Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (22 page)

How much did she know about his illicit
activities?

A wife couldn’t be forced to testify against
her husband.

But an ex-wife could
.

Unless she was six feet under.

I asked Nancy: “Do you know if Gregory
Sinclair was having an affair when Catherine was killed?”

“Gregory was
always
involved with
other women,” she said. “He even tried to come on to me once. But I
wasn’t exactly his type. Catherine knew about his infidelity, but
accepted it as part of their arrangement. He could have his and she
could have hers—”

Almost sounded like the best of all worlds.
Except that Sinclair apparently decided to renege on the deal.

“Did Catherine know who Sinclair was having
the affair with at the time she told him she wanted out?” I zoomed
in on Nancy’s watered eyes.

She wiped away the tears with her hand. “Yes.
Some bimbo who worked for him.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the
bimbo, would you?”

“I would,” she said, as if only too happy to
share this and lessen her own burden.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

It looked like Nancy Mackenzie had given me
my best lead in tracking down the blonde-haired vixen who must have
taken great pleasure in playing me for the world’s tallest fool.
The way I saw it, she and lover boy decided to get rid of Catherine
Sinclair before she got rid of them. They found the perfect
scapegoat in me who just happened to be searching for the man who
could put Sinclair away forever.

With The Worm, Catherine, and me dead, all of
Sinclair’s and his mistress’s troubles would be over.

Think again
.
As far as I was
concerned, their troubles hadn’t even begun yet!

If the phone directory was correct, there was
only one Brooke Carmichael in the city of Portland. I didn’t recall
seeing her name in Sinclair’s personnel file. But she probably
didn’t need to work anymore.

Brooke Carmichael lived in an apartment near
Laurelhurst Park, one of many parks sprinkled throughout the Rose
City. If she was who I thought she was, the woman owed me plenty.
And I intended to collect one way or another.

When the door opened, the woman standing
there was not who I had hoped for, but she had a face I recognized.
It was the young woman I had seen offering emotional support to
Gregory Sinclair at Catherine Sinclair’s funeral. She couldn’t have
been more than twenty-two. Twenty-three tops.

“Are you Brooke Carmichael?” I asked,
actually hoping I had the wrong person.

She placed her hands on small hips and
regarded me with suspicious blue-green eyes. “Who’s askin’?”

“The name’s Drake.” Her hair was brunette and
feathered with thin bangs. She was barefoot, wearing tight jeans
and a tight blouse. I flashed my I.D. and said unceremoniously:
“I’m a private investigator. I’d like to talk to you—”

Her eyes ballooned. “What does a private
investigator wanna talk to
me
about?”

“Your boyfriend—Gregory Sinclair.”

Without resistance, she showed me in, as if
there was no room for denial. The studio apartment was modestly
comfortable, but by no means extravagant. If she was looking for a
windfall, it hadn’t come yet.

She offered me a drink and a seductive smile.
I declined on both counts. She wasn’t my style. I left cradle
robbing to slimebags like Sinclair.

After pouring some Diet Coke into a glass,
Brooke said firmly: “Let’s get one thing straight. Gregory Sinclair
is
not
my boyfriend! We’ve dated off and on, but that’s
all—” She took a drink and licked her lips. “Anything else?”

“You were hanging all over the man at his
wife’s funeral,” I reminded her. “Don’t you think that was
disrespectful to the dead and maybe a little too personal for
someone you only dated occasionally?”

She looked at me shamefully. “I didn’t wanna
go, but Greg asked me to. He said he needed someone to mourn with
him. I felt I owed him that much as a friend. He helped me get my
job as a dancer.”

“Do you know anyone else he’s dated?”

She sneered. “What do I look like, his social
calendar? Why don’t you ask Greg who he’s been sleeping with?”

“Somehow I doubt he’d volunteer the
information.” I sighed and looked her in the eye. “I think Sinclair
might have murdered his wife and used a girlfriend to help set it
up. If it wasn’t you, it had to be somebody else.” I paused while
watching uneasiness creep over her face. “In these types of cases,
the police come down just as hard on anyone who’s withholding
evidence.”

“You’re wrong about Greg,” Brooke insisted.
“He was very upset over his wife’s death. You can’t fake that—not
if he killed her—”

The sad thing was, she seemed to truly
believe her own words.

I didn’t—not for one minute.

If Sinclair was despondent, it wasn’t over
his wife’s death, but more likely
her life
and how she chose
to live it.

I removed Brooke Carmichael from my suspect
list.

* * *

Nighttime jogging really worked for me. Not
only did the city light up at night, but you also got to run into
or pass by nocturnal creatures you never saw during the daytime.
With my ankle strong enough to run on again, I put in my five miles
and worked up a tremendous thirst as I contemplated loose ends that
had yet to be tied up.

The Other Woman and The Worm belonged
together. Both were slick, smart, and as elusive as
The
Fugitive’s
one-armed man.

I ended up at Jasmine’s on a quiet night.
That was fine by me, as all I needed was a brew and table.

“Can you believe that?” Gus made himself
comfortable at my table. His distressed voice sounded as if I was
supposed to know what the hell he was talking about.

“Believe what?”

“Then you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

I felt as if he’d hit me with a ton of bricks
when he told me that the Seahawks’ new rookie tackle had torn his
anterior cruciate ligament and would be out for the season. Kelly
McIntosh had star written all over him when he came out of
Grambling. He figured to be a mainstay for Seattle for years to
come.

“How did it happen?” I asked, not believing
my ears. It couldn’t have been in the last game I watched, not
unless I was going blind.

“Pickup basketball game,” Gus said sadly. “Of
all the rotten luck. Had surgery this morning. Out for the rest of
the season—” he repeated as if the words somehow sounded foreign to
him.

I shook my head despondently, and put the mug
to my lips. “Damn,” was all I could think to say.

“Yeah, I know,” Gus muttered almost
tearfully.

We sat there for a moment as if we were at
the guy’s funeral. In a sad way, maybe we were insofar as his
football career was concerned. That was probably the worst injury
he could have sustained and still be able to walk normally, much
less run. Playing pro football again would be a long shot at
best.

“So what’s happenin’ with you, D.J.?” Gus
broke the lamentation.

“I don’t think you really want to know,” I
replied.

“Let me be the judge of that,” he said,
narrowing his eyes.

I filled him in on my two unsolved cases,
which included two missing persons and two bloodthirsty cops who
may have been hunting for me like game. If Gus was overwhelmed, he
refused to show it, instead he offered his undying support in any
way he could help.

I told him what I always told him:
He was
helping just by being there as a friend.

He accepted this without making waves, giving
me a bear hug before getting back to the business of running his
club. I had another beer, thought about Kelly McIntosh, and
eventually turned my attention to Vanessa King.

I wondered if she liked jazz.

“You look like you could use some company—”
the deep voice boomed like it was being piped through a
loudspeaker. I looked up into the face of big Al Johnson, the
ex-linebacker turned dentist. It was the first time I’d seen him
since that night I met the blonde bombshell bitch.

I really wanted to be by myself, but said
courteously to Al: “You offering some?”

He smiled broadly. “Hey, man, I’m all yours
as long as you want me.”

We talked about Kelly McIntosh and football
in general over beer. When that grew stale, Al beat me to the punch
by asking: “What’s happenin’ with your love life these days?”

I told him about Vanessa King. She was the
closest thing I had to a love life right now. What lay ahead down
the road, I couldn’t predict. But I had no problem dreaming about
it.

“To tell you the truth,” said Al, “when I
first saw you tonight, I said to myself: Damn! That yellow-haired
broad must have left D.J. hangin’ that night—”

I looked at him. “You remember her?”

“How could I not?” He wiped beer from his
chin. “The bitch was hot! And she had her eyes on you from the
moment she walked in...like she spotted you a mile away. I knew she
was trying to pick up your ass.”

I brooded. “Yeah. She was real good at
getting what she wanted—”

“Still is, if you ask me,” Al said
lasciviously.

I met his eyes. “What are you talking
about?”

“She’s a stripper over at the X Club,” he
said as if common knowledge
.
“I thought you knew—”

My eyes opened wide. “We never got that far,”
I fumbled with my words. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same
woman?”

“As sure as I’m lookin’ at you, D.J.!” He
narrowed his eyes for effect. “She’s a redhead now, but the face
and body don’t lie. I hang out at the club every now and then,” he
murmured guiltily. “You should see the men ogling and ohhing when
she takes it all off. The broad is probably gettin’ rich on tips
alone—”

I finished off the beer and put money on the
table to cover us both.

“Thanks for the company, Al.” I stood. “Got
some business to take care of. See you around, man.”

He frowned. “Did I say the wrong thing?”

I smiled. “Could be you said just the right
words I’ve been waiting to hear.”

I left him speechless.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The X Club was located on Cooper Street. It
was probably Portland’s most popular burlesque club. But I wasn’t
there for the entertainment, per se. If Al was right, I was about
to find the woman who had set me up for murder and managed to
disappear like a vamp in the night.

The place was crowded and one woman after
another strutted her stuff on stage to the delight of their
audience. One of the women was Brooke Carmichael. So this was her
job as a dancer that she credited Sinclair with helping her to
land. I wondered if he owned a piece of the club.

Had Brooke known about the other “dancer”
Sinclair was involved with
?

How could she not, if they were working at
the same club? Maybe Sinclair had played them against one another
before deciding which one to manipulate into helping him murder his
wife.

I watched as Brooke stripped naked and
shimmied her silicone breasts across the stage. Two other women
followed her. Neither was the woman I was looking for.

I was beginning to question Al’s memory and
wisdom, when
she
took the stage.

The long hair, or wig, was auburn—almost
purplish-red—instead of blonde, but it was
definitely
the
same woman who had picked me up at Jasmine’s. The one who had led
me down a path of steamy sex, lies, photographs, betrayal, and
murder.

She was sinuously clad in a see-through red
dress, red nylons, and black stilettos. Heavy eye shadow and bright
lights accentuated the blue of her eyes, while red lipstick set her
mouth on fire.

I watched as she sashayed around the stage in
rhythm with the loud music, but seemingly in her own world. She
enjoyed teasing men, I knew. She flaunted her beauty and sex appeal
and then used it to her conniving advantage.

Her acrobatic skills came into practice as
she touched her toes with her legs spread wide. She licked a finger
salaciously and did the splits before coming up slowly and
seductively. Under other circumstances, I would have been taken in
by her charms. But I saw her for what she really was. And I wasn’t
about to be conned twice by the same woman.

The dress slid down her body. Underneath was
a red bra and red panties. She danced around the stage
flirtatiously. The nylons came off first. She tossed them into the
crowd to a roar of approval.

The bra came off next. Her full breasts
bounced like a basketball as she skipped to the beat.

The panties were last to be removed,
revealing a narrow strip of pubic hair and a tight ass. She twirled
the panties over her head like a lasso and released them, where
they disappeared into a sea of anxious hands.

Naked, she played on the drunken, inflamed
crowd masterfully with all her skills of seduction.

Then she ran off the stage like she didn’t
belong there and was replaced by another stripper.

“What’s her name?” I asked the man next to me
who had been frothing at the mouth during the still as yet mystery
woman’s performance.

“That’s Francesca,” he crooned. “Ain’t she
somethin’?”

“Oh, she’s something all right,” I groaned
resentfully. “Something you can’t even begin to imagine—”

Francesca
,
your time as a
manipulating bitch has just about run out.

I waited in the Bronco for her to leave the X
Club.

At one-thirty a.m., she came out alone and
got into a blue Honda. Not exactly a red Porsche. That was strictly
on loan, designed to make the scam as credible as possible.

Perhaps Sinclair had promised the Porsche to
his girlfriend once this was all over.