing, and distribution of drugs. And where did the
mystery blonde chameleon fit into Sinclair’s illicit empire?

I figured that maybe I had been looking for
her in all the wrong places. Instead of being his mistress, she
might well be his business partner with stakes beyond the bedroom
and his wife’s inheritance.

Since the office was closed and I didn’t have
a key, I took the liberty of manipulating the lock, as any good
P.I. worth his weight should be able to.

It worked.

Then there was the alarm system, making
entering the premises without tripping it a tricky proposition. But
not impossible. I had gotten better at this sort of thing with time
and practice.

Under other circumstances, I might have
wondered why a consulting firm would need a sophisticated alarm
system. The answer was obvious. Sinclair needed to protect far more
than consultation memos with his reputable clients, if he had
any.

Turned out Sinclair’s alarm was not as
sophisticated as I thought. I managed to disengage the system and
not be the worse for wear. I was amused that the man was apparently
moving around millions of dollars worth of illegal drugs, yet he
couldn’t afford a private investigator-proof alarm system.

The office was larger than it looked from the
outside, spreading out in two directions. Low-beamed ceiling lights
apparently stayed on all night.

I found an inner office labeled: Personnel.
Using a flashlight, I went through a file cabinet. One drawer
contained information on employee names, ages, and duties. I saw
nothing out of the ordinary or unexpected.

No one seemed to match the description or
cunning of my blonde seductress. Going through other drawers that
included information on clients also failed to provide a clue as to
who she was.

In Gregory Sinclair’s private office, I
turned on the desk lamp. There was a picture on the desk of him and
Catherine Sinclair in a loving embrace.
This bastard is really a
piece of work
.

Whatever role he had played in her death,
Sinclair did not strike me as a man who loved his wife. Or even
liked her very much.

I studied his appointment calendar for the
past couple of months. It seemed he’d had a number of contacts with
chemical laboratories and pharmaceutical firms. If Sinclair was
mixing consulting with crime, then it was a good bet there was more
here than purely legitimate business interests.