Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (23 page)

* * *

I followed her to an apartment building on
Thirty-Eighth Street. Knocking on the door, I half expected to see
Sinclair inside. In my mind, there was no doubt he was behind her
charade.

Francesca, if that was her real name, quickly
opened the door as if she was expecting someone.

Anyone, but me
.

It didn’t take long for reality to set in for
her. Mouth agape, she tried to shut the door in my face. I easily
flung it open and pushed her back inside.

“Long time, no see,
Catherine Ashley
Sinclair
—” I wasn’t smiling. “Don’t tell me you aren’t glad to
see me again, lover girl.”

She looked pale and was frozen in her tracks
like her feet were nailed to the floor. She had ditched the sheer
striptease outfit for a more conservative, but still tight to the
body, baby blue dress.

“Or do I call you, Francesca?”

She licked her lips nervously and began to
backpedal. “I know what you must be thinking—”

My eyebrows lowered onto a feverish gaze.
“Lady, you have no idea what’s going in my mind at the moment.” I
approached her. “You’re one hard slut to track down. And now that
I’ve found you, I don’t intend to let you out of my sight.”

She tried to make a run for it. I quickly
grabbed her from behind and threw her on the couch.

“Stay there!” I ordered.

“I can explain—” Her whiny voice sounded
about as phony as her identity had been.

“You can do all the explaining you want to
the police,” I told her. “For some reason, they had a hard time
buying that I was seduced by a beautiful white woman who called
herself Catherine Ashley Sinclair—but wasn’t
really
her—and
set up to take the fall for rape and murder. But first, I want to
know who the hell you are.”

With one eye on her, I went to her purse on a
chair. She sprang up like a tiger and attacked me, using her long
fingernails as claws.

“You have no right—” she seemed to say out of
pure desperation, while managing to scratch my face.

“Like hell I don’t!” I pushed her away.
“You’re in no position to call the shots anymore. And I don’t mind
telling you that my patience is wearing awfully damned thin where
it concerns you!”

She watched helplessly while I pulled a
wallet from her purse. I pulled out her driver’s license. It said
her real name was Marilyn Francesca Collins. Age thirty-three. Blue
eyes. Red hair.

Till she died it blonde
.

And back again.

My gaze weighed down on her. “Lady, you’re a
real piece of work. Sinclair couldn’t have picked a better liar and
partner in crime.” I threw her wallet down. “I hope it was worth it
to you, because if I have anything to say about it, you and your
boyfriend will be on death row for the real Catherine Sinclair’s
murder!”

“I had nothing to do with that—” She whipped
her red hair back and twisted her body rhythmically as if she were
still on stage.

“You had everything to do with it!” I lifted
my voice an octave. “You really took me for a ride with your
Catherine Ashley Sinclair routine as the unfaithful damsel in
distress. How much did Sinclair pay you for this carefully
orchestrated charade? Or did it come with the territory for being
his whore?”

Francesca tried to appear hurt. “It was never
about sex,” she said sheepishly, “at least not between me and
Gregory—” Her voice caught. “I only went along with it to make some
extra money. When Gregory hired me, it was as an actress. He
provided the clothes, car, and instructions. I was supposed to play
the role of his wife as part of a sex fantasy game he said they
were playing. He told me you were part of that game.” She sighed as
our eyes locked.

I wasn’t convinced. “Do you seriously expect
me to believe anything you have to say?”

“I never meant for anyone to get hurt,” she
claimed. “I swear it! When I found out that the real Catherine
Sinclair had been murdered and that you were suspected of doing it,
I freaked out. I wasn’t sure what to believe. I didn’t know if the
fantasy game had gone too far, or if you’d actually murdered her.
For all I knew,” she whimpered, “you could have been in on it from
the very beginning—”

With Francesca, it was still hard to tell
what she really believed and what she wanted me to believe. She was
that good at deception.

It didn’t change the hard, cold facts any, as
far as I was concerned.

“Why didn’t you go to the police and tell
them your story?” I asked skeptically. “It would have made things a
hell of a lot easier for me—and you—”

She moseyed up to me and lifted her face up
to mine. “I was afraid to. Gregory warned me that the same thing
that happened to his wife could happen to me if I came forward.
What choice did I have?” She batted her cool, calculating blue eyes
at me. “I couldn’t prove anything, except that I impersonated
Catherine Ashley Sinclair before she was found dead.”

With her head resting on my chest, Francesca
pled: “You have to believe me, D.J. I didn’t know any of this would
lead to murder. All I was told was the part about the sex fantasy
game.” She looked up at me. “It was supposed to be just that—a
game!”

A game of life and death
.
It
had cost Catherine Sinclair her life and had damn near cost me
mine.

I studied the face within inches of mine. In
spite of the deception behind her hair, face and body, I found
myself believing Francesca was also a victim to some degree. Though
still dangerous.

“You played the game all too well, lady,” I
told her, still pissed about the detailed authenticity of her
role-playing. “You deserve an Oscar for the superb performance you
gave.”

She licked her lips coquettishly, and cooed:
“It wasn’t
all
acting.”

At least not for me
.

It was suddenly getting warm in there.

She kissed me. I let her do it for some
reason, before my senses kicked in and I pushed her away.

“Don’t waste your energy,” I said icily. “Not
interested this time around.”

She pouted. “Anything you say, D.J.”

I wiped my mouth. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“The police station.”

“We can’t!” she squealed.

“We will,” I said brusquely, “even if I have
to carry you—” I toned down my tough-guy act and said persuasively:
“It’s the only way to clear both our names.”

In fact, I had already been taken off the
suspect list and gotten my gun back. But my credibility had taken a
beating along the way. She would restore it to some degree.

“What about Gregory Sinclair?” Francesca
asked.

“You let me worry about him. He’ll be dealt
with accordingly.”

She played with her crimson mane. “What’s
going to happen to me?” Her eyes darted between mine, as if soul
searching.

“That’s not up to me,” I said honestly. Then
I gave her some hope. “When this is over, maybe you should think
about some serious acting that doesn’t involve anyone ending up
dead. You definitely have what it takes to make it.”

I knew that only too well.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Finding Marilyn Francesca Collins did not
exactly give me the satisfaction I’d hoped for. she If was to be
believed the second time around, she was not quite the heartless,
cunning bitch I’d made her out to be. Sinclair had used her as a
pawn in his master plan, just as he had his wife, his housekeeper,
and me.

Even Jessie Wylson had been nothing more than
a lackey to Sinclair. Useful only until he had served his
purpose.

But Sinclair’s scheme was beginning to
unravel.

Not fast enough to suit me
.

I intended to be there when the judge told
him to be prepared to either spend the rest of his life behind bars
or in eternal unrest.

I dumped Marilyn Francesca Collins—even
though I still found myself thinking of her as Catherine Ashley
Sinclair—right on the lap of O’Malley. It would ultimately be his
call in sorting out the truths and half-truths regarding her role
in Catherine Sinclair’s death. I suspected the only thing they
could really hold her on was withholding possible
evidence—herself—in a murder investigation.

At the very least, she had helped restore my
good name to those in the police department who had clung to the
belief that I had somehow gotten away with rape and murder.
Truthfully, I didn’t expect much to change between us, except for a
maybe a little more cooperation down the line whenever our paths
crossed. And they inevitably would.

As for my short-lived romance under false
pretenses with Francesca, that was now a thing of the past with no
chance at reconciliation. Even if she was apparently available, and
perhaps willing, I had moved on.

Vanessa King was the only woman I needed to
make me feel like a man. She helped me to appreciate what it meant
to have a
real
lady.

* * *

As good fortune would have it, when I got
home I found a note on the door from Vanessa. She was inviting me
to dinner tonight at six. If I already had other plans, she would
understand. She would simply use the extra food as leftovers.

Not a chance!
There were few plans
made that could not be broken. I was not about to pass up the
opportunity to spend more quality time with my ideal woman.

I took a shower, slapped on some cologne, and
slipped into a pullover blue polo shirt, black slacks, and black
loafers.

It was six o’clock on the nose when I knocked
on Vanessa’s door.

“I see you got my note,” she smiled. “Glad
you could come.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I
said, and meant it.

The world could wait. She couldn’t.

Vanessa was wearing a wraparound dark green
dress that seemed suited for her petite, well-proportioned body.
Her curly, black hair gleamed, accentuating her fine looks. Her
dark eyes darted across the living room.

I followed her gaze, settling in on the
painting hanging on the wall above the couch. It was the landscape
I’d brought in for her.

“My daughter’s talent at work,” she said
proudly. “It was shown at the gallery before I decided I had to
have it myself.”

“Looks like she’s found her forte,” I said,
impressed with the painting. I was more impressed with the artist’s
mother.

Vanessa beamed. “Brenda’s been painting since
she was five years old. She’s in art school and loving every minute
of it. On the other hand, my other daughter, Rochelle, hates
anything to do with a brush.” She curled her nose. “But I love her
anyway.”

Vanessa’s eyes betrayed sorrow that I had
deprived myself of the experience of having kids.

She was probably right. But looking at my
dream lady and knowing she was still in prime childbearing years,
made me feel it was never too late.

We had pre-dinner white wine. All I could
really think about during our eye contact and conversation was the
nature of her relationship with her boss, Charles Machungwa. But I
had too much admiration for Vanessa King not to mind my own damn
business.

Then she brought him up. “Charles tells me
that he may know some people who could be interested in your
detective skills.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I muttered
doubtfully.

Vanessa sipped wine. “Don’t sell him short,”
she admonished me. “Charles has a lot of contacts in the art world.
If anyone needs a private investigator, I’m sure he’ll refer them
to you.”

I slumped down on the couch. “Is he always
this helpful to someone he doesn’t even know?”

“He knows me,” she said matter-of-factly.
“And I know you. For Charles, that’s good enough.”

I sipped my wine. “The man sounds almost too
good to be true.”

She glanced at me a sideways. “Are you always
so suspicious of other people’s motives? Or do you have a
particular dislike of African men?”

“Only if I think they’re trying to buy my
loyalty,” I said bluntly, “or steer me in another direction away
from—” Our eyes connected.

“You’re
jealous
!” she said as if it
came as a total surprise.

“Maybe just a little,” I uttered, not
believing I was willing to admit it.

Over the rim of her glass, Vanessa regarded
me with amusement. “I’m flattered, D.J. But you have absolutely
nothing to be jealous about. Charles and I are just good friends.
He’s like the older brother I never had.”

I wanted to hide my face under the pillow on
her couch. I had misjudged her relationship with Charles and, in
the process, made my own insecurities stand out like I’d advertised
them on the front page of the
New York Times
.

As my way of apology, I brought my glass to
Vanessa’s in toast, and said spiritedly: “Here’s to older brothers
and friendship—”

She accepted this graciously like the lady
she was. I wondered if I could be the man I wanted to be for
her.

Vanessa was definitely no slouch when it came
to cooking. She fixed veal, homemade rolls, salad, mashed potatoes,
pinto beans, and topped it all off with homemade apple pie. It had
been a while since I had a genuinely delicious home cooked meal by
someone other than myself. Going back to my less than up to par
dishes and microwave dinners was a thought I didn’t relish.

Back on the couch, Vanessa asked about my
days on the force.

“There were good times and bad,” I recalled
not too fondly. “Most days you just put in your time and hoped you
didn’t run into a stray bullet with your name on it.”

“Do you ever miss being a police
detective?”

“Only when I think about the health benefits
I gave up.” I chuckled. “Being a private investigator, you meet a
lot more interesting people,” I said with an eye towards her. “I
get up when I want and go to sleep when I want without having big
brother—or sister—watching over me.”