Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery

by Flowers, R. Barri

  The man dipped into an alley where I cornered him, still clutching Vanessa King’s purse tightly like it contained gold bullion. The closer I came to him, the more at ease he seemed to become.

  He snarled at me. “What? Man, are you crazy or something?”

  “No, I’m not crazy,” I retorted. “I’m mad as hell that a scumbag like you chose to rob a woman—especially that woman.”

  “What’s it to you?” he asked defiantly and perhaps a little curiously. “She your old lady or something?”

  “Or something,” I told him with a creased brow.

  He grinned crookedly, scratching his head through short, choppy black hair. “You can have the purse, man,” he offered. “All I want is the money she got.”

  “No deal,” I told him, hardly in the mood to negotiate on his terms. “Hand over the purse with the money, dickhead, and you can walk away on your own two feet.”

  Under the circumstances, it seemed like a pretty good deal to me. Of course, he saw it differently. He whipped out a switchblade, releasing the blade and holding it out in front of him like it was a magic wand.

  “Can’t do that, man,” he said with a false sense of security. He began swinging the knife at me like he fully intended to rip me to shreds.

  I sucked in a breath as I dodged the sweeping blade. “I hope you know how to use that, asshole,” I baited him. “Otherwise I’m gonna make you eat it—”

  He grinned confidently, and began an all-out assault to make contact with my flesh. I caught his eye hone in on the cast that was still on my arm just above the elbow. It seemed to inspire him into believing that he was dealing with a one-armed man.

  His mistake.

  I caught his arm during one futile swing, twisted it like a pretzel, and forced him to release the knife. Then I smashed the cast into his face, followed by a knee to the groin. He went down and I was on him like mold on bread.

  “Here—” he said, thrusting the purse up at my face.

  I took it. “You’re lucky I’m no longer a cop,” I barked gruffly. “Otherwise, you’d be on your way to jail, then prison for assault and robbery. Take my word for it, a little punk asshole like you wouldn’t stand a chance in the joint.”

  I resisted the desire to punch his lights out. I was more interested in making sure Vanessa King got back what was hers. I pulled him up, and bellowed: “Now get your ass out of here, before I do something we’ll both regret.”

  He took about two seconds to think about it, and then ran off like his pants were on fire. He never looked back.

  Vanessa King was still waiting by her car, a blue Subaru Legacy, when I returned to the parking lot with her purse. She had corralled my cart and was keeping an eye on my groceries.

  I noted she was dressed in jeans, a form-fitting blouse, and sandals. Her hair was in a short ponytail. She wore no makeup, but didn’t need it. Her natural complexion had a radiance all its own.

  I handed her the purse. “Everything’s there,” I assured her.

  She flashed me a grateful look. “It’s D.J., right?”

  The fact that she remembered my name said something. I smiled, nodding. “At your service, Vanessa.”

  She blushed. “Do you always come to the rescue of damsels in distress?”

  “Not always,” I admitted. “But don’t hold that against me.”

  “I’ll try not to.” She looked at the cast. “How’s the arm?”

  I flexed it. “Getting better all the time.”

  Vanessa flashed me a dazzling smile. “Thanks for your heroics, D.J.”

  “Any time,” I promised.

  I gazed down into her eyes and she gazed up at mine. For an instant, there seemed to be a definite two-way spark.

  “Well...” she cleared her throat, “you’d better get home before your groceries wither.”

  “You’re right,” I said reluctantly.

  “Thanks again,” she said.

  I was about to walk away when a new feeling of confidence—at least as far as she was concerned—enveloped me like a warm blanket. “Vanessa, how about letting me make you dinner tonight?”

  She hedged, as if obstacles were standing in her way, and I added hopefully: “I’m a great cook! And”—I glanced at my loaded cart—“at least you’ll know the food is fresh.”

  A tiny smile played on her lips. “Sounds tempting...” This was followed by a look of regret. “Unfortunately, I already have a prior engagement tonight.”

  My heart sank into the pit of my stomach and the enthusiasm was fading fast.

  Then Vanessa said: “How about tomorrow night? The food should still be fresh.”

  “You’re on,” I said, my wide smile betraying my renewed optimism.

  We set up a time; I gave her my apartment number, then watched as she drove off. As far as I was concerned, tomorrow night couldn’t come soon enough!

  * * *

  Unfortunately, Vanessa King wasn’t the only person I had on my mind. The woman who pretended to be Catherine Sinclair—the one person on earth who could clear me of the real Catherine Ashley Sinclair’s murder—was still nowhere to be found. And she seemed in no hurry to come out of hiding.

  Then there was Jessie Wylson. There was the very real possibility that someone had decided to do away with him and save the taxpayers the cost of prosecution. In the process, I was nearly blown to bits. Someone owed me a debt and I wouldn’t rest until I saw it was paid in full.

  After eating dinner alone, I made a return engagement to Nightmares. I fully expected the worst, but hoped it didn’t come to that.

  The joint was in high gear on this night with patrons spilling out the door, along with funky R & B music. I doubted Jessie Wylson was around, assuming he hadn’t been taken out. He had become too hot even for a place like Nightmares.

  At the bar, the less than cooperative bartender from my last visit was the first to speak to me directly. “You back?” He leered. “What you want, man?”

  “A beer would be nice,” I said, climbing onto a stool. “Or is my money not good enough here?”

  He looked at me with the type of distrust normally associated with a traitor. Surprisingly, he chose not to make a scene and filled a mug with beer.

  “Thanks,” I said as he slid the drink in my direction.

  “Finish it and get out,” he ordered.

  I took a load of foam and melted it in my mouth. “I’m still looking for Jessie, man,” I said straightforwardly.

  “You won’t find him here,” he snorted.

  It was obvious that the direct approach was not working, so I decided to try something else. “Look, I’m just trying to make an honest living like everyone else around here.”

  “Call it what you want,” he said tersely. “The answer ain’t gonna change.”

  I swept my eyes across the crowd for effect, before landing back solidly on his face. “Truth is,” I lied, “there’s a ten grand reward for information leading to The Worm’s arrest. I’m not greedy. I’d be willing to give up, say, twenty percent to anyone who could point me in the right direction—”

  For just an instant it looked as if I had piqued his interest. Then he regarded me with that same distrust. “Your blood money ain’t good in here,” he snarled. “I told you, I don’t know the man—”

  “Right,” I muttered. “You did.” I finished off the brew. Setting my business card on the bar, I told him, holding out hope: “Give me a call if you suddenly remember you know Jessie Wylson. Two thousand dollars isn’t exactly chump change, especially when you don’t have to work too hard to get it.”

  I let that thought simmer with him as I vacated the premises. This time I managed to get out of there without having to kick ass. Or getting my own ass kicked.

  Before I got too far, a mean looking dude around my height, but outweighing me by about fifty pounds, confronted me. He was minus one of his front teeth and had greasy hair that was a hodgepodge of tiny braids mopped across his brow.

  He said in a gravel
ly, deep voice: “Heard you’re offerin’ a two thousand dollar reward for The Worm.”

  Word traveled fast. “That’s right.”

  “I can tell you what you wanna know.”

  His eyes never blinked.

  Neither did mine.

  “I’m listening—”

  He put his hand out like he expected something. “You got the money?”

  I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “I don’t make a habit of carrying two thousand dollars around with me, man. You tell me where I can find Jessie Wylson and, if it checks out, you’ll get your money.”

  He stared at the thought as if to add up two thousand greenbacks, then said: “I need somethin’ up front. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  I knew exactly what he was saying. I just wasn’t sure I was buying what he was selling. But I knew I couldn’t afford to be too choosy about whom to trust. Up to a point.

  “How much?”

  “All the money you got,” he said.

  If I didn’t know better, I might have thought this was an attempted robbery. Something about him made me go along for the ride. I handed him one hundred hard-earned dollars. “You’d better deliver,” I warned him, hoping I never had to back up the threat.

  He grinned at me with that missing tooth standing out like a swollen thumb. “I heard that the cops wasted Worm,” his gravelly voice said. He put the money in his leather jacket.

  Nate had already alluded to this possibility. “Can you prove it?”

  He jerked his braids. “You can’t prove The Man did nothin’ he don’t want you to prove.” Another grin. “The dude’s probably been chopped up into a million pieces by now, and used as fertilizer in some redneck’s backyard—” He grinned at me.

  I had no idea if this man was simply a con artist, an addict, or a person who had large ears. Either way, I was willing to chalk up the hundred as a business expense. It wasn’t worth the hassle of taking him on, not to mention his support group who were well within shouting range.

  I told him dryly: “If you ever find out for sure where The Worm’s remains are scattered, the bartender knows how to reach me for the rest of that reward money.”

  That sly grin again. “Yeah, okay, man.”

  I had a feeling this was the last I’d ever hear from this braided crazy dude.

  I drove back to my neck of the city, wondering more and more if Jessie Wylson had sold his last drugs. And if he had, who had administered the lethal dose to him? Other dealers? Vincente? The cops?

  It gave me something to think about.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In the morning, I jogged and listened to some Aretha Franklin tunes over some coffee, toast, and Cream of Wheat. My date tonight with Vanessa King was already sending chills up and down my spine. I wondered if she had that effect on other men or if it was just me.

  I went to Alfonzo’s hoping to find Ben Vincente. He was seated at the familiar table with his bookends, Clarence and Dirk. A buxom waitress happily led me to the trio.

  “Vinny, he says he’s a friend of yours—”

  Vincente tilted his head in my direction. So did Clarence, who immediately stood up and went for his piece.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you, asshole,” I told him, making sure he saw my Glock.

  Vincente motioned for Clarence to sit down. He did so begrudgingly.

  “Good boy,” I said smugly.

  Vincente eyed me warily. “What can I do for you, Drake?”

  “Two things,” I said. “First, I want to know who set me up.”

  He sighed tiredly. “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for games this morning, least of all from him or his brutes. Through clenched teeth, I said: “Someone told me I could find The Worm at a trailer. Only he wasn’t there. Instead, it was rigged to explode. Who tried to take me out?”

  The air had gotten increasingly tense. I could imagine Clarence or Dirk getting trigger-happy. I watched them like a hawk.

  “It wasn’t me,” Vincente insisted.

  My nostrils flared. “Was it Jessie Wylson?”

  “I don’t know, man,” he muttered hastily. “We’ve been outta touch lately.”

  I whipped out the Glock, placing the barrel to Vincente’s temple. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Vinny, if you want to leave this restaurant with your head still planted on your shoulders.”

  He was beginning to sweat, and with good reason. “Okay, okay,” he sputtered. “It was The Worm that set you up. He knows you’re looking for him. I wouldn’t put it past him to do whatever he could to stay alive.”

  “So Jessie Wylson is alive?”

  He gulped nervously. “Yeah, as far as I know.”

  “I heard The Worm was dead,” I said, pressing the gun against his head. “If you know differently, Vinny, I suggest you convince me. Fast.”

  “I just spoke to him on the phone last night,” Vincente said. “He wanted some money. I told him to kiss my ass.”

  “Why am I having trouble believing you?” The barrel made a dent in his temple. “I thought you said he was your cousin.”

  “He owes me ten grand,” muttered Vincente in a strained voice. “I wasn’t giving him any more money, cousin or not.”

  I jammed the gun harder into his head. “Where is he, Vincente?”

  His face was chalky white. “I don’t know, man. That’s the truth! The Worm keeps moving around like there’s no more tomorrow. He’s afraid of his own shadow and everything else.”

  “Are the cops after him?” I shot a venomous look at Dirk and Clarence. Both glared back in hostile fashion, but seemed content to sit back and watch this round.

  Vincente paused before saying: “There are rumors The Worm is on their hit list.”

  “Why?”

  He slouched. “Some cops are on the take. They don’t want damaged goods to mess up their action.”

  “What cops are we talking about?” I demanded.

  “I don’t have names. Too dangerous—”

  I placed the barrel against his nostrils, and said belligerently: “Believe me, Vincente, it can’t be any more dangerous for you than it is at this exact moment. If you know something you’re not telling me, I think you better speak up or forever hold your pieces.”

  “Cornwell and Muncie!” He blurted the names out like a man who felt the odds were stacked entirely against him. “They’re playing both sides of the street and are out to get The Worm before he squeals.”

  Officers William Cornwell and Rick Muncie? The same cops who conveniently showed up and arrested me for Catherine Sinclair’s murder! I thought about it for a moment. Was this just coincidence? Or were Catherine’s death and The Worm’s drug trafficking and being on the lam somehow connected? And where did the phony Catherine Ashley Sinclair fit into the picture?

  First, I had to deal with the fact that there were two dirty cops who were apparently after Jessie Wylson. And I strongly suspected they might be trying to kill me, too.

  I removed the gun from Vincente’s face. “Thanks for your help, man,” I told him wryly. “I’m sure Cornwell and Muncie will thank you, too.”

  “Go to hell,” he said, sounding very much like a dead man.

  “I’d rather not,” I chuckled tonelessly. “But I’m betting you’ll find your way there, probably sooner than later.”

  In that moment, something possessed Dirk to lunge at me like a lunatic. In the process, the Glock went flying from my hand. He had already put his fat head into my stomach before I could recover the gun. Since I knew I was never going to beat this gorilla in a wrestling match, I decided to keep it short and sweet.

  I used my fists and smashed them against his temples. The impact was enough to make him dizzy. While he was trying to recover, I used his belly as a punching bag, and then ran his ass into the table where Clarence was just starting to get up. Both men tumbled to the floor in a heap of flesh and bones.

  I scooped up my g
un and was ready to fire in the blink of an eye. It never came to that. Neither Vincente nor his hired goons were ready to die—at least not yet.

  “I’ll see myself out,” I told them tauntingly.

  On my way to the office, I thought about the man in the middle of this web of police corruption and drug trafficking.

  Jessie Wylson was apparently still alive after all. But for how long?

  If Muncie and Cornwell had their way, The Worm had far more to fear from them than me.

  * * *

  I took my case against Cornwell and Muncie straight to Frank Sherman, deciding it was too hot for O’Malley to handle. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure how much I could trust Sherman. But, under the circumstances, I didn’t feel I had much choice.

  He seemed to take my allegations against the corrupt duo in stride.

  “Yeah, we know about Cornwell and Muncie,” he said equably. He was sitting across the table from me at a downtown deli where we had agreed to meet.

  I watched Sherman stuff half a corned beef sandwich in his mouth, then say: “They’re our problem. We’ll deal with them—”

  I pointed my eyes at his cherub face. “You made them my problem when you hired me to find Jessie Wylson. I don’t take it lightly when renegade cops would rather see me dead than stay on this case.”

  “Don’t go ballistic on me, Drake.” Sherman wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Scum like Ben Vincente would implicate his own mother and daughter if it meant taking the heat off himself.”

  The chicken sandwich before me tasted like it should have been given last rites a week ago. I washed it down with warm coffee, and then said to Sherman: “Are you telling me Cornwell and Muncie aren’t out for The Worm’s blood?”

  “They’re cops, dammit,” he muttered as if this made them somehow infallible. “They may not be playing by all the rules, but that doesn’t make them killers.”

  “They’re crooked cops!” I chose not to mince words. “In my book, that means they’re capable of anything.”

  Sherman leaned forward, mayonnaise hanging from a corner of his mouth like it had been painted on. “They’re under investigation, that’s all I can tell you. Let’s not go jumping to any conclusions that haven’t been substantiated.”