Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery (26 page)

I opened the door and heard Sinclair’s
expectant voice say: “Come on in, Drake.”

He was standing in a corner of the darkened
living room. Next to him was Francesca. Even in the low light
coming from the bedroom, I could see that he was holding a gun to
her head.

And I was pointing my Glock at him. It didn’t
seem to faze Sinclair.

“Close the door!” he ordered. I did. “So you
got my message?”

“I got it,” I snapped, never losing sight of
him.

He smiled, self-satisfied. “You were smart to
come alone,” he said, “or dumb, depending on how you look at
it.”

I kept my cool, aware he was trying to bait
me into doing something that could blow up in my face. That
included killing him before he could go to trial for murdering his
wife and being a total bastard.

“Whatever you say, man,” I told him, hoping
to buy some time. “The point is I’m here.”

Francesca looked like a frightened child next
to Sinclair. Not at all like the highly charged, sexual woman I
remembered from the last time she was in my apartment.

“I’m sorry, D.J.—” uttered Francesca, as if
she also remembered.

“Shut up, bitch!” Sinclair brought the gun
closer to her head. He almost seemed to get off on terrifying her
by force. I could only imagine the agony Catherine Sinclair must
have endured in her final moments.

“Let her go, Sinclair,” I said in vain, my
gun aimed to fire right between his eyes. “This is between you and
me.”

He grumbled. “I should have gotten rid of her
from the start—and
you
!”

“But that wouldn’t have jibed with your
plans, would it?” I glared at him, waiting to make my move and
hoping he didn’t make his. “Killing her and me would have only made
the police ask more questions and given you fewer plausible
answers.”

“I have the only answer I need now—” He
glanced at his insurance policy and back to me. “You’ve been like
an albatross around my neck, Drake. I’ll never be allowed to get on
with my life until I clip your wings once and for all. And this
bitch is going to help me do it.”

“You mean the way she helped you kill your
wife?”

He thought about it. “You could say that.
Only this time, she’ll get to play the role of her life—and
death!”

I was stalling. “You kill her, and I’ll blow
your damned head off. It’s as simple as that. I’d say we’re at a
standstill—”

“Think again,” he said wickedly. “You see, I
have little to lose at this point. But you’ll be losing her”—he
pressed the barrel of the gun into the side of Francesca’s face—“or
at least her pretty face, if she survives.” He sighed. “My guess is
that whatever it is the bitch made you feel for her, you still feel
it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I said, trying to sound
convincing. “I personally don’t give a damn if she lives or
dies—not after everything she’s put me through!”

While he wrestled with my feelings, I took
the moment to try and fill in some blanks. “Why did you kill your
wife, Sinclair?” I asked. “Was it the money? Or because she was
planning to leave you? Was it to keep her from testifying against
you or because you found out she was in love with another
woman?”

He bared his teeth. “It was all of the
above,” he said maliciously. “She planned to leave me high and dry.
And for what? A lesbian slut. I couldn’t allow that to happen—”

“So you used her face as a punching bag, then
raped and murdered her instead?”

Sinclair seemed to take delight in his
thoughts. “No, Drake—you beat up, raped, and murdered Catherine! It
was the perfect plan. Why not set up the private dick asshole that
Frank Sherman hired to find that Worm, Jessie Wylson?” Sinclair
eyed his frightened captive. “With her posing as my wife, you would
fall in lust before killing Catherine as a scorned jealous lover. I
guessed that Sherman would find a way to keep you out of jail long
enough to find Wylson—”

“But you hadn’t counted on crooked Officers
Muncie and Cornwell wanting The Worm even more than you and not
really giving a damn who got burned along the way, as long as it
wasn’t them.”

As irony would have it, Muncie and Cornwell
had gone up in smoke, along with The Worm. They had more or less
signed their own death warrants the moment they decided to play
both sides of the crooked street.

“Jessie can’t run and hide from you any
longer,” I said. “The Worm’s head was blown off this evening, in
case you hadn’t heard.”

“Wylson’s dead,” Sinclair said gloatingly.
“As far as I’m concerned, those dumb ass cops did me a favor.
Without Wylson’s testimony, the D.A.’s got no case against me.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” I crept a
step or two closer to him. “The police have already cleared me of
your wife’s murder. And they know you used Francesca to set us both
up. So why not put the gun down and just walk away—alone.”

He chortled. “In your dreams, asshole.” He
cocked the gun at Francesca’s temple, forcing me to stop my
advance. “Why don’t we all take a walk into the bedroom?”

“Forget it, Sinclair.” My voice echoed across
the room. “I’m not into threesomes.”

“Neither am I,” he said lewdly. “But I am
into splattering her brains all over your walls if you don’t drop
that gun—now!” He teased her face with the barrel. “Do it!”

Rather than take him out and risk injuring
Francesca, I decided to go along with Sinclair’s insane demands.
Something told me that whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t to shoot
me right on the spot. Meaning I still had time to gain the upper
hand.

I put the gun down slowly.

“Okay, man,” I said evenly, hands up. “I’m
unarmed. Now let her go—”

He disregarded my words as if they meant
nothing to him and his warped plans, while indicating the bedroom
with his gun. “In there, Drake. We’ll follow—”

I walked deliberately. “I heard a shot that
night when I came to your wife’s rescue, Sinclair,” I said, trying
to keep him talking. “But the police never found any shell casings
or bullet holes. How did you manage that?”

“I would have thought being an ex-cop, you’d
have figured that out by now,” he said cynically. “I used blanks.
Really clever, wouldn’t you say?”

I played along. “Obviously you had everything
planned to a T.”

In the bedroom, Francesca gazed at me through
teary eyes. I looked at her knowingly, as if to say this isn’t over
with yet. Not by a long shot.

Just try to stay calm
.

Looking at Sinclair, who had a firm grip on
Francesca’s upper arm, I asked pointedly: “So now that we’ve seen
where I sleep, where do we go from here?”

He flashed a maniacal grin, then ripped
Francesca’s blouse open, exposing her chest, and threw her down on
the bed.

“History is going to repeat itself,” boasted
Sinclair, pointing his weapon at me. “You see, you’re going to
strangle this bitch the same way you strangled my wife. Only,
afterwards, this time you’re going to put your own gun to your head
and pull the trigger. A murder-suicide. The police will no doubt
believe this slut lied about me and you killed her and yourself to
end your own damned guilt and misery. Case closed. No other
witnesses or loose ends to stand in my way.” He aimed cold, callous
eyes at me. “Now let’s see how fast you can strip, Drake—”

I glanced at Francesca, who lay there
awkwardly, her arms trying unsuccessfully to cover her generous
breasts. No amount of money Sinclair paid her could compensate for
the precarious position she now found herself in.

I began removing my shirt, facing Sinclair,
whose gun hand had not wavered. “You don’t really think you’ll get
away with this, do you?”

His nostrils flared. “Why the hell not?
Regardless, you won’t be around to know one way or the other.”

I was down to my briefs. “That’s enough, I
hope?”

“Not really. You’re going to use those to
strangle the bitch.” He laughed. “Or it will be made to look that
way.”

I pulled them off and tossed them to the
floor. Francesca had already gotten under the covers, as if they
somehow would protect her from a madman. I slid in beside her.

“You two really do make a tantalizing
couple,” quipped Sinclair obnoxiously. “The white stripper and the
black private dick looking to get his jollies one last time—”

While Sinclair was humoring himself, he let
his guard down just long enough for me to grab hold of the 9
millimeter Glock I kept under the pillow. With a single,
well-placed shot, I dropped him where he stood. His gun fired once
into the ceiling. Before he could even attempt to get off another
shot, I was on top of him like flies on rotting beef.

Quickly, I planted two solid right hands to
the jaw and a left upper cut under the chin. He collapsed to the
floor like a Mike Tyson opponent.

Sinclair’s lights were turned off, but not
permanently. Death too soon was too good for him. I had blown out
his kneecap, guaranteeing that he’d find it difficult to walk
straight anymore, let alone run. Where he was headed, he wouldn’t
have much need to do either.

Francesca sprang from the bed, half-naked,
and tearfully embraced me. “I thought he would kill us,” she
wept.

“Not a chance,” I told her brashly. “His
killing days are over.”

We stood there for a moment, body to body,
but with absolutely no sexual undercurrents. Survival had a way of
making one numb to the bare essentials.

By the time Gregory Sinclair had come to, he
was already in police custody and in for some tough times.

I let Francesca borrow a sweatshirt and see
herself home. There were no goodbyes. Only good luck and thanks for
some of the memories.

Meanwhile, Vanessa gave me a whole new reason
for living and loving. In turn, I gave her an all too real dose of
the sometimes topsy-turvy world of private investigation.

It gave us something to build on.

CHAPTER FORTY

I introduced Vanessa to Gus on a night in
which Jasmine’s featured a velvety smooth singer in the tradition
of Luther Vandross.

“Nice to meet you, Gus,” Vanessa gushed.
“You’ve got a real fan in D.J. He speaks quite highly of you.”

It was one of the few times I’d seen Gus
speechless. When he did open up, he said sheepishly: “Don’t believe
anything this dude tells you. D.J. has always been big on
exaggeration. The man will do anything to try ‘n get some free
drinks outta me.”

Vanessa laughed. “I’ll try to remember
that.”

Gus winked at her. “Drinks are on the house,”
he declared. “But
only
because Drake had the good sense to
introduce such a lovely lady to the club.”

“I’m forever indebted, man,” I said, and we
shook on it.

He left us alone and Vanessa and I settled
down to some good old-fashioned jazz. My cast had been removed a
week ago and I was just starting to get used to feeling my arm
around her.

While we played footsies, I said to Vanessa:
“Is this heaven, or what?”

She flashed me an effervescent smile. “The
music reminds me of you: alluring, mature, intense, with a
lingering aftereffect—”

I raised my glass merrily. “I’ll definitely
toast to that.”

If Marilyn Francesca Collins aka Catherine
Ashley Sinclair now seemed like a bad nightmare from which I almost
never woke up, Vanessa King remained my vision of the ideal
woman.

This was one time when fate seemed to have
dealt me a kind hand. I knew that one way or another, Vanessa was
destined to stay in my dreams forever.

One day at a time...

* * *

The days seemed to turn into years overnight.
Most dreams died hard and this one was certainly no exception.

I locked eyes with Vanessa, half expecting
the lady and her companion to pass by me like time itself had. But
she stopped, as though a victim to my will.

“Give me a moment,” she told the man holding
her hand. “I’ll meet you inside.”

He nodded, though clearly less than thrilled
to let her out of his sight. I felt the same way and wondered where
it had all gone wrong.

“What a surprise running into you,” Vanessa
said, flashing a toothy smile.

“Same here,” I said. “You look great.”

“Thank you.” She blushed. “How many years has
it been?”

“At least ten.” The words sounded hollow in
my ears.

“Wow. That long?” She gave me a thoughtful
look. “So how have you been?”

“Same old, same old,” I told her. “In the
P.I. business, one day often blends into the next.”

“I remember.”

I was trying to forget. Especially when I saw
in front of me just what I’d loved and lost.

Our eyes locked. “We had some good times
together.”

“Yes,” she said and squeezed my hand. “I’ll
never forget them.”

“Neither will I.”

We stood there awkwardly for a few moments,
neither of us sure what to say or not to.

It was Vanessa who broke the ice. “Well, I’d
better join my friend, before he gets lonely in there.”

I could relate much more than I cared to
admit. “I understand.”

“Nice seeing you again,” Vanessa said.

“You, too,” I told her, forcing a grin.

I stood there in downtown Portland and
watched the lady who had once given me a real reason to get out of
bed every day walk into the restaurant and out of my life once
again.

By the time I’d flagged down a cab and
checked my BlackBerry for messages, all that was left to do was
soak up the memories and move on to my next case for better or
worse.

# # #

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

R. Barri Flowers is an award winning,
bestselling author of crime, mystery, thriller, suspense, and young
adult fiction. His novels include DARK STREETS OF WHITECHAPEL,
JUSTICE SERVED, KILLER IN THE WOODS, MURDER IN MAUI, PERSUASIVE
EVIDENCE, STATE'S EVIDENCE, CHRISTMAS WISHES, GHOST GIRL IN SHADOW
BAY, and DANGER IN TIME.