Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (8 page)

And danger, something told me.

“Hello,” she said unemotionally.

“Hi.” I remained at my desk
semi-professionally. “Have a seat, Mrs. Sinclair.” Somehow
Catherine or Ashley seemed too personal and intimate this time
around for my liking.

She seemed to concur. “Is he seeing someone
else?” she asked straightforwardly. Then added, as if dark humor:
“Or is there more than one woman?”

Looking across at those enticing blue eyes, I
responded succinctly: “Only one that I’ve been able to
determine.”

For but a moment, bitterness crept across her
face like a bleak shadow, quickly replaced by resignation. “Do you
have proof?”

I nodded. On my desk was a stack of some of
the photos I’d taken at the motel in Vancouver and at the zoo. I
held back the rest, which were largely repeat offenders.

She flipped through the pictures quickly with
narrowed eyes, slamming them to the desk. “That bastard!” she
spat.

Her indignation seemed real enough, but I
couldn’t help but feel that she was overplaying it a bit. “It’s not
like you didn’t expect this.”

Catherine moistened her mouth. “He made it
clear to me that he would see other women whenever he damn well
pleased, but actually seeing him with another woman—” She seemed to
choke back tears.

I offered her a tissue, which she accepted
graciously.

“Are there any more photos?” she inquired as
if she already had the answer.

I took the rest out of a drawer and passed
them across the desk. After all, she paid for them.

Catherine studied certain photographs,
wrinkling her nose with disgust, and ignoring others. If she was
familiar with the blonde, she did not make it abundantly obvious. I
wanted to say something, but felt the pictures spoke for
themselves.

As for our one-night stand, I wasn’t about to
go down that road again. No matter how tempting.

Catherine looked up at me. “What about the
negatives?”

“What about them?” I asked nonchalantly. Most
clients who wanted evidence that a spouse was cheating were more
than content with the photographs exposing the infidelity, but
evidently not Catherine Sinclair.

“I want them,” she stated simply.

“I usually keep—” I began.

She cut me off. “My husband is a very
powerful man,” she said. “I wouldn’t put anything past him if it
meant cheating me out of what is rightfully mine. If I’m to fight
him on his terms, I have to be equipped with any and all ammunition
at my disposal. And that includes negatives which prove his guilt
beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

I couldn’t really argue with her philosophy,
although I was not sure I bought into it. On the other hand, I
almost never had any further use for negatives once the case was
completed. And this one was over as far as I was concerned.

I gave her what she wanted and she seemed
pleased, much like a woman used to getting her way.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching
in her purse for her wallet.

“You owe me nothing more.”

“Are you sure?” She gave me a quizzical
look.

“Positive.” Though it would have been easy to
squeeze her for more greenbacks, of which she seemed to have plenty
of, I resisted the temptation. I wanted to wash my hands of this
case as soon as possible, as they felt dirty. Taking more of her
money would not make them any cleaner.

Catherine smiled at me for the first time
today. “Thank you—for everything.”

She forced me to smile at her. “Hope it all
works out for you, Catherine.” I suppose I really did. I walked her
to the door. For some reason I felt compelled to ask: “Will you be
all right?”

She seemed to contemplate the question as if
spoken in a foreign language. “I’m not really sure. Good-bye, D.J.”
She raised her chin, kissed me firmly on the mouth, and vanished
like a thief in the middle of the afternoon.

I could still taste her lip gloss as I went
back to my desk, not expecting to ever see Catherine Ashley
Sinclair again. But in my business, I had learned that the expected
was never etched in granite. In this instance, my instincts hoped
it would be.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The rematch with Dirk and Clarence was to
take place at Alfonzo’s restaurant. Vincente himself would be
dessert. I found the trio at the same table we had sat at
before—laughing, eating, and drinking as if not a care in the
world.
Until now
. No doubt they were surprised to see
me.

Speaking with spaghetti sauce dripping from
his chin, Vincente said, laughing: “How are you feeling these days,
Drake?”

“Not too good.” I swept my eyes around the
table. “I’m still hurting from the beating I got from your
dickheads.”

Vincente seemed unperturbed. “You call it a
beating. I call it a warning.” He glanced at his support group, and
back to me. “You got a problem with that, Drake?”

“No, I don’t have a problem with it,” I said,
grinding my teeth. “You do—and they do—”

Before Dirk could reach into his pocket, I
grabbed a bottle of wine off the table and shattered it across his
head. Clarence stood up and took a wild swing. I blocked it, moved
closer, and gave him a head butt that was guaranteed to leave him
seeing stars for days.

Hearing Dirk staggering up behind me, I
turned on him and his contorted, bloodied face, beating him to the
punch. I dug my fist twice into his large, soft belly and followed
with an uppercut under his double chin. This brought him to his
knees.

All the while Vincente watched in
fascination, as if glued to his seat.

Clarence had recovered enough to get me into
a bear hug. I winced from the increasing pressure. It was nothing
that couldn’t be alleviated with a dislocating back kick to his
kneecap. He screamed in pain, releasing me and putting all his
weight on his good leg.

“Son of a bitch,” he cried. “You broke my
leg!”

“It would hurt less if I had, asshole,” I
told him without sympathy.

I grabbed his plate of spaghetti and cracked
it across his head, followed by a solid shot to the jaw. He
crumpled to the floor like a building being demolished, putting him
effectively out of commission.

Fortunately, for his sake, Dirk stayed put.
Unfortunately, he went for his piece. My foot was quicker, knocking
it away from him. I pretended his head was a football and kicked a
field goal right under and into his nose. He screamed and grabbed
his broken nose as blood spurted out, crying like a newborn
baby.

Realizing I was never going to put these two
animals out for the long count, I pulled out my Glock and placed it
to the head of a suddenly quivering Vincente. “That’s enough for
this round, gorillas,” I announced triumphantly. “Unless you want
to see Vinny’s brains match what’s on his plate.”

They got the message and didn’t try anything
stupid. I wondered if Vincente had gotten the message.

“You got your payback, Drake,” he groaned
shamefully. “Let’s leave it at that—”

“Let’s not, asshole!” I pressed the gun into
his throbbing temple. “I want The Worm and I think you know where I
can find your
cousin
.”

“We don’t sleep in the same bed,” Vincente
stammered desperately. “He never stays in one place too long.”

“Where was the last place he stayed?” The
barrel was digging deeper into his thick skin. “I hope my finger
doesn’t fall asleep—”

Self-preservation was the staple of every
street hood. Vincente was no exception. He slurred: “Last I knew he
was hangin’ at the Rest Rooms motel.”

I suspected Vincente was holding back on me.
But since I doubted he would risk his life for a scumbag like
Jessie Wylson, I decided now was not the time to see what other
sordid secrets he had up his sleeve.

He breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled
the gun way from his perspiring face. “If you want me, Vincente,
next time I suggest you don’t send your goons to do the job.” I
glared at the two, still moaning from their injuries and wounded
pride.

With my Glock still aimed at the trio, I made
sure no one got any crazy ideas as I vacated the premises, feeling
a hell of a lot better than when I went in.

* * *

It didn’t take long before Vincente and Dirk
helped a hobbling Clarence out of Alfonzo’s. He and Dirk got in one
car, Vincente another. They went their separate ways.

It was following Vincente that interested
me.

He drove a white Corvette with the license
plate: BVINNY. I followed him to a side street and watched as he
pulled behind another car that looked a lot like the Cutlass I saw
in the driveway at The Worm’s last known address.

Out of it stepped Terri, the alleged
ex-girlfriend of Jessie Wylson. Their encounter was short, but no
doubt sweet, before Vincente took off in his car at the speed of
light.

My attention had switched to Terri who had
called herself Nicole. She looked as if she had just been told
there was a death in the family. Probably with good reason. She got
back in her car and drove off. I followed her, convinced she would
lead me to Jessie Wylson.

Wherever The Worm may have been hiding, he
had covered his tracks well. Terri seemed to be leading me on a
guided tour of the city. That came to an abrupt halt when a diesel
truck crossed the intersection between her car and mine. For
whatever reason, the driver seemed to get stuck between first and
second gear. By the time he got moving again, Terri was nowhere in
sight.

“Damn!” I shouted, smoke coming out of my
ears. I may have come the closest I’d been to apprehending Jessie
Wylson and I’d lost my golden opportunity. It seemed as if I was
back to square one. Unsure where to go from here, I went to my
office.

* * *

I thought about updating my computer file on
Jessie The Worm Wylson as I parked in the garage adjacent to my
building.

No sooner had I left the car and stepped into
the oil-stained path between cars, when the sound of an engine
revving pounded in my ears like a drum roll. Before I realized it,
a fast moving car was headed right for me, as if sizing me up by
radar.

I had only enough time to recognize the
driver as the man I was looking for, before diving out of the way
at the last second. I fired a few rounds at the car—a dark green or
blue Pontiac—as it screeched away, the bullets hitting nothing but
air. A license plate number might have helped, except The Worm
forgot to replace the back plate on what was most likely a stolen
car.

Jessie Wylson was getting scared and
desperate. I was close enough to make him come to me. I sensed it
was only a matter of time now before I zoomed in once and for all
on the drug-dealing fugitive known as The Worm.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Entering my apartment, I heard a noise coming
from the bedroom. I drew my gun immediately and pointed it at the
door, which was partially ajar.

Had The Worm actually come looking for me
here? Or were Vincente and his thugs back for more? I sighed, took
small steps, and kicked the door open, prepared to blast to
smithereens the first thing that showed any signs of life.

“Don’t shoot!” the voice pleaded
hysterically.

It definitely wasn’t Jessie Wylson’s voice.
Nor Ben Vincente’s or his bookends. But the voice was recognizable.
It was a
woman
’
s
voice.

My eyes took in Catherine Ashley Sinclair.
She was sitting cross-legged on the dresser, wearing my maroon
satin robe and, apparently, nothing else. Her long, sunshine hair
straddled her shoulders in wet, curly locks. A frightened gaze
seemed fixated on the gun currently aimed at her.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Anger
gave way to numbness.

“I had to see you.” She looked at me
innocuously with those mesmerizing eyes.

“How did you get in?” I lowered the gun, but
still kept it handy.

She got off the dresser and padded over to me
on her tiptoes. “I told the superintendent I was your half
sister.”

My left brow lifted in abashment and
disbelief. “And he believed you?”

Her lashes fluttered provocatively. “Why
shouldn’t he? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”

I didn’t doubt that for a moment. Nor could I
deny the fact that standing so close to her made it hard to
concentrate, much less want to kick her ass out of there. She
smelled fresh and unnaturally sweet. That wasn’t enough, though—not
this time.

I put my gun away, but kept my guard up.
“What kind of game are you playing, lady?” My eyes latched warily
onto her.

Catherine ran her fingers sinuously through
her slicked back hair. “I want to rehire you, D.J.,” she uttered in
an almost pathetic whisper.

“For what?” The words popped out of my mouth
like they were blocking my vocal chords. “To see who’s the biggest
damned idiot—me or your husband?”

My reaction may have been a bit theatrical,
but was definitely warranted. Also, I had a bad feeling that her
presence could only mean trouble for me down the line. Something I
didn’t need any more of at this time in my life. Even then, a part
of me was still glad to see her. Especially the way she looked at
the moment.

“You’re not being fair,” cooed Catherine as
if somehow she truly believed that.

I wasn’t moved, backing away like I had come
face to face with the devil in disguise. “What isn’t fair is your
making yourself at home like you own the damned place.” The robe, I
noted, seemed a perfect fit on her. “Why didn’t you come to my
office? Or, better yet, make an appointment?” Whatever she was up
to, I was determined not to fall for it.

She lowered her gaze meekly. “I was afraid
you would turn me away.”

“You’re right—I would have,” I stated
bluntly. “I think it would be best all the way around if you found
someone else to do whatever it is you have in mind this time. There
are a number of competent private investigators. I can recommend
one if you like.” I had a feeling she wouldn’t go away quite that
easily.