I had a feeling O’Malley was not listening to anything that contradicted what he wanted to believe. He walked back and forth as if he had lost his direction while retrieving another cigarette.
“I’ll tell you what some of the guys around here think,” O’Malley said. “They think that you got involved with a wealthy, beautiful white woman and decided you wanted more of her money and more of her. When she refused to leave her husband for you, you got drunk, stupid, beat her face to a bloody pulp, and strangled her. Then you came up with this cockamamie story of another woman to try and save your ass from a death sentence for aggravated murder.”
I shot up from my chair with indignation and disappointment, if not total surprise. It wasn’t enough that people I used to work with were railroading me. They were using age-old stereotypes to try and do it.
“Why does it always have to come down to a racial thing?” I asked O’Malley, standing an inch from him and around four inches above him. “It’s getting really old. Why can’t a black man romance a white woman without it meaning he’s got ulterior motives?”
O’Malley turned dark pink, backing away, as if he wanted no part of this. “What you do and who you do it with has never been a concern of mine,” he stressed. “You know that, D.J.” His eyes averted the heat of my glare. Our differences aside, I’d never known O’Malley to be a racist, though the word prejudice did come to mind from time to time. “But we live in America and people talk,” he said defensively, “especially when it crosses racial lines and ends up deadly.”
“Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” I had a feeling that so-called presumption supposedly afforded all criminal suspects had somehow become lost in the shuffle. At least as it related to me. “Or does that go out the damn window when it concerns an ex-cop trying to make a living as a private eye?”
“That was your choice,” O’Malley reminded me, his voice full of bitterness.
“Damned right,” I responded tartly. “That doesn’t make me a cold-blooded killer stupid enough to bury myself in circumstantial evidence. Think about it—”
For the first time, O’Malley seemed to remember we once rode together and needed each other about as much as two homicide detectives could. He took a drag on the cigarette. “Cool down, Drake,” he said, smoke pouring from his mouth like an overheated engine. “I didn’t say everyone in the department had you convicted and given a lethal injection. As far as I’m concerned, this is just standard procedure for a murder investigation and nothing more.” He added apocalyptically: “You haven’t been charged with anything—yet.”
It was the yet that worried me. In cop jargon that usually meant the charges were a mere formality, needing only the right person to say book him. The best I could hope for was that it didn’t happen before I could get to the bottom of the deepening mystery that started out as a routine cheating spouse case and ended up with my head on the chopping block.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gregory Sinclair came charging at me like a man possessed. He had disrupted my less than friendly chat with Lew O’Malley, and seemed bent on rearranging my face. But I wasn’t in the mood to have my appearance altered. So I blocked his swing with my forearm.
“You son of a bitch!” he roared. “You murdered my wife!” His contorted facial expression matched his convincing performance.
My eyes became slits. “No, I didn’t murder your wife,” I responded sharply. “But maybe you did—”
Once again Sinclair made like an avenging devil, out of control, and tried to rip my throat out.
But this time O’Malley and another detective came between us. This did not stop Sinclair from trying to get at me. Or, for that matter, me at him.
“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 coul
dn’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 housekeep
er’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.
If Sinclair had murdered his wife, with or without an accomplice, he had planned it carefully. I sensed he was not about to leave town any time soon and make himself a suspect. That gave me some leeway to wait for him to make misstep.
I had lunch at Johnny’s Rib House, the best barbecued ribs joint in the city, before going to my office.
Someone had arrived ahead of me and the place had been ransacked. Evidently someone was looking for something I had or thought I had. It could have been the missing blonde with the white hat double-checking to make sure I had given her all the negatives that proved I was hired to spy on Gregory Sinclair. Or it could have been The Worm or one of his associates bent on taking away any leads I may have gathered in zeroing in on his ass.
Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery Page 9
