Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (9 page)

Catherine raised her eyes at me. “I
confronted my husband with the photos—” She sighed. “He laughed and
said they would never hold up in divorce court. He claims she was
just a very good friend. As punishment for going behind his back,
he says he’ll see to it that I’m left penniless.”

“I’m sorry,” I offered sheepishly, somehow
feeling as if I hadn’t done my job very well. “If it’s a question
of needing more explicit proof—”

“No,” she said tersely. “My husband’s a very
vindictive man. It’s never going to be enough merely proving he’s
having sex with other women.” Her tongue wet her lips as if she had
something else on her mind. “Aside from his legitimate business
interests, Gregory is into some illicit activities.”

“Such as?” I found myself mildly
intrigued.

She shrugged evasively. “I’m not really
sure,” she claimed. “I’ve overheard him when he’s been on the phone
or having late night meetings in the study. There’s been talk of
drugs, money laundering, even extortion. If I had proof of some of
his doings, I would have greater leverage against him.”

This seemed plausible to me, if not dangerous
for her. “If your husband’s the vindictive man you seem to think he
is,” I said, “how do you think he’ll react if you try to blackmail
him with something more threatening than proof that he’s having an
affair?”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “It’s a chance I’m
willing to take. My husband is cold-blooded and ruthless, but he’s
also very sensible and reasonable when he has to be.”

I blinked with askance. “If you say so.”

Her face lit up. “Does that mean you’ll work
for me again, D.J.?”

My common sense said no. But my sense of
obligation said yes. “I’ll see what I can find out in a couple of
days,” I gave in. “Now I suggest you put your clothes on before
something happens we’ll both regret.”

“Why should we regret anything that happens?”
she declared, and opened up the robe, revealing her naked, moist
body. “If Gregory’s allowed to play, then why can’t I?”

I could think of a couple of practical
reasons, but I doubted she wanted to hear them.

She cozied up to me and allowed the robe to
fall to the floor. “Am I
really
asking too much of you,
D.J.?”

Yes, she was. But she was making it damned
difficult to let her leave, and she seemed intent on playing that
for all it was worth. Her mind had obviously already been made up
the moment she conned her way in here.

She cooed: “I really don’t want to go home
right now.”

I regarded her sinfully. “What the hell do
you want, Catherine?” I had to ask, a raging desire burning in me
like molten hot liquid.

Raising her chin, she brushed her lips across
mine. “You!” she said pointedly.

Between that and the sexy way she fluttered
her lashes, I once again found myself throwing caution to the wind
and abandoning my professional discretion for my lustful
indiscretion. I scooped her up in my arms like she was weightless,
and took her to bed.

The passion was intense with neither of us
holding anything back, yet was strictly physical. I think we both
knew that. But that was enough to disregard all the warning signs
that I was playing with fire. At the moment, the only thing burning
was the heat of our mouths searching one another’s ravenously and
our bodies wrapped tightly around each other in perpetual movement,
as if riding the wave of erotic chemistry to the end of the
earth.

* * *

In the afterglow, I poured wine while
Catherine put on what she came in, a snug fitting purple dress and
black low heeled pumps.

“Maybe you ought to cut your losses and get
what you can out of your marriage,” I suggested strongly, handing
her a glass of white wine. I settled for beer.

“That would make it too easy for him,”
Catherine countered stubbornly over the rim of her glass. “I don’t
intend to give in without a fight.”

“If it’s a fight you want,” I warned, “you
could lose.”

She smiled insightfully. “Never!”

I almost believed her.

She was about to hand me money, but I stopped
her. “Wait until we see what I come up with.” I wasn’t making any
promises or looking to somehow make everything right for her and
wrong for the husband.

“All right.” Catherine put her small hands to
my waist and, looking wistful, said: “Maybe when this is all
over—”

“Then we go our separate ways,” I stated
flatly, removing her hands. “Understand? No reason to even kid
ourselves into believing there can be a future for us. We both know
it won’t happen.” At least one of us did.

Catherine seemed thankful that I had put our
relationship in the proper context. Neither of us could afford to
look ahead.

Today there was still the important fact that
she was a married woman, even if she appeared to be inexorably
headed for divorce court. And I was a single man who had his eyes
squarely on another woman—one who apparently saw me as little more
than a tall, good-looking handy man.

Not to mention there was a slippery, sneaky
assed Worm still on the loose that I needed to find.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I went for my morning jog, enjoying the
solitude of my own company. Working up a sweat was easy when the
temperature was unseasonably warm, the humidity high, and the pace
steady.

I ended my run at the newsstand. Glancing at
the front page of the
Oregonian
, I expected to find just
your average murders, crime, and mayhem. What my eyes saw instead
on the lower half in bold print was: Woman Found Shot To Death.

Instincts made me read on before I could
digest it with coffee and donuts. “The woman has been identified as
Terri Nicole Hawthorne, thirty-two, a native Portlander...” The
accompanying black and white photograph was grainy and not very
recent, but it was almost certainly the same Terri Nicole
ex-girlfriend of Jessie Wylson.

Breakfast ended up being a trip to the
morgue. Something told me that Terri Hawthorne’s death was not
coincidental by any stretch of the imagination. Even as a homicide
cop, going to the morgue had been a task that didn’t agree with me.
Seeing stiffs who looked like stiffs had an eerie morbidity to it.
But someone had to do it.

“Do you know the deceased?” the assistant
M.E. asked. He reminded me a lot of Anthony Perkins.

“I might,” I responded, clinging to the
possibility that it was someone else who had met her maker.

“Let’s hope not.”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” he admitted. “She took one bullet in
the forehead and three in the chest. Someone wanted to make sure
she was good and dead.”

He pulled the drawer out halfway. The face
was bloated and discolored, with a quarter sized hole in the center
of the forehead. The chest was torn open, as if a sharp knife had
carved her up like a turkey, ripping apart all vital organs.

“Well, do you know her?” he asked in a
monotone voice.

I gazed a moment longer than I should have,
before saying bleakly: “No, not really.”

It was Terri, the woman who had made the
mistake of getting involved with The Worm. And she had paid the
ultimate price with her life.

I left the morgue wondering who had done the
honors of silencing Terri Nicole Hawthorne. Jessie Wylson, who had
tried to run me down just yesterday? A man who couldn’t afford to
leave behind any witnesses with intimate knowledge of his deeds and
misdeeds? Vincente? Dirk? Clarence? All men who seemed determined
to protect The Worm at any cost.

Who would be next?
I sure as hell
didn’t intend for it to be me!

* * *

I found Nate hanging out at his usual spot in
Pioneer Courthouse Square. It seemed smart to fill him in on Terri
Hawthorne’s untimely death and my own recent brushes with death and
permanent disability. Despite Nate’s lack of productivity lately,
he was still my best source of information on the street.

“It’s a warnin’, D.J.,” sighed Nate, “to quit
while you’re ahead, man. It sho ain’t worth laying your life on the
line for. I’m sorry.” His voice strained to stay above the
quavering point.

“Don’t be,” I told him, feeling as if he may
have been onto something there. “No sorrier than The Worm will be
if I ever get my paws on him.”

“I could teach you how to be a clown,” Nate
said in earnest, looking very much the part. “Beats chasing down
dope heads for a living. If you’re good, you can make some money
out here on the streets.”

I had a private laugh. That was the second
time of late that a career change had been suggested. I wondered if
it was something in the air, food, or water. P.I. work had its ups
and downs...seemingly more downs than ups lately. But I could think
of plenty of alternatives to being a clown. Or a security
guard.

I told Nate: “Forget it, man. I was never
very funny.”

He pulled on his red nose, snapping it back
into place like a dislocated joint. “Too bad. You don’t know what
you’re missin’ out here.”

“Oh, I think I have an idea,” I replied. It
was time to get back to business. “So what do you know about Terri
Hawthorne’s death?”

Nate hesitated like a chicken bone was caught
in his throat. “I heard about that.” Another nervous pause. “Can’t
tell you why the woman was wasted.” He eyed me speculatively.
“Guess somebody felt she had to go before she said the wrong things
to the wrong people.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You mean like
me?”

He bit into his lower lip. “You said it, man,
not me.”

I got up in his face, baring my teeth like a
rabid dog. “If you know something you’re not telling me, Nate, I’m
going to come down real hard on your ass.”

He shriveled up like a burnt piece of bacon.
“Hey, be cool, D.J. You know I wouldn’t be holdin’ back on
you.”

I knew no such thing, but didn’t want to
press the issue. “Just give me something I can use,” I said in a
calmer voice. “Someone must know where The Worm is hiding.”

Nate wrung his hands restlessly. “I ain’t no
magician and I ain’t got no x-ray vision either. All I got is
acquaintances. They tell me things. I tell you.”

And I appreciated it, even if I rarely told
him so. “Keep talking to your acquaintances,” I pressed. “Jessie
Wylson is starting to get personal for me. The sooner I find him,
the sooner you and I can sleep a little easier.”

Nate sniffed petulantly. “I’ll keep askin’
‘round,” he promised tonelessly. “If I find out anything, I know
where to find you.”

My eyes drifted off into the distance where I
knew Mount Hood hovered above everything like King Kong. It brought
me back to nature and, for some reason, made me imagine enjoying a
lifetime of natural beauty and tranquility.

Then I came back to the real world.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The football season was now in full swing,
exhibition style! On this Monday night, the sultry sounds of jazz
had to take a back seat at Jasmine’s to the Seahawks and Rams on
the big screen. Most experts picked the Rams to go all the way this
year. I was putting my money and mouth squarely on the team from
Seattle.

“How ‘bout it, D.J.?” said one of my bar
buddies, Lim Jefferson. He was a forty-year-old, insurance salesman
who happened to be from St. Louis. “Care to wager on the outcome of
the game?”

“Sure, why not.” I told him, ever confident.
“Twenty says the Seahawks run the Rams right into the ground.” This
despite the fact that St. Louis was a seven point favorite on their
home turf.

“You’re on,” Jefferson said gleefully, his
skinny frame looking as if it might snap in two at any time. We
shook on it. “And that’s cash only,” he insisted. “Your checks have
a strange way of bouncing.”

Only when I wanted them to, usually when I
was stalling till I could break even the next time around. This was
by no means a sure bet, but somehow I felt lucky tonight as if I
had some insight into the future. I could only hope that some of
that would rub off on my team.

I pulled out a crisp twenty from my wallet
and set it on the table. “Put up, man,” I demanded. “Or shut
up.”

Lim placed a crinkled twenty atop mine.

The waitress brought another pitcher over
just in time for the second half. Neither team had scored yet. Gus
joined the party, and sweetened the pot, taking the spread. The bet
now stood at sixty dollars, winner takes all.

“Maybe they’ll call the game due to boredom,”
Gus complained. He played with his beard and yawned.

I told him, with an eye toward Jefferson:
“Hell of a defensive battle. But it only takes a touchdown to
win.”

Jefferson laughed uneasily. “Or lose.”

Inside I was sweating bullets. Though ugly to
watch, I hung in there until the bitter end. The defense bailed me
and the team out with a last minute forced fumble, recovery, and
touchdown run. Final score: Seahawks 7 and Rams 3. Without the
spread.

I used my winnings for another round of
drinks, with a few bucks left over to take with me. Welcome to the
football season. I was more optimistic than ever that the Northwest
team was well on its way to the Super Bowl.

* * *

Following a long, hot shower, I called it a
night. An erotic dream made sleep a friendly companion. But you had
to be a psychologist to try and figure it out. First it seemed like
I was with Catherine in bed then on the floor, in one position,
then another. Only when the moonlight hit her face, she turned out
to be Vanessa King.

Just when it seemed that I might have struck
gold in a world where anything goes, the phone ringing brought me
back to life.

It was three in the morning. I could barely
hide my disappointment over the bad timing. My fingers dug under
the sports section of the newspaper on the floor, where the phone
had somehow ended up. I was ready to curse the sucker who would do
this to me just when I had Vanessa King right where I wanted
her.