EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder (18 page)

"So is this a social call?" I asked, but
seriously doubted. "Or have those unpaid traffic tickets finally
caught up with me?"

He lost the twisted smile, and said
directly: "I'd like to hire you, Drake—on behalf of the State. Mind
if I sit?"

I indicated the folding chair nearest to
him—a flea market pickup that was a bargain. "I'm listening..."

Sherman laid the briefcase on the desk,
opened it, and removed a folder. "It's the dossier on Jessie
The
Worm
Wylson," he explained, handing it to me. "He's wanted in
connection with the sale and distribution of narcotics and
methamphetamines. This bastard is personally responsible for most
of the drugs poisoning our city and turning our kids into
junkies!"

I looked at the face of a bald, dark-skinned
black man on the dossier. It said he was thirty-five, six feet
tall, and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Wylson was a
resident of Portland and had been in and out of jail most of his
life for an assortment of drug and theft charges.

Even if I believed he was the scum of the
earth, I had trouble buying that this one dude was behind most of
the drugs floating about the city. In my book, that distinction
belonged to the Columbia drug cartels and the rich Americans who
made getting drugs into this country as easy as addicts getting
crack on the inner city streets.

"Why do they call him The Worm?" I had to
ask.

Sherman shrugged. "Heard someone gave him
that name while he was in the joint, probably because he always
seems able to worm his way out of trouble." He scowled. "Not this
time."

There was something sinister about
Sherman's, "Not this time." I took another look at Jessie The Worm
Wylson, before shifting my gray-brown eyes to the man on the other
side of the desk. "If I find him—which I assume you'd like me to
do—what makes you think he won't manage to slip away again?"

Sherman shifted somewhat uncomfortably.
"It's a chance we're more than willing to take," he said evenly,
"provided you can locate his ass. If I have my way, once he's in
custody, Wylson will be in a cheap, wooden box the next time he
gets out." He sneezed then wiped his nose with a dirty
handkerchief. "So what do you say, Drake, will you take the
case?"

I glanced once more at the dossier and the
man called The Worm. It seemed like a simple enough investigation.
But I knew that no investigation ever turned out to be that simple,
especially when it involved the district attorney's office. In
fact, finding anyone on the streets of Portland could sometimes be
like searching for a hypodermic needle in an urban jungle.

For some reason, I found myself hesitating
in jumping all over this case. Like most P.I.'s, I liked to go with
my instincts. And, from the beginning, there was definitely
something about the case that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was
the surreptitious meeting with a member of the D.A.'s office
outside the D.A.'s office. Or perhaps it was uneasiness in taking
on an investigation that I presumed was still active with the
Portland Police Department. Experience told me that they didn't
take too kindly to meddlesome private eyes muscling in on their
territory.

Sherman seemed to be reading my mind. "If
you're wondering why you instead of one of our regular
investigators, the answer is simple. I want this asshole off the
street! I was told that you do things your own way, and not always
within the guidelines you learned as a cop. We both know that
sometimes the guidelines can be a bitch when it comes to justice
for all." He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm willing—unofficially—to
do whatever it takes to find Jessie Wylson. Of course, the D.A.'s
office will cover all of your regular fees and expenses."

The private investigation business had been
fairly good to me by the standards of most trying to make a living
as dicks for hire. I managed to stay one step ahead of my debts and
have some money left over for recreation. But business had been
lean of late and the bills never went on holiday. I could hardly
afford to pass up a cash-paying reliable client, assuming that at
least a minimal standard of acceptability was met. This one seemed
to qualify, though barely.

"Can I keep this?" I held up the dossier,
which was my way of saying I was on board.

Sherman smiled. "I was counting on it." He
stood and pulled a card from his pocket, handing it to me. "Keep me
informed, Drake. If and when you find him, I want to be there to
personally slap the cuffs on."

I wanted to remind Sherman he wasn't a cop
anymore. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt that old habits
died hard, and said: "I'll be in touch."

Once the Deputy D.A. left me all by my
lonesome, I turned the TV back on. Mercifully for the Mariners, the
game was over. Final score: A's 14, Losers 3.

* * *

The sun had begun to peek through the clouds
by the time I left my downtown office which was not far from the
Riverplace Marina. It was on the third floor of a building that
seemed to house everything from a psychic hotline office to a Jenny
Craig weight loss center. I wasn't complaining though. The rent was
affordable and most of the tenants tended to mind their own
business.

I was wearing a jogging suit that fit well
on my six-foot-five body and my Nike running shoes. People asked me
all the time if I ever played basketball. I usually responded
truthfully with, "I was lousy at basketball, but give me a baseball
bat and I can hit the ball ten miles." That almost always left them
speechless.

I liked to think that I was in pretty good
physical condition for the forty and over crowd. Jogging was my
forte, so to speak, these days. It was a carryover from my days on
the force. Before they brought in all the high tech exercise
equipment to keep everyone lean and mean.

I half-jogged, half-walked the two miles on
the street parallel to the Willamette River, till I reached my
apartment building. It was not far from the Hawthorne Bridge—one of
several bridges that connected the city that was separated by the
river. Since Portland was so beautiful and pedestrian friendly, I
favored being on foot to driving or light rail.

Home for me was an old brownstone on
Burnside Street. It was old, but comfortable. Most of the residents
fit the same profile: single, divorced, or widowed
and
available, over thirty-five, and professional in some capacity.

Just as I was entering the building, exiting
was another tenant who I seemed to pass by every other day lately.
I didn't know her name or anything about her, but I liked what I
saw. She bore a strong resemblance to Halle Berry, only she was
better—and sexier!

She looked to be in her mid-thirties with
jet-black curly hair that grazed her shoulders, cool brown eyes,
and an oak complexion. She had a streamlined, petite figure that I
could imagine cuddling up to on a lonely night. If there were such
a thing as my ideal woman, she was probably it.

Though my mouth always seemed to go dry
whenever I got near her, I managed to utter: "Hello."

She gave me a faint smile in return, perhaps
flattered, but obviously unimpressed. I tried to convince myself
that she was just having a bad day. Some other time, pal.

I climbed three flights of stairs before I
reached my one-bedroom apartment. It was pretty much what you would
expect of a single, male, private investigator: not particularly
tidy, cluttered, bland, and sorely in need of a woman's touch. The
"right" woman just never seemed to come along and volunteer her
services.

I showered, shaved, and stepped into one of
two cheap suits I wore on the job. This one was navy blue and the
most broken in. I combed my short, black hair that was sprinkled
with more gray than I cared to admit. Since high school, I'd had a
thick coal black mustache. It was probably the best part of me and
hung just over the corners of my mouth, tickling me whenever I
yawned.

Dinner was some leftover KFC drumsticks,
canned pinto beans, and milk. Afterwards I caught a bit of the news
on TV, glanced at the front page of the
Oregonian
, and
pondered my newest case.

* * *

Pioneer Courthouse Square was the place to
be if you wanted to mingle with your neighbors and tourists alike,
be right in the heart of downtown Portland, and catch some of the
city's best free sidewalk talent.

Nate Griffin had made a name for himself as
the Rose Clown, in reference to the annual Rose Festival held in
the city. He did everything you expected of a clown and more,
including cartwheels, telling bad jokes, and giving an often
distorted, comical history of Portland. Nate also happened to be my
best street informant ever since my days on the force. Sometimes he
was helpful, other times helpless. At twenty-nine, he had succumbed
to a life mostly on the streets after off and on bouts with alcohol
and drug abuse, and failed opportunities to better his life.

The Rose Clown was in full costume and
makeup when I saw him on the Square working his magic on anyone who
cared to watch and listen. Nate was tall, lanky, dark, and bald.
One wouldn't recognize him when looking at the clown in a baggy
outfit, white curly wig, green painted face, and big red nose.

He acknowledged my presence with a
half-hearted nod. I dropped a few dollar bills into his bucket that
was sparsely filled with mostly dimes and quarters. He finished a
terrible rendition of a rap song before giving me a moment of his
time.

"They love you, Nate," I told him
encouragingly, "even if your singing stinks."

"It's all in the ears of the beholder," he
said, smiling and showing off a gold front crown. Then he looked
into his nearly empty bucket and seemed to do an about face. "Guess
I could use some work on my chords."

Guiltily I dug into my pocket and came out
with a couple more dollars, dropping them into the bucket. "Maybe
this will help—"

He wet his full lips. "Thanks, D.J. Times
are tough these days."

"For
all
of us," I said with a
sneer.

He peered at me suspiciously. "So what
brings you my way?" He chose to answer his own question, fluttering
his false lashes. "You probably missed seeing my pretty face!"

"Don't believe that for a minute," I said
firmly. "I'm not into clowns, pretty or not." It had been about six
weeks since I'd come his way. If there was anyone who could find
out where Jessie Wylson was holed up, it was Nate and his seemingly
endless network of street contacts.

I removed the photo of The Worm from my
pocket and laid it on Nate's palm. "Know him?"

He studied the picture as if it held the
secret of the universe. "Should I?"

"His name is Jessie Wylson. They call him
The Worm."

"Ugly dude," commented Nate bluntly, his
brow furrowed.

For once we agreed on something. Nate was
still staring at the photo when he asked: "Why you looking for the
man?"

I decided to be straight with him. "He's
wanted by the D.A.'s office for drug trafficking, among other
things."

Nate scratched his fake nose, then sniffed
like it was clogged with a white powdered substance. "So why come
to me?" he asked, as if he hadn't a clue.

"I need to find him." My mouth became a
straight line. "And I need
your
help—"

Nate's eyes popped wide. "Don't know the
man. Don't want to know him, 'specially if he's got the D.A. on his
ass. Sorry." He handed me the photo as if glad to be rid of it.

I had a feeling he was holding back on me,
but didn't press it—yet. "Ask around anyway," I insisted. "Maybe
you'll get lucky."

"Can't make no promises," he hedged. "But
I'll give it my best shot—for you."

"I'll check back with you in a couple of
days."

"That soon?" He rolled his eyes. "What do I
look like, a miracle worker?"

Gazing at the Rose Clown, that wasn't
exactly the first thing to come to mind. I told him: "The sooner
you give me what I want, the sooner I'll leave you alone—for a
while."

Nate went back to what he arguably did best
and I headed to my favorite nightclub, satisfied that I had at
least put the wheels in motion to find the man known as The
Worm.

# # #

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. Barri Flowers is an award winning
criminologist and bestselling author of thriller, mystery, and
suspense fiction for adults and young adults. Recent titles include
MURDER IN MAUI: A Leila Kahana Mystery, DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A
Dean Drake Mystery, DARK STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL: A Jack The Ripper
Mystery, STATE'S EVIDENCE: A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller,
JUSTICE SERVED, and teen mysteries, GHOST GIRL IN SHADOW BAY and
DANGER IN TIME.

The author has appeared on the Biography
Channel, Investigation Discovery, and has been interviewed by ABC
News. He lives in the Pacific Northwest, but spends a lot of time
in Hawaii.

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