Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (25 page)

She gave me the benefit of a composed stare.
“I’m not tryin’ to lead you to a trap!” she spat. “I only want to
do what’s best for my sister.” After taking a breath, she said
thoughtfully: “I’m also tryin’ to look after myself and my
baby.”

I believed her.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The house on Thirty-Third Street and Drummond
had several lights on as I approached. A familiar looking Pontiac
was parked behind a Cadillac in the driveway. It was the same car
driven by The Worm when he tried to run me down. The license plate
was still missing from the back.

I knocked twice, my eyes open to any sign of
trouble, the Glock ready to fire.

The door opened to the bruised face of the
woman I’d last met at the house.

“Remember me?” I said tensely. Her frightened
expression told me she did. “Who did this to you?” I asked, though
the answer was painfully obvious. “It was Jessie Wylson, wasn’t
it
?
”

She looked at me with swollen eyes as if I
had just trampled upon a guarded family secret.

“Where is he?” I demanded.

She batted her lashes flippantly like I was
her enemy, not him. “He ain’t here—”

Her body language told me otherwise.

“Why do you want to protect a man who beat
the hell out of you?” I sucked in a deep breath. “Is this what you
call respect?” I glared at her pitiful face.

“Just leave,” she pleaded.

“I can’t. I know Wylson’s in there and I’m
here to take him into custody.” I watched as she wrung her hands.
“He’s a bad man and he’s made a lot of enemies. If I don’t get to
him now, believe me, it’ll get worse for him later. And they won’t
care who gets hurt in the process.”

I forced my way past her, preparing myself
for any scenario I might encounter.

She made little effort to stand in my way,
but shouted: “He’s got a gun!”

For an instant, I wasn’t sure if it was a
warning for me. Or him.

She was signaling danger to The
Worm
.

I went down a first floor hallway, making
sure the barrel of my gun saw everything I did. I could hear noise
coming from one of the rooms. After psyching myself up, I kicked
the door open. In bed was a partially naked, brown-skinned woman.
She sloppily covered herself up and looked towards the window. It
was open.

No sooner had I crossed the room and peeked
through the window when I heard an engine start up. I climbed
outside and made tracks toward the front of the house in time to
see the Pontiac screeching backwards then careening down the
street.

Jessie The Worm Wylson was behind the
wheel.

I wasn’t sure if the Bronco was up to another
high-speed chase so soon. But I was about to find out.

Jessie Wylson led me from one street to
another with the pop sound of bullets whizzing my way. He seemed to
have no sense of direction, let alone respect for the rights of
other drivers.

I followed him onto Martin Luther King
Boulevard, a main thoroughfare running from one end of the city to
another. Like a man knowing he was going down, one way or the
other, The Worm drove recklessly at speeds approaching eighty miles
an hour.

I still managed to close in on the fugitive
from justice as we darted between traffic like it wasn’t there, and
sped through red lights as if they didn’t apply to us.

Jessie Wylson didn’t know the meaning of the
words:
give up
.

Neither did I
.

We ended up back on a residential street
where The Worm quickly lost control and ran the Pontiac flush into
a telephone pole. He was doing at least fifty at the time. The
front end of the car had been flattened like a pancake and the pole
was knocked off its foundation.

I stopped and called 911 on my cell phone to
report an accident with a man seriously injured. I didn’t give The
Worm much chance of worming his way out of the wreck in one piece.
On the other hand, he had shown an uncanny ability to stay alive
against all odds.

Not taking any chances, I left the Bronco
with my gun aimed and ready as I approached the steaming vehicle.
It didn’t take long for the curious and fearless to make their
presence known, if only at arm’s length.

For some reason, I almost expected Jessie
Wylson to come out firing to his last breath. He didn’t.

I thought I saw movement in the car, aware
that even an injured man could still fire a gun.

“Make it easy on yourself, man,” I warned.
“It’s all over—”

Even though The Worm had tried to take me out
on at least one occasion, I didn’t want to see him meet his maker
just yet. A dead witness who was also a wanted drug dealer wouldn’t
be much help to Sherman in prosecuting Sinclair or going after
rogue cops, Muncie and Cornwell.

Closing in, I could see that the person
inside the car was slumped over the steering wheel, unmoving. I
managed to pry open the driver’s side door, while keeping my eyes
and gun peeled on The Worm for any signs of aggression. There were
none.

He was bleeding badly from the head. The
nature of the wound was not from his head smashing into the
dashboard or shattered windshield. Experience told me the gaping
hole on the back of his head came from a bullet.

I hadn’t fired a shot.

Jessie Wylson was dead.

Was this a suicide by a rat who felt
himself cornered
?

Had The Worm shot himself in the back of the
head?

Why now? I wondered. After the man had
successfully eluded the Deputy D.A., the police, and me for weeks,
had he suddenly decided there was no other way out for him?

Or did someone else decide to help him
out?

As if that thought was my wake-up call, I
swiveled away from the car in time to see the bright lights of a
fast approaching vehicle, nearly blinding me. It was coming
directly at me with a volley of bullets.

I did the only thing I could, with barely
seconds to spare from either being run over or shot to death.
Diving to the pavement, I rolled around and around, dodging bullets
like daggers. I returned fire, unloading my gun in the process.

I watched from my chin as the car sideswiped
The Worm’s Pontiac, did a somersault, and burst into flames,
illuminating the twilight hour like the Fourth of July. It took
only three guesses as to the identity of the person who tried to
put me out of commission and had succeeded with Jessie Wylson.

* * *

The charred corpse was tentatively identified
as Officer Rick Muncie. It was a good bet that when the bullet was
removed from The Worm’s brain it would have Muncie’s signature all
over it. Officer William Cornwell had escaped death the hard way by
making Muncie go this one alone.

It looked as if Gregory Sinclair’s second
biggest headache had been permanently eliminated. But that still
left me to contend with.

Sherman drove up and ran toward me, looking
flustered and remorseful as if he’d just lost his best friend.

“How could this happen?” he asked with an
edge to his voice.

“It’s not that difficult to figure out,” I
said. “Too many players, back stabbers, lives, and careers at
stake.” We both watched as the body bag containing Jessie Wylson
was taken away. “Hope you have enough to hang Sinclair without The
Worm now that you as good as gave Muncie the green light to execute
anyone who stood between him and his pension.”

The lines between Sherman’s brows deepened.
“My hands were tied and you damn well know it, Drake! Until they
were found guilty in a court of law, there was no way we could lock
Muncie and Cornwell up and swallow the keys.”

“Maybe police surveillance on two crooked
police officers would have been the next best thing,” I said
without sympathy. “It might have saved Jessie Wylson’s life, even
if it wasn’t much worth saving.” I fronted Sherman. “My guess is
that Cornwell is a loose cannon out there somewhere with nothing
left to lose. I wouldn’t wait too long before you find him.
Otherwise you may end up with more corpses.”

“We’ll find him,” Sherman muttered lowly, but
resolutely. He paused, looked at me and said, almost as an
afterthought: “How you holding up?”

“Other than skinned elbows and a bruised
chin, I think I’ll live.”

Sherman nodded. “Too bad the same can’t be
said for The Worm.”

“So what happens now to your case against
Sinclair?” While Sherman pondered my question, I added: “Of course,
you could always try the asshole for first degree murder, starting
with his wife, Catherine. He probably also did in Michael
Touchas—”

Sherman licked his lips mindfully. “Nice of
Ms. Collins to finally volunteer to come forward.”

“Probably had something to do with a guilty
conscience,” I cracked, “and a sudden desire to see Gregory
Sinclair held accountable for his sins.”

Sherman read between the lines. “Right. And
I’m sure you didn’t twist her arm maybe just a little bit.”

“Strictly in the interest of justice,” I said
humorlessly.

We both turned to look at O’Malley who must
have been looking for some friendly faces after chatting with
numerous, mostly hostile, eyewitnesses to what amounted to an
execution and a fiery death.

O’Malley’s brow was deeply furrowed as he
said: “Just received the call over the radio. They found Cornwell
dead in his bathtub. Shot in the face. His Glock was lying on the
floor by the tub. They’re calling it a suicide—”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Gregory Sinclair was the last one to be dealt
with. I doubted he would follow Cornwell’s lead and end his own
miserable life. That would be too hard for a gutless bastard like
him who found it easier to rape and beat his own wife to death.
Fortunately, his days as a free and wealthy drug dealer and
murderer were numbered. If Sherman and O’Malley were to be
believed, Sinclair’s arrest was imminent.

If not, I would deal with him in my own
way.

In the meantime, I felt obliged to pay
Sinclair a courtesy visit in advance of his impending fall from
grace. Between Francesca’s testimony and other evidence linking him
to his wife’s death, including DNA tests of semen taken from the
victim, there was enough to convict Sinclair of the rape and murder
of Catherine Ashley Sinclair.

Whether or not he would face charges in
connection with Jessie Wylson’s life and death remained to be
seen.

The gate was open when I got there.
Sinclair’s Mercedes was there, but the Porsche was gone. Maybe he
had gotten rid of everything that reminded him of his wife.

The housekeeper answered the door. Her
expression was anything but relaxed.

“Where is he?” I asked her.

“Mr. Sinclair left—” Her frightened eyes
stared at me.

I stared back perceptively. The fear she felt
was not due to my presence, but something else.
Or someone
else
.

“What is it?” I asked, alarmed.

She gulped. “I think he went to find
you.”

Nuff said. If Sinclair wanted me, I would be
happy to make myself available to him.

“I expect all hell to break loose around here
any time now,” I warned her. “For your sake, I hope you don’t get
caught in the crossfire—”

I drove to my office. It seemed like the
first place he would go.

After reloading my gun, I went up. The light
was on and the door looked as if it had been tampered with. I
entered cautiously.

There was no sign of Sinclair, but he left a
calling card. A nude picture of Catherine Ashley Sinclair was
sitting on my desk. It was one of the pictures Agnoski took, minus
Nancy Mackenzie, who had been clipped from view as if
insignificant. Sinclair obviously wanted me to know he was here and
found the perfect way to get my attention.

He had.

“Son of a bitch,” I cursed aloud.

I left the office and headed home, figuring
Sinclair had probably already been arrested. Either that or he was
trying to make a run for it.

He wouldn’t get very far.

I credited myself with having had something
to do with that.

As well as a lady I never got to know, but
wished I had.

* * *

Vanessa King greeted me outside the
brownstone. Already things were beginning to look up.

“Were you expecting company?” she asked,
concern spilling from her voice.

“That depends on the company.”

“It was going to be me,” she said with
obvious disappointment. “But when I went to your apartment, I saw a
man and woman going in. She looked scared to death.” Vanessa’s gaze
narrowed. “What’s going on, D.J.?”

“The less you know,” I told her protectively,
“the better off you’ll be.” Since I knew that was inadequate,
especially for a woman I wanted to build some type of meaningful
relationship with, I said flatly: “That man murdered his wife and
wants to get rid of the two people who just might get him a lethal
injection—”

“
You
and that woman?” Vanessa looked
horrified.

“Afraid so,” I responded gravely.

Putting on a brave face, Vanessa asked: “How
can I help?”

“Call the D.A.’s office,” I said. “Ask for
Deputy D.A. Frank Sherman. Tell him if he wants to wrap up his
case, he’d better get his ass over here as soon as he can—and bring
backup!”

She twitched and eyed me worriedly. “D.J.,
you’re not going up there, are you?”

I sucked in a breath. “He hasn’t left me much
choice.” I caressed her soft shoulders. “I’ll be all right.” I
tried to assure her, even though I was less certain.

Before she could talk me out of it, I raced
towards the front door of the brownstone, hoping it wouldn’t be the
last time I saw Vanessa King’s beautiful face.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

At my apartment door, I listened as if I
expected to hear Sinclair laying in wait. Instead, I heard nothing
but silence. With my gun pointed at the door, I turned the
knob.