Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (24 page)

She smiled. “Sounds like the perfect
life.”

“Yeah”—I crept ever so close to
her—“perfect.”

I angled my head and went for her mouth like
it was beckoning me. She reciprocated in kind and we were both the
better for it.

It wasn’t easy, but I kept my hands to
myself—with the exception of an occasional caress of her bare
shoulders—not wanting to press my luck with this lady.

Vanessa turned out to be
lady luck
.
“Make love to me, D.J.,” she whispered in my ear like she didn’t
want the next-door neighbors to overhear.

My arousal level went sky high in that
moment. Hell, maybe even somewhere into the deep recesses of outer
space. We held hands and stared luminously into each other’s
eyes.

“Your place or mine?”

It was hers.

She led me to the bedroom and I seriously
wondered if it could get any better than this. It was the stuff
dreams were made of, and I was about to live one of my own in vivid
color.

Before either of us could take off our
clothes, Vanessa quietly handed me a condom. Smart lady. Better
safe than sorry for either of us, even if I could see the lady
being the mother of my child someday.

With the formalities out of the way, she
unwrapped her dress and the rest soon followed.

“Do you like what you see?” she asked.

A salacious grin parted my lips. What I saw
was the total package: small, full breasts, a trim waist, and a
taut body with long, shapely legs. She was
everything
I had
dreamed she’d be, and then some.

“Are you kidding me?” I answered like a
little boy about to dive into some of his favorite chocolate ice
cream. “What’s not to like?”

I pulled the shirt over my head, finding it
difficult to wait a moment longer to be with this woman. We got
body to body and our lips pressed together as if they were two
pulsating engines in perfect and passionate harmony.

In bed, we continued kissing, tongues
whipping in and out of each other’s mouths. I was tender with her.
She was aggressive with me. I tried to stick with the straight and
narrow. She preferred to negotiate every curve and angle as if not
wanting to miss a beat. I wasn't complaining. Not one bit.

We made love in sinfully slow motion for half
the night, exploring each other inside and out, squeezing every
drop of desire we could muster into the intimacy. Neither of us
came up for air until we were both totally spent. And very content
like lifelong lovers.

Afterwards, she gave me a toe curling long
kiss that left me breathless. “Happy now?”

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” I
held her hand, kissing it softly. “And what an angel you turned out
to be.”

Vanessa looked me in the eye. Earnestness
darkened her lovely face.

“What is it?” I asked, almost afraid to hear
the answer.

She paused. “We’re good together, D.J. I
think that’s obvious.”

“But—”
Always that but
.
My
heart began to beat faster.

“I don’t want to rush things,” she finally
said.

“Isn’t it a bit too late to move into this
gradually?” I had to remind myself that we were in bed.

Her bed
.

“No,” she said forcefully. “It’s just the
right time. Yes, we made love. Yes, it was great.” Her eyes lowered
then lifted. “But it takes time to really get to know a person. I
just don’t want you to get carried away with what happened between
us tonight because I’m not really sure what we have.”

I was beginning to get the message. My ideal
lady was trying to tell me that it was too early to make
assumptions concerning us. And though I was ready to jump into this
relationship head first, I knew deep down inside that she was the
voice of reason. I had to respect that even if I didn’t necessarily
agree.

My mouth parted into a platonic smile. “We’ll
take things one day at a time, Vanessa,” I promised, happy to have
this day under our belts.

“Thank you for that.” She kissed me tenderly
on the cheek. “In the meantime, friends?”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but knew I
didn’t want to lose her. Not after I’d found her.

“Friends,” I replied enthusiastically,
already thinking ahead as well as thinking about what had just
transpired between friends.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

There was a terse message from Nate on my
answering machine when I walked into the office the following
morning. It said he had to see me and it was urgent.

I took him at his word.

It was late afternoon on an overcast day when
I found Nate at Pioneer Courthouse Square. He was playing the Rose
Clown and the crowd to perfection, dressed in a bright red-green
costume. I watched him stand on his head, and then do a few back
flips, before landing squarely on his feet.

I cleared my throat to draw his attention.
Once Nate saw me, he took a break, much to the disappointment of
onlookers.

“Got your message,” I said tonelessly.

“You sure took your sweet time getting back
to me,” he said disappointedly.

“I was tied up with other things, man,” I
told him, thinking about the night I’d spent with Vanessa King and
hoping it wasn’t the last. Then I returned to the real world and
the man before me who insisted on being a clown. “What’s so
urgent?”

Nate wet his lips and looked around with
trepidation. “You want The Worm? I think I know where you can find
him.”

“Where?”

A sigh, then in an undertone: “Word is he’s
holed up at Madam Harriet’s.”

“Madam who?”

He chuckled. “Harriet. She’s a psychic, or
claims to be. She’s got a crib on Broadmoor.”

“Why would The Worm be there?” I asked myself
as much as him. “Don’t tell me he believes in fate?”

Nate shrugged. “I can’t read minds, man.
You’ll have to ask him that. Or her. I only know what I heard.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So far, Nate, everything
you’ve heard has gotten me nowhere!” I grabbed him by his ruffles.
“If I end up at another dead end, I’ll be pissed and you’ll have to
answer for it. You follow me?”

He looked as if he was about to melt. “Hey, I
heard you, man.” He snorted whatever was already in his nose, and
squinted. “I’m on your side, remember? Ain’t no reason to dog me in
front of my fans—”

In fact, his “fans” had pretty much
disappeared, attracted to a saxophonist who seemed to have real
talent. I released Nate anyway and said sternly: “Just so we
understand each other.”

Even then, I knew that in some ways I would
never understand him.

He stuck his hand out. “Hey, I’m puttin’ my
neck on the line for you, D.J. That’s gotta be worth somethin,’
ain’t it?”

I balled up his empty hand. “It will be,” I
promised. “When I find Jessie Wylson.”

* * *

Madam Harriet’s place was located along a
stretch of neon lit adult bookstores, strip clubs, and other
businesses that catered to pornographic tastes and psychic
astrology addicts.

I entered a candlelit room with a glass table
and wicker chairs. A poster of a fire-breathing dragon covered one
wall. African artifacts sat on a shelf in a corner. A curtain led
to another room.

If The Worm really was hiding here,
considering all the circumstances, he probably picked about as
unlikely a place for someone to look for him as Bosnia. Or
Iraq.

Almost.

Instinctively, I took out my Glock, keeping
it close to my side, but ready.

A woman came through the curtain. She was in
her forties and heavily made up, including blue shadow around the
eyes and loud purple lipstick. Her gray hair was in a tight, short
ponytail. She wore a long, colorful gown and enough cosmetic
jewelry to open up her own store.

“How can I help you?” she asked, one eye on
the gun in my hand.

“Are you Madam Harriet?” I asked, feeling
foolish in doing so.

She nodded. “What do you want?”

“Maybe I want some advice on my love
life.”

A doubtful fluttering of her false lashes.
“You don’t need a gun for that.”

“I said
maybe
.” My gaze focused on the
curtain, and what or who might be behind it. “My name’s Drake. I’m
a private investigator.” I glanced at her. “I’m really looking for
Jessie Wylson. You may know him as The Worm. My own crystal ball
tells me he’s been using this place to hide from the law—and
me!”

“You’re mistaken,” she said in a controlled
voice. “I don’t know any Jessie Wylson or Worm.”

I could see that she was nervous. Why? Did
she have something to hide?

“If it’s all the same to you,” I told her, “I
think I’d like to see for myself—”

My feet moved toward the curtain. She blocked
my path with her body. “You cannot go back there!” Her voice was
explosive.

“Don’t try and stop me, lady—” I gazed down
at her intimidatingly.

She did an about face, saying: “I know Worm.
But he’s not here.”

She did a bad job of convincing me.

“If he’s not,” I said tartly, “I’ll be out of
your hair before you know it.”

I shoved her aside and opened the curtain
with my gun. I had entered a behind-the-scenes apartment divided
into several rooms. Despite the protestations of Madam Harriet, I
went from room to room hoping to land my eyes and Glock on Jessie
Wylson’s face.

Once again I came up empty. No sign of The
Worm. I saw evidence—clothes, shaving cream—that a man was or had
been staying there.

Entering a bedroom, I got a frontal view of a
bare-chested, young, African American girl. She looked, but made no
attempt to cover up, as if the cat had already been let out of the
bag. Then I heard a baby’s cry and watched as she raced over to a
crib and lifted the baby to her breast.

“Satisfied?” Madam Harriet blared at me,
slamming the door to the room.

“Where is he?” I turned on her.

“I have no idea.”

“He was hiding here, wasn’t he?” I probably
sounded about as uptight as I felt.

“Mr. Wylson came here to have his charts
read,” she insisted. “That’s all—”

“Has anyone else come looking for him?”

“No,” she said scathingly.

I could tell she knew more than she was
saying.

Had The Worm been tipped off once again? What
rock had he slithered under now?

Was he still alive?

Had Cornwell and Muncie gotten to him? Or
Frank Sherman?

Disregarding Madam Harriet’s vehement
objection, I opened the bedroom door where the girl I assumed was
her daughter was breast-feeding. “Do you know where I can find
Jessie Wylson?” I asked the girl.

She shook her head carefully, as if she had
been trained to whenever asked that question. “I’m sorry,” she
added as if she truly was.

Who was I to say otherwise?

Madam Harriet walked me to the door. “Good
day,” she said with venom.

I gave her a hard look. “I’ll be back if I
have to.”

Somehow I doubted I would need to. Whatever
else I thought of Jessie Wylson, he seemed to cover his steps well
while staying on the move. And never looking back.

* * *

Outside, I wondered if Nate had been leading
me on a wild goose chase. Could he have somehow been protecting The
Worm by warning him at every turn that I was coming after him?

It didn’t really make sense, but at this
stage I couldn’t rule out anything.

I made a futile attempt to ask a few
questions of the locals, but they were quick to shut me out like I
had bad breath. Or worse, wanted something of them they didn’t care
to part with.

Including information.

By the time I got back to my Bronco, I was
ready to pay Nate another visit. There was a light knock on the
passenger window. I used lightning speed to whip out my Glock and
make sure if I went down I took someone with me.

Facing me with expected dread was an
unexpected person—the girl from Madam Harriet’s place. She was
alone. I let her in warily, my finger on the trigger as a
precautionary measure.

“Mr. Drake?” Her voice quavered.

“That’s me.”

“My name is Rita,” she said softly.

She was in her late teens, anorexic thin,
with big black eyes and curly, black hair.

“Are you looking for a ride, Rita?” I asked
guardedly. “Or is this where you tell me you know Jessie Wylson
after all?”

She pressed her lips together. “I do know
Worm. Did Nate tell you where to find him?”

I nodded, for some reason surprised that she
knew the Rose Clown.

“He was here,” she said tersely.

“Was?”

“Worm left just before you came.”

“Who tipped him off?”

“He got scared,” she said. “He sensed you, or
someone else found out where he was.”

“Did this come from his psychic reading?” I
asked. “Or did Madam Harriet use more common means to warn
him?”

Her eyes stared straight ahead. “What
difference does it make? He’s gone now.”

I studied her profile. “Do you know where I
can find him, Rita?” Encouraging her, I said: “You might be saving
his life
.
”

She faced me and sighed. “Worm was bad news
for my sister. She’s a crack addict. He supplied her with drugs and
she gave him a safe place to stay.” Another long pause. “I’m only
telling you this because I care about what happens to her—”

“I understand,” I told her tenderly.

Through barely opened lips, Rita said: “I
think Worm is at a house on Drummond Street. His sister lives
there—”

Something told me that his sister was the
woman who claimed to have distanced herself from The Worm and
Terri, apparently for my ears only.

Unless, of course, Rita was lying.

I looked sharply into her eyes while
tightening my grip on the gun straddling my lap. “How do I know
this isn’t some deadly game Jessie Wylson concocted to set me
up?”