Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (5 page)

Catherine rose, facing me. “I want to know
who my husband is seeing! Once I have positive proof he is having
an affair, I’ll be better equipped to try and save my marriage
or”—her voice broke—“leave it with dignity.” She turned her eyes up
at me with emotion and asked tenderly: “Will you take the case,
D.J.?”

I thought about it. While doing so, she upped
the ante. “I’m willing to pay you twice your normal hourly fee,
plus expenses—”

Wealthy clients were always willing to shell
out more, usually as much an indication of their desperation as
their bank statements. It was getting harder by the minute to turn
her away. Though I had a problem working for Catherine Ashley
Sinclair, her generous offer definitely got me to think in terms of
financial reality rather than sexual frustration and
resentment.

Besides, it seemed like a relatively quick
and easy job that wouldn’t really take much time away from my
search for Jessie Wylson. The Worm could remain free just a while
longer. “You’ve got yourself a private investigator, Catherine,” I
told her unenthusiastically. “For better or worse.”

She seemed to think it was for better. Before
I could react, she kissed me excitedly on the mouth, and said with
relief in her voice: “Thank you, D.J. I’ll be forever indebted to
you!”

I raised a brow thoughtfully. “Better not
make promises you may not be able to keep, lady,” I warned her.

We went to the living room where she had left
her purse on the couch. I watched as she removed a stack of fresh
hundred dollar bills as if it was Monopoly money, and a color
photograph.

“This is my husband, Gregory Sinclair.” The
photo was a headshot. The man in it was in his early fifties with
grayish thinning hair. His dark eyes were smudged underneath. An
aquiline nose seemed misplaced on a jowly face.

“What does Sinclair do for a living?” I
asked. “Or is he too rich to have to work?”

“He owns an investment consulting firm,” she
said without apology. “Stocks, bonds, real estate. It seems like
he’s into everything to one degree or another. Our home and his
office addresses are on the back of the photo.”

I had the feeling Catherine didn’t really
know what the hell her husband was into. It seemed, more often than
not, women knew far less about their husband’s financial wheeling
and dealing than they should. Especially if the woman hoped to
realistically get her fair share of the pie, should it come to
that.

Another thought entered my head. “Catherine,
has it occurred to you that your husband might be arming himself
with incriminating evidence against you?” The mere suggestion
prompted me to go to the window and peek out. All I could see was
the darkness of the night. That didn’t mean someone wasn’t out
there with a high-powered zoom lens, waiting and watching.

“I’ve given him no reason to suspect me of
being unfaithful,” she suggested with an exaggerated sense of
confidence.

I turned my eyes on her, half amused. “Where
the hell does he think you are right now, midnight
Mass
?
”

Her mouth tightened. “He’s out of town and
won’t be back till Friday.”

“There is such a thing as a phone.”

“I never answer the phone,” she said with a
flip of the hand. “He just leaves messages on the machine and I
call him back whenever—”

“I should have guessed that,” I intoned
foolishly.

She counted out thirty one hundred dollar
bills and placed them in my hand. “Here’s an advance. I hope it’s
enough for now—”

“I think it will suffice.” I put the bills
and photo on the table. “How do I get in touch with you?” I always
made it the client’s prerogative. After all, it was usually their
neck on the line when all was said and done. Discretion was a
private eye’s constant companion, if not friend.

“It’s better if I get in touch with you,”
replied Catherine with a nervous catch to her voice. “Either here
or at your office.”

“My office,” I said tersely. Something told
me that it was best all the way around if this was our last meeting
at the place I called home.

She regarded me with what looked to be a
displeased frown, and said: “I think I should go now—”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offered. It
seemed the least I could do to end the night on a proper note.

“Don’t!” She said sharply as if she had just
been pinched on the ass. “I think it’s better if I go alone.”

Who was I to argue? “Anything you say, Mrs.
Sinclair.”

I watched her advance to the door with a walk
that seemed like it had plenty of practice. She stopped on a dime,
turned to look at me, and said, sounding sincere: “I don’t regret
what happened here tonight.” Then she left.

I stood there for a moment longer, recalling
our time in bed, and had to admit to myself:
Neither do
I
.
But I had a feeling I would.

CHAPTER FIVE

By the following morning, I had managed to
chalk up the one-night stand as something to remember and forget.
It was business as usual otherwise. I had cereal, toast, and coffee
to start my day. Then came the stretching exercises and warm
up.

Wearing a dark gray jogging suit, I left the
apartment at 9:45 a.m., sprinted down three flights of steps, and
was on my way. As I passed the mailboxes, I couldn’t help but
wonder what Vanessa King was doing at this very moment.

Why couldn
’
t I have spent the night
with her
?
I wondered wistfully, a touch of guilt
lighting my soul like a torch. The very notion of being with one
woman, but longing for another, seemed to increase my adrenaline
tenfold.

After getting off to a slow start, I found a
nice groove and jogged spiritedly to the building that housed my
office. No sooner had I reached the door that read: Dean J. Drake,
Private Investigations, when two beefy men seemed to come from
nowhere. They surrounded me like polar bears looking for food. One
had a brown flattop, the other shaggy red hair. Neither seemed as
if they were in the mood for friendly chitchat.

I pursed my lips and said. “If you boys are
looking for the weight loss clinic, it’s two floors down.” My humor
went unappreciated. They remained stone-faced.

“We came to pay you a visit, wise ass,” said
the red-haired brute.

“Is that right?” I looked from one to the
other and decided they weren’t there to hire me. Nevertheless, I
said in my best professional voice: “Why don’t we step into my
office?”

“Forget the office,” said the flattop. “You
comin’ with us.”

That was news to me. “Just where are we
supposed to be going?”

“You’ll see.”

“Those sound like lousy odds,” I said. “I
think I’ll pass.” I didn’t really expect it to end there. And it
didn’t.

“Maybe we can convince you to change your
mind, dickhead,” said the gorilla with the red shag. He opened his
jacket and removed a piece that would have made Dirty Harry
proud.

My first instinct was to go for my Glock,
which I carried even when jogging just in case I needed it if
accosted by overgrown assholes. Then I decided if these goons had
wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead and on my way to the
morgue.

I might as well see what this was all about.
“Lead the way boys.”

I was driven to an Italian restaurant called
Alfonzo’s on the south side of town. My escorts walked me inside
and led me to a table. A slender, well-dressed white man of about
thirty was sitting there, stuffing lasagna in his mouth like it was
an aphrodisiac.

He stopped long enough to look up at me with
bulging black eyes underneath thick brows. “You’re Drake, the P.I.,
right?”

“So you know who I am,” I said, unimpressed.
“What the hell is this about?”

The two goons had remained mute to the
question throughout the drive, as if sworn to silence. A reasonable
guess or two as to the answer had crossed my mind.

“How about joining me, Drake?” the man at the
table asked. His hair was light brown, thinning, and combed forward
as if to cover up his receding hairline. A gold earring dangled
from his left earlobe. He stuffed more pasta in his mouth.

“No thanks. I already had breakfast.”

He frowned. “Too bad.” A coarse chuckle
erupted from his mouth. “This isn’t breakfast, my friend. You see,
in my business I work mostly at night. So I have my dinner in the
morning. Better, I think, on the digestive system.”

“Look, man,” I said impatiently, “I have more
important things to do with my time than watch you eat your dinner.
So, if you don’t mind—” I started to walk away, but found my path
blocked by the behemoth with the dirty, shaggy hair.

“Actually, I do mind,” said the man at the
table, his voice elevated to accentuate his point. As if his two
Sumos hadn’t already conveyed the message. “Why don’t you have a
seat, Drake? I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

Under the circumstances, it seemed best to
oblige. I sank into the chair nearest me.

“That’s better.” The man used a cloth napkin
to wipe his mouth. “My name’s Ben Vincente. You can call me
Vinny.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or
what. “So what’s this all about, Vinny
?
”

Ignoring the question, he glanced at his
blubbery enforcers. “You’ve already met Dirk and Clarence.”

More or less. I looked at the flattop
behemoth. For some reason, I assumed he was Clarence. He snarled at
me.

Vincente continued: “I understand you’ve been
looking for my cousin.”

“You’ve obviously got me mixed up with
another private investigator,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” he said coolly. “You’ve
been asking around about The Worm, am I right?”

I raised a brow. “I doubt The Worm I’m
looking for is the same Worm that’s your cousin.”

Vincente chuckled humorlessly. “Cousins come
in all shapes, sizes, and colors. You should know that as well as
anyone. The Worm and I may look very different, but he’s still my
cousin.”

“If you say so,” I muttered, conceding that
appearances could be very deceiving or, at the very least,
insufficient to tell the whole story.

Vincente’s face became rigid. “When someone
tries to hurt my cuz, they try to hurt me. You follow what I’m
sayin’, Drake?”

I got his meaning loud and clear. “I don’t
want to hurt anybody, Vinny,” I tried to say in the nicest manner.
“Not you or your cousin. But Jessie Wylson does happen to be a
fugitive from justice. I’ve been hired to find him. That’s all.” I
flashed a hard, frank look at the man. “And if I don’t bring him
in, someone else will—”

“There is no justice in the world today,”
Vincente grumbled, filling his mouth with more lasagna. “Least of
all, not from the district attorney’s office. That Deputy D.A. is
the son of a bitch who hired you, is he not?”

How did he know Frank Sherman had hired me? I
wondered. Probably the same way he knew where to send his thugs to
find me. Evading the question, I said: “If Jessie Wylson is your
cousin, then you probably know he’s far from being a choir boy
who’s been unjustly accused.”

Vincente glared at me, setting his fork down
with a thud. “Let’s not waste my time or yours quibbling over
whether The Worm’s been a good or bad boy. I’d rather talk about
you.”

“There isn’t much to talk about,” I insisted,
shifting uneasily in the chair.

“You’re an ex-cop, Drake,” Vincente said, as
if it were common knowledge. “I’ve always had respect for the men
on the force who do an honest job for an honest day’s pay. It’s for
that reason that I invited you here to give you a friendly warning:
erase The Worm from your memory! Tell your client—Frank
Sherman—he’s nowhere to be found. You can do that, can’t you?”

“What if my client doesn’t believe me?” I was
still neither confirming nor denying that Sherman was my client,
though it was obvious that Vincente’s source was someone inside the
D.A.’s office. Perhaps even Sherman himself.

“Convince him!”

“I’ve never been very good at lying,” I said
truthfully.

“Maybe you’re better at dying.” Vincente met
my eyes forcefully. “I suggest you think about it, Drake!”

“I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do
I?” I glanced at his cronies, who had taken a seat at another
table. They seemed more than ready and willing to take me out if he
gave the word.

“Oh, but you do have a choice,” Vincente
said. “For your sake, I hope you make the right one.”

I stood. “If that’s it then, I’ll be on my
way.”

Vincente eyed his henchmen. “Dirk and
Clarence will drive you back to your office.”

“Don’t do me any favors.” I sneered at the
two male mountains who stood when I did, like they had springs on
their asses. “I think I’ll catch a cab.”

Once again, Dirk formed a wall between my
freedom and me. Fortunately for him, Vincente said: “Let him
go.”

Outside, I calmed my nerves and wondered what
other barriers I would face in tracking down The Worm. It seemed as
if Jessie Wylson either had powerful friends and relatives or
enemies. I wondered exactly where Frank Sherman stood.

* * *

That afternoon I took a break from my search
for The Worm to spy on Gregory Sinclair. If he was cheating on
Catherine, it shouldn’t take long to find out.

They lived in the Forest Park area of the
city, where money seemed to almost grow from trees. Through an
electronic gate, I spotted Catherine’s red Porsche in the driveway
of a house that I couldn’t even dream of owning. It was two large
stories of red brick and seemed to have more windows than St.
Vincent Hospital. I could see why Catherine Ashley Sinclair wasn’t
in any hurry to give it up, if she could help it.

Next to her car was a silver Mercedes. The
driver’s door was partially ajar as if someone had left it that way
for a moment to return to the house.