Jogging was my instant answer to relaxation and relieving tension. Even my over forty aches and pains that came with age seemed to be put on hold when I ran. I spent a good hour on the sidewalks, grass, and streets of Portland where there was always something or someone interesting to look at, before making my way back to my apartment.
I noticed Vanessa King entering the building in the company of a man. He had his arm around her waist. When he turned his head, I got a brief look at him. He was my skin color, around forty-five, medium build, and had salt and pepper hair. It was the first time I’d seen my vision of the ideal woman—graceful, elegant, small, lovely—with another man.
A twinge of jealousy mixed with curiosity overcame me, as if I had a right to know how she spent her time and with whom. Was he the new man in her life or the prodigal husband/boyfriend returned from wherever he had been keeping himself for the past two months? Dreams die hard. I put my disappointment on hold while turning my attention to one of the two cases I had taken on.
It was just after three in the afternoon when I showed up at Gregory Sinclair’s business address. I knew what he was up to and who with, but decided to get more incriminating evidence for Catherine to do with as she pleased. And the fact that I was operating on twice my normal pay didn’t hurt my desire to stretch this out one more day either.
Sinclair spent at least an hour at what I later determined was a consulting firm bearing his name. From there it was a restaurant meeting with a white male I presumed was a client, and on to a florist. Now, I suspected, we were getting somewhere. Sinclair emerged with two long stemmed pink roses. More driving around the city ended at the Oregon Zoo.
Keeping a sufficient distance, I followed him in. Sinclair shared peanuts with the elephants before his blonde friend arrived by his side. I captured them with one hell of a greeting kiss I was sure Catherine would love. Even the presentation of the roses and the blonde’s exaggerated appreciation gave ample evidence that this was not a meeting of the minds.
The cheating husband and blonde bimbo (I gave her the benefit of the doubt) did enough smooching and giggling to fill a couple of rolls of film. Even the elephants seemed to notice. Then the giraffes and hippopotamuses. It was almost as if Gregory Sinclair didn’t give a damn if he was caught with his hand halfway or all the way in the cookie jar. Maybe he figured it was worth it to get caught to rid himself of Catherine.
It was her problem. I wanted no further part of her once this was over, whichever way her marriage ended up. I figured I had more than enough evidence of a less than faithful husband for Catherine Ashley Sinclair to mull over. The rest was up to her. If, by chance, she wanted more intimate indiscretions to present before the judge, I would gladly recommend another private eye.
For me, the buck stopped here—and the bucks, too. But I didn’t need the aggravation nor the qualms about spying on a cheating husband for an unfaithful wife.
CHAPTER TEN
I arranged to meet Catherine Ashley Sinclair at my office two days later when she called for an update. As if she felt compelled, she explained that between social functions and having her hair and nails done, she’d been too busy to concern herself with her husband’s personal agenda.
Catherine stepped inside the door wearing that same white hat tilted elegantly and an orange dress that contoured to every part of her body as much, if not more, than the red dress she had worn the night I met her at Jasmine’s. Matching orange pumps seemed the perfect fit for this sexy woman of intrigue.
And danger, something told me.
“Hello,” she said unemotionally.
“Hi.” I remained at my desk semi-professionally. “Have a seat, Mrs. Sinclair.” Somehow Catherine or Ashley seemed too personal and intimate this time around for my liking.
She seemed to concur. “Is he seeing someone else?” she asked straightforwardly. Then added, as if dark humor: “Or is there more than one woman?”
Looking across at those enticing blue eyes, I responded succinctly: “Only one that I’ve been able to determine.”
For but a moment, bitterness crept across her face like a bleak shadow, quickly replaced by resignation. “Do you have proof?”
I nodded. On my desk was a stack of some of the photos I’d taken at the motel in Vancouver and at the zoo. I held back the rest, which were largely repeat offenders.
She flipped through the pictures quickly with narrowed eyes, slamming them to the desk. “That bastard!” she spat.
Her indignation seemed real enough, but I couldn’t help but feel that she was overplaying it a bit. “It’s not like you didn’t expect this.”
Catherine moistened her mouth. “He made it clear to me that he would see other women whenever he damn well pleased, but actually seeing him with another woman—” She seemed to choke back tears.
I offered her a tissue, which she accepted graciously.
“Are there any more photos?” she inquired as if she already had the answer.
I took the rest out of a drawer and passed them across the desk. After all, she paid for them.
Catherine studied certain photographs, wrinkling her nose with disgust, and ignoring others. If she was familiar with the blonde, she did not make it abundantly obvious. I wanted to say something, but felt the pictures spoke for themselves.
As for our one-night stand, I wasn’t about to go down that road again. No matter how tempting.
Catherine looked up at me. “What about the negatives?”
“What about them?” I asked nonchalantly. Most clients who wanted evidence that a spouse was cheating were more than content with the photographs exposing the infidelity, but evidently not Catherine Sinclair.
“I want them,” she stated simply.
“I usually keep—” I began.
She cut me off. “My husband is a very powerful man,” she said. “I wouldn’t put anything past him if it meant cheating me out of what is rightfully mine. If I’m to fight him on his terms, I have to be equipped with any and all ammunition at my disposal. And that includes negatives which prove his guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
I couldn’t really argue with her philosophy, although I was not sure I bought into it. On the other hand, I almost never had any further use for negatives once the case was completed. And this one was over as far as I was concerned.
I gave her what she wanted and she seemed pleased, much like a woman used to getting her way.
“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching in her purse for her wallet.
“You owe me nothing more.”
“Are you sure?” She gave me a quizzical look.
“Positive.” Though it would have been easy to squeeze her for more greenbacks, of which she seemed to have plenty of, I resisted the temptation. I wanted to wash my hands of this case as soon as possible, as they felt dirty. Taking more of her money would not make them any cleaner.
Catherine smiled at me for the first time today. “Thank you—for everything.”
She forced me to smile at her. “Hope it all works out for you, Catherine.” I suppose I really did. I walked her to the door. For some reason I felt compelled to ask: “Will you be all right?”
She seemed to contemplate the question as if spoken in a foreign language. “I’m not really sure. Good-bye, D.J.” She raised her chin, kissed me firmly on the mouth, and vanished like a thief in the middle of the afternoon.
I could still taste her lip gloss as I went back to my desk, not expecting to ever see Catherine Ashley Sinclair again. But in my business, I had learned that the expected was never etched in granite. In this instance, my instincts hoped it would be.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The rematch with Dirk and Clarence was to take place at Alfonzo’s restaurant. Vincente himself would be dessert. I found the trio at the same table we had sat at before—laughing, eating, and drinking as if not a care in the world. Until now. No doubt they were surprised to see me.
Speaking with spaghetti sauce dripping from his chin, Vincente said, laug
hing: “How are you feeling these days, Drake?”
“Not too good.” I swept my eyes around the table. “I’m still hurting from the beating I got from your dickheads.”
Vincente seemed unperturbed. “You call it a beating. I call it a warning.” He glanced at his support group, and back to me. “You got a problem with that, Drake?”
“No, I don’t have a problem with it,” I said, grinding my teeth. “You do—and they do—”
Before Dirk could reach into his pocket, I grabbed a bottle of wine off the table and shattered it across his head. Clarence stood up and took a wild swing. I blocked it, moved closer, and gave him a head butt that was guaranteed to leave him seeing stars for days.
Hearing Dirk staggering up behind me, I turned on him and his contorted, bloodied face, beating him to the punch. I dug my fist twice into his large, soft belly and followed with an uppercut under his double chin. This brought him to his knees.
All the while Vincente watched in fascination, as if glued to his seat.
Clarence had recovered enough to get me into a bear hug. I winced from the increasing pressure. It was nothing that couldn’t be alleviated with a dislocating back kick to his kneecap. He screamed in pain, releasing me and putting all his weight on his good leg.
“Son of a bitch,” he cried. “You broke my leg!”
“It would hurt less if I had, asshole,” I told him without sympathy.
I grabbed his plate of spaghetti and cracked it across his head, followed by a solid shot to the jaw. He crumpled to the floor like a building being demolished, putting him effectively out of commission.
Fortunately, for his sake, Dirk stayed put. Unfortunately, he went for his piece. My foot was quicker, knocking it away from him. I pretended his head was a football and kicked a field goal right under and into his nose. He screamed and grabbed his broken nose as blood spurted out, crying like a newborn baby.
Realizing I was never going to put these two animals out for the long count, I pulled out my Glock and placed it to the head of a suddenly quivering Vincente. “That’s enough for this round, gorillas,” I announced triumphantly. “Unless you want to see Vinny’s brains match what’s on his plate.”
They got the message and didn’t try anything stupid. I wondered if Vincente had gotten the message.
“You got your payback, Drake,” he groaned shamefully. “Let’s leave it at that—”
“Let’s not, asshole!” I pressed the gun into his throbbing temple. “I want The Worm and I think you know where I can find your cousin.”
“We don’t sleep in the same bed,” Vincente stammered desperately. “He never stays in one place too long.”
“Where was the last place he stayed?” The barrel was digging deeper into his thick skin. “I hope my finger doesn’t fall asleep—”
Self-preservation was the staple of every street hood. Vincente was no exception. He slurred: “Last I knew he was hangin’ at the Rest Rooms motel.”
I suspected Vincente was holding back on me. But since I doubted he would risk his life for a scumbag like Jessie Wylson, I decided now was not the time to see what other sordid secrets he had up his sleeve.
He breathed a sigh of relief when I pulled the gun way from his perspiring face. “If you want me, Vincente, next time I suggest you don’t send your goons to do the job.” I glared at the two, still moaning from their injuries and wounded pride.
With my Glock still aimed at the trio, I made sure no one got any crazy ideas as I vacated the premises, feeling a hell of a lot better than when I went in.
* * *
It didn’t take long before Vincente and Dirk helped a hobbling Clarence out of Alfonzo’s. He and Dirk got in one car, Vincente another. They went their separate ways.
It was following Vincente that interested me.
He drove a white Corvette with the license plate: BVINNY. I followed him to a side street and watched as he pulled behind another car that looked a lot like the Cutlass I saw in the driveway at The Worm’s last known address.
Out of it stepped Terri, the alleged ex-girlfriend of Jessie Wylson. Their encounter was short, but no doubt sweet, before Vincente took off in his car at the speed of light.
My attention had switched to Terri who had called herself Nicole. She looked as if she had just been told there was a death in the family. Probably with good reason. She got back in her car and drove off. I followed her, convinced she would lead me to Jessie Wylson.
Wherever The Worm may have been hiding, he had covered his tracks well. Terri seemed to be leading me on a guided tour of the city. That came to an abrupt halt when a diesel truck crossed the intersection between her car and mine. For whatever reason, the driver seemed to get stuck between first and second gear. By the time he got moving again, Terri was nowhere in sight.
“Damn!” I shouted, smoke coming out of my ears. I may have come the closest I’d been to apprehending Jessie Wylson and I’d lost my golden opportunity. It seemed as if I was back to square one. Unsure where to go from here, I went to my office.
* * *
I thought about updating my computer file on Jessie The Worm Wylson as I parked in the garage adjacent to my building.
No sooner had I left the car and stepped into the oil-stained path between cars, when the sound of an engine revving pounded in my ears like a drum roll. Before I realized it, a fast moving car was headed right for me, as if sizing me up by radar.
I had only enough time to recognize the driver as the man I was looking for, before diving out of the way at the last second. I fired a few rounds at the car—a dark green or blue Pontiac—as it screeched away, the bullets hitting nothing but air. A license plate number might have helped, except The Worm forgot to replace the back plate on what was most likely a stolen car.
Jessie Wylson was getting scared and desperate. I was close enough to make him come to me. I sensed it was only a matter of time now before I zoomed in once and for all on the drug-dealing fugitive known as The Worm.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Entering my apartment, I heard a noise coming from the bedroom. I drew my gun immediately and pointed it at the door, which was partially ajar.
Had The Worm actually come looking for me here? Or were Vincente and his thugs back for more? I sighed, took small steps, and kicked the door open, prepared to blast to smithereens the first thing that showed any signs of life.
“Don’t shoot!” the voice pleaded hysterically.
It definitely wasn’t Jessie Wylson’s voice. Nor Ben Vincente’s or his bookends. But the voice was recognizable. It was a woman’s voice.
My eyes took in Catherine Ashley Sinclair. She was sitting cross-legged on the dresser, wearing my maroon satin robe and, apparently, nothing else. Her long, sunshine hair straddled her shoulders in wet, curly locks. A frightened gaze seemed fixated on the gun currently aimed at her.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Anger gave way to numbness.
“I had to see you.” She looked at me innocuously with those mesmerizing eyes.
“How did you get in?” I lowered the gun, but still kept it handy.
She got off the dresser and padded over to me on her tiptoes. “I told the superintendent I was your half sister.”
My left brow lifted in abashment and disbelief. “And he believed you?”
Her lashes fluttered provocatively. “Why shouldn’t he? I can be very persuasive when I want to be.”
I didn’t doubt that for a moment. Nor could I deny the fact that standing so close to her made it hard to concentrate, much less want to kick her ass out of there. She smelled fresh and unnaturally sweet. That wasn’t enough, though—not this time.
I put my gun away, but kept my guard up. “What kind of game are you playing, lady?” My eyes latched warily onto her.
Catherine ran her fingers sinuously through her slicked back hair. “I want to rehire you, D.J.,” she uttered in an almost pathetic whisper.
“For what?” The words popped out of my mo
uth like they were blocking my vocal chords. “To see who’s the biggest damned idiot—me or your husband?”
My reaction may have been a bit theatrical, but was definitely warranted. Also, I had a bad feeling that her presence could only mean trouble for me down the line. Something I didn’t need any more of at this time in my life. Even then, a part of me was still glad to see her. Especially the way she looked at the moment.
“You’re not being fair,” cooed Catherine as if somehow she truly believed that.
I wasn’t moved, backing away like I had come face to face with the devil in disguise. “What isn’t fair is your making yourself at home like you own the damned place.” The robe, I noted, seemed a perfect fit on her. “Why didn’t you come to my office? Or, better yet, make an appointment?” Whatever she was up to, I was determined not to fall for it.
She lowered her gaze meekly. “I was afraid you would turn me away.”
“You’re right—I would have,” I stated bluntly. “I think it would be best all the way around if you found someone else to do whatever it is you have in mind this time. There are a number of competent private investigators. I can recommend one if you like.” I had a feeling she wouldn’t go away quite that easily.
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.”
Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery Page 6
