Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (12 page)

“You’re not gonna get away with this, you
bastard!” shrieked Sinclair, growling at me like a German Shepherd
protecting its owner from a prowler.

“Someone sure as hell will pay for it,” I
promised, forcing myself to refrain from slinging mud with him.

Sinclair took one more half-hearted lunge at
me before he was driven back by the husky detective to whom
O’Malley ordered: “Get him the hell outta here!”

Afterwards, O’Malley apologized to me, sort
of. “That wasn’t staged, Drake. Apparently Sinclair just saw his
wife at the morgue. None of us knew who he was until he was on top
of you.”

I took him at his word on that, but was
pissed nevertheless. “You’d better keep him away from me,
O’Malley,” I warned. “Next time Sinclair won’t have you to protect
him.”

“You heard the man,” the coarse voice said.
Frank Sherman had entered the room, looking cool and refreshed in a
tailored Deputy D.A.’s suit. “I think we both know Drake no more
murdered Catherine Sinclair than you or I did, O’Malley.”

Frank Sherman was maybe the last person I
expected to come to my rescue. He personally vouched for my
innocence, refusing to press charges. The man even went so far as
to admonish Cornwell and Muncie for bringing me in.

I didn’t know if I should be indebted or
concerned.

There was still the matter of Jessie The Worm
Wylson to contend with, and evidently he was more important to
Sherman than my legal troubles. Was this merely preferential
treatment or something more self-serving and sinister?

Sherman offered me a ride home. I accepted,
as my head and body were in no condition to use my feet.

“Have to give you credit, Drake,” Sherman
remarked over the wheel of a metallic green BMW, “apparently
there’s never a dull moment with you.”

“Only when I sleep,” I muttered dryly.

“Did you kill her?” He looked at me
sideways.

My leer was more direct. “If you think so,
what the hell are we doing here?” I was running out of guesses.

“You deserve the benefit of the doubt,” he
said evenly, “from one ex-cop to another.”

“I’m honored,” I said sardonically.

“Don’t be.” He shot me a vicious look. “If
you killed her, you’ll be prosecuted to the full extent of the law,
just like any other common criminal.”

“You mean like Jessie Wylson?”

Sherman turned a corner sharply and headed
straight down a hill. “Yes, I’d say he’s about as common as they
get.”

“And that’s why you want his head?” I
wondered, studying his irregular profile. “Or do all ‘common
criminals’ get special attention from the D.A.’s office?” In my
experience they didn’t. Or was it just
this
Deputy D.A. in
particular who was interested in nailing The Worm to the proverbial
wall?

Sherman did not lose his cool facade. “No,
not all common criminals warrant my obsession. Yes”—he glanced my
way—“it is somewhat of an obsession to find Jessie Wylson. You see,
Drake, I have a strong predilection for clearing the streets of all
dope pushers, especially those who seem to snub their noses at the
establishment.”

I found it hard to separate Jessie Wylson
from the pack. But Sherman seemed to have no trouble doing so. “Is
that why you went into law, Sherman,” I asked curiously, “to rid
the streets of dope dealers?”

He stared at the question for a moment or two
before responding. “I went into law because I thought I could make
more of a difference than I did as a cop. Maybe you felt the same
way when you decided to become a private investigator.”

“Maybe I did.” It was hard not to like
Sherman at some level. It became easier when thinking about the
less than supportive treatment I’d been given by current cops who
used to be my friends and colleagues. That didn’t mean I trusted
the Deputy D.A. fully and completely. For some reason, I felt that
he had a hidden agenda. One he was in no hurry to share with
me.

“So if you didn’t kill her,” said Sherman
casually, “who do you think did?”

I had a strong suspect or two, but told him
evasively: “When I find out, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

He let out a long breath. “At the risk of
being selfish, I hope that doesn’t mean you’re planning to put the
search for The Worm on hold?”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” I told him
as renewed anger ignited inside me. “The son of a bitch tried to
kill me. That’s enough to guarantee he won’t be far from my mind
until I find him.”

Sherman nodded with apparent satisfaction,
never bothering to ask me about my brush with mortality. “Good. I
was hoping we understood each other.”

So that was the price for my freedom. “Oh, I
think we’re beginning to,” I replied.

Sherman dropped me off in front of my
building and sped off into the night as if he had better things to
do with his time. I also had more important things on my mind right
now—like taking a long, hot bath. For once, I hoped I didn’t run
into Vanessa King. Even I was repelled by the scotch that still
tingled inside of me and reeked on the outside like rotting
beef.

* * *

In the morning, I didn’t feel much better.
The back of my head still felt as if it was ready to split open,
the hangover continued to hover over me like a dark cloud, and my
ego had definitely been put through the ringer by a conniving,
two-timing bitch.

Unfortunately I had no time to wallow in
self-pity or regret. Catherine, or whatever the hell her real name
was, picked the wrong man to use as a patsy. As far as I was
concerned, she was right there at the top of my list—right next to
Jessie Wylson—of the people that I had a score to settle. First, I
had to find her.

I paid a second visit to the scene of the
crime. It was time to have another conversation with Gregory
Sinclair. Only it would be on my terms. The way I felt right now, I
was looking for an excuse to kick his ass if he was dumb enough to
go one on one against me.

The red Porsche I saw in the wee hours of the
morning was still in the driveway, as well as the silver Mercedes.
She had not missed a trick. The Porsche, or one just like it, was
used by blondie to pick me up that night we connected at Jasmine’s.
She made sure I saw it when tracking Gregory Sinclair from the
house, giving me no reason to suspect she wasn’t really Catherine
Ashley Sinclair.

I dodged some leftover crime scene tape and
made my way to the front door. My guess was that any solid evidence
of the real killer or killers of Catherine had already been removed
from the premises by the time the cops arrived.

A middle-aged Hispanic woman answered the
door. “Yes?”

The housekeeper, I surmised by the dirty rag
she held in her hand. She had been the one to identify the body of
Catherine Sinclair. Yet she had been conspicuously absent during
the time of her death.
Had she been in on the
conspiracy?

“I’m here to see Gregory Sinclair.”

She gave me the once-over, but otherwise
showed no recognition, and said in a heavily accented voice: “Just
a moment.”

I waited, wondering if Catherine Sinclair
could have been murdered and this whole thing had been set up
without Gregory Sinclair’s knowledge. I doubted it, especially when
I now knew he obviously stood to gain financially from his wife’s
death. His mistress, who was also very likely his partner in crime,
could live quite comfortably once someone else was tried and
convicted of ending Catherine Sinclair’s life.
Someone like
me
.

Sinclair came to the door in a long, silk
robe, his gray hair freshly washed. He didn’t exactly look as if
he’d lost much sleep over his wife’s death. He furrowed his brow
menacingly at me. Or was it surprise?

“Drake—!”

“Who did you expect,” I asked bluntly, “the
woman who masqueraded as your wife?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking
about,” he said with a spiteful sneer.

My eyes flashed at him doubtfully. “I think
you do.”

He swallowed unevenly. “You’ve got one hell
of a nerve showing up here, you bastard, after what you—”

I cut him off irascibly. “I had one hell of a
nerve showing up here last night, asshole, when I thought you were
going to kill your wife.” Our eyes met coldly. “We can tussle right
here and now if you’re man enough,” I challenged him. “Or we can go
inside and talk about this. Think about it, but don’t take too
long—”

He glared at me for a moment before wisely
backing off and moving aside. “Come in.”

Inside, I could see the housekeeper peeking
curiously from the kitchen entry. When Sinclair turned to face her,
she disappeared as if she had reason to.

“Say what you have to say, then get the hell
out—” Sinclair bellowed.

“All right, I will.” I told him the bizarre
tale about the woman I erroneously believed to be his wife hiring
me, my surveillance of him, the supposedly incriminating
photographs, and the phone call last night. I finished up with my
being hit on the head and waking up in bed with his real wife dead
beside me and two cops standing over me with their guns drawn. I
left out the sexual details. If Sinclair didn’t already know about
us, there was little to be gained at this point in revealing our
tryst.

He seemed to take in my story with a mixture
of fascination and amusement, but otherwise remained strangely calm
and detached.

“Oh that’s good, Drake,” Sinclair said with a
nasty chuckle, “really good. Do you seriously expect me to believe
any of that BS—coming from the man the police think murdered my
wife?”

My temperature was starting to rise. “I
really couldn’t give a damn what you believe,” I lied. “I didn’t
kill her. But someone sure as hell did.” I closed the distance
between us so he could see the gray-brown of my eyeballs. “If I
find out it was you, Sinclair, I’m going to see to it that you
spend the rest of your life in a cage. Do you get my drift?”

His nostrils swelled in defiance. “You’re
barking up the wrong tree, Drake.”

“Am I?” I held my gaze. “Do you deny meeting
your wife at a Vancouver motel?”

“Why should I?” His lower lip quivered.
“There’s no law that says a man and his wife can’t get away from
home for a romantic rendezvous at a cheap motel every now and
then.”

“There is when it involves deception and
conspiracy to commit murder.”

Sinclair smiled smugly. “Seems to me this is
all just some convoluted, wildly imaginative tale you’ve conjured
up that’s getting weirder by the minute.”

I sensed he didn’t believe that any more than
I did. Proving it could be another story.

“Look asshole, I didn’t imagine her! And I
didn’t imagine being set up for your wife’s murder. Whoever wanted
the cops to find me next to her body obviously went to great pains
to mastermind Catherine Sinclair’s death—”

Sinclair ran his fingers nervously through
his wet hair. “I hardly think my wife would actually conspire to be
a part of her own murder,” he said, “if this so-called conspiracy
is to make any sense.”

“She might if she was duped into it,” I said.
“Just like I was—”

Sinclair glared at me. “I’ve heard enough
from from you,” he said. “I think it’s time you left my house.” He
put his hand on the front doorknob for effect.

“You mean your late wife’s house, don’t you?”
This seemed to rile him as intended. “Where were you when your wife
was being battered and strangled last night?”

“I was at my office,” he said too quickly.
“But you were here”—he pointed upstairs—“sleeping with my wife,
before you killed her!”

As if he was before an audience, Sinclair
charged at me like he did at the police station. He managed to wrap
his large hands around my throat. Before he could apply the
pressure, I applied a little of my own. I clasped my hands and
drove them straight up under his chin. It forced him to release his
grip with a hoarse moan. I added two swift, hard punches to the
midsection before shoving him hard against the door.

Holding Sinclair up by his robe, I took a
deep breath and made him stare into my acrimonious eyes. “I’m done
playing games, Sinclair!” My better judgment told me he was right
in the middle of everything that had gone down. “Tell me where that
blonde bitch who conned me into believing she was your wife is
hiding, or so help me I’m going to beat the life out of you right
now!”

“Mr. Sinclair!” The high-pitched voice was
that of the housekeeper’s as she ran into the hallway. Her brown
face turned red with fright. “Stop it,” she demanded, looking at me
angrily. “Or I’ll call the police.”

I released Sinclair, while telling her: “That
won’t be necessary. I’m leaving.” Narrowing my gaze at Sinclair, I
told him on a parting note: “We’ll finish this discussion some
other time. You can count on that!” I pushed him away from the door
and left in a huff.

Outside, I had to face the fact that I hadn’t
made much headway in establishing the true identity of the woman
who drew me into this case of deceit, betrayal, and murder.
Sinclair seemed content to play the wronged husband while forcing
me to prove otherwise.

I had my work cut out for me and not much
time left before the roof caved in and the freedom I took for
granted was taken away from me.

* * *

About forty minutes passed before Sinclair
finally emerged from the house, dressed to kill—so to speak—in a
dark gray, double-breasted suit. He resisted the temptation to
drive his deceased wife’s Porsche and climbed into his
Mercedes.

I hoped I would get lucky and he would lead
me to the mystery woman. Instead, he went to the funeral home. He
had to make it look good. After all, for better or worse, his wife
was dead and soon to be buried. Only then would he be able to fully
profit from her death.

I followed Sinclair to a florist, his office,
and a drugstore. He came out drinking a Pepsi like it was the tonic
to relieve a guilty conscience, before going back to his house. He
seemed in no hurry to leave again, much less make visual contact
with the other woman, wherever she was hiding.