Even Jessie Wylson had been nothing more than a lackey to Sinclair. Useful only until he had served his purpose.
But Sinclair’s scheme was beginning to unravel.
Not fast enough to suit me.
I intended to be there when the judge told him to be prepared to either spend the rest of his life behind bars or in eternal unrest.
I dumped Marilyn Francesca Collins—even though I still found myself thinking of her as Catherine Ashley Sinclair—right on the lap of O’Malley. It would ultimately be his call in sorting out the truths and half-truths regarding her role in Catherine Sinclair’s death. I suspected the only thing they could really hold her on was withholding possible evidence—herself—in a murder investigation.
At the very least, she had helped restore my good name to those in the police department who had clung to the belief that I had somehow gotten away with rape and murder. Truthfully, I didn’t expect much to change between us, except for a maybe a little more cooperation down the line whenever our paths crossed. And they inevitably would.
As for my short-lived romance under false pretenses with Francesca, that was now a thing of the past with no chance at reconciliation. Even if she was apparently available, and perhaps willing, I had moved on.
Vanessa King was the only woman I needed to make me feel like a man. She helped me to appreciate what it meant to have a real lady.
* * *
As good fortune would have it, when I got home I found a note on the door from Vanessa. She was inviting me to dinner tonight at six. If I already had other plans, she would understand. She would simply use the extra food as leftovers.
Not a chance! There were few plans made that could not be broken. I was not about to pass up the opportunity to spend more quality time with my ideal woman.
I took a shower, slapped on some cologne, and slipped into a pullover blue polo shirt, black slacks, and black loafers.
It was six o’clock on the nose when I knocked on Vanessa’s door.
“I see you got my note,” she smiled. “Glad you could come.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I said, and meant it.
The world could wait. She couldn’t.
Vanessa was wearing a wraparound dark green dress that seemed suited for her petite, well-proportioned body. Her curly, black hair gleamed, accentuating her fine looks. Her dark eyes darted across the living room.
I followed her gaze, settling in on the painting hanging on the wall above the couch. It was the landscape I’d brought in for her.
“My daughter’s talent at work,” she said proudly. “It was shown at the gallery before I decided I had to have it myself.”
“Looks like she’s found her forte,” I said, impressed with the painting. I was more impressed with the artist’s mother.
Vanessa beamed. “Brenda’s been painting since she was five years old. She’s in art school and loving every minute of it. On the other hand, my other daughter, Rochelle, hates anything to do with a brush.” She curled her nose. “But I love her anyway.”
Vanessa’s eyes betrayed sorrow that I had deprived myself of the experience of having kids.
She was probably right. But looking at my dream lady and knowing she was still in prime childbearing years, made me feel it was never too late.
We had pre-dinner white wine. All I could really think about during our eye contact and conversation was the nature of her relationship with her boss, Charles Machungwa. But I had too much admiration for Vanessa King not to mind my own damn business.
Then she brought him up. “Charles tells me that he may know some people who could be interested in your detective skills.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” I muttered doubtfully.
Vanessa sipped wine. “Don’t sell him short,” she admonished me. “Charles has a lot of contacts in the art world. If anyone needs a private investigator, I’m sure he’ll refer them to you.”
I slumped down on the couch. “Is he always this helpful to someone he doesn’t even know?”
“He knows me,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I know you. For Charles, that’s good enough.”
I sipped my wine. “The man sounds almost too good to be true.”
She glanced at me a sideways. “Are you always so suspicious of other people’s motives? Or do you have a particular dislike of African men?”
“Only if I think they’re trying to buy my loyalty,” I said bluntly, “or steer me in another direction away from—” Our eyes connected.
“You’re jealous!” she said as if it came as a total surprise.
“Maybe just a little,” I uttered, not believing I was willing to admit it.
Over the rim of her glass, Vanessa regarded me with amusement. “I’m flattered, D.J. But you have absolutely nothing to be jealous about. Charles and I are just good friends. He’s like the older brother I never had.”
I wanted to hide my face under the pillow on her couch. I had misjudged her relationship with Charles and, in the process, made my own insecurities stand out like I’d advertised them on the front page of the New York Times.
As my way of apology, I brought my glass to Vanessa’s in toast, and said spiritedly: “Here’s to older brothers and friendship—”
She accepted this graciously like the lady she was. I wondered if I could be the man I wanted to be for her.
Vanessa was definitely no slouch when it came to cooking. She fixed veal, homemade rolls, salad, mashed potatoes, pinto beans, and topped it all off with homemade apple pie. It had been a while since I had a genuinely delicious home cooked meal by someone other than myself. Going back to my less than up to par dishes and microwave dinners was a thought I didn’t relish.
Back on the couch, Vanessa asked about my days on the force.
“There were good times and bad,” I recalled not too fondly. “Most days you just put in your time and hoped you didn’t run into a stray bullet with your name on it.”
“Do you ever miss being a police detective?”
“Only when I think about the health benefits I gave up.” I chuckled. “Being a private investigator, you meet a lot more interesting people,” I said with an eye towards her. “I get up when I want and go to sleep when I want without having big brother—or sister—watching over me.”
She smiled. “Sounds like the perfect life.”
“Yeah”—I crept ever so close to her—“perfect.”
I angled my head and went for her mouth like it was beckoning me. She reciprocated in kind and we were both the better for it.
It wasn’t easy, but I kept my hands to myself—with the exception of an occasional caress of her bare shoulders—not wanting to press my luck with this lady.
Vanessa turned out to be lady luck. “Make love to me, D.J.,” she whispered in my ear like she didn’t want the next-door neighbors to overhear.
My arousal level went sky high in that moment. Hell, maybe even somewhere into the deep recesses of outer space. We held hands and stared luminously into each other’s eyes.
“Your place or mine?”
It was hers.
She led me to the bedroom and I seriously wondered if it could get any better than this. It was the stuff dreams were made of, and I was about to live one of my own in vivid color.
Before either of us could take off our clothes, Vanessa quietly handed me a condom. Smart lady. Better safe than sorry for either of us, even if I could see the lady being the mother of my child someday.
With the formalities out of the way, she unwrapped her dress and the rest soon followed.
“Do you like what you see?” she asked.
A salacious grin parted my lips. What I saw was the total package: small, full breasts, a trim waist, and a taut body with long, shapely legs. She was everything I had dreamed she’d be, and then some.
“Are you kidding me?” I answered like a little boy about to dive into some of his favorite chocolate ice cream. “What’s not to like?”
> I pulled the shirt over my head, finding it difficult to wait a moment longer to be with this woman. We got body to body and our lips pressed together as if they were two pulsating engines in perfect and passionate harmony.
In bed, we continued kissing, tongues whipping in and out of each other’s mouths. I was tender with her. She was aggressive with me. I tried to stick with the straight and narrow. She preferred to negotiate every curve and angle as if not wanting to miss a beat. I wasn't complaining. Not one bit.
We made love in sinfully slow motion for half the night, exploring each other inside and out, squeezing every drop of desire we could muster into the intimacy. Neither of us came up for air until we were both totally spent. And very content like lifelong lovers.
Afterwards, she gave me a toe curling long kiss that left me breathless. “Happy now?”
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.” I held her hand, kissing it softly. “And what an angel you turned out to be.”
Vanessa looked me in the eye. Earnestness darkened her lovely face.
“What is it?” I asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.
She paused. “We’re good together, D.J. I think that’s obvious.”
“But—” Always that but. My heart began to beat faster.
“I don’t want to rush things,” she finally said.
“Isn’t it a bit too late to move into this gradually?” I had to remind myself that we were in bed.
Her bed.
“No,” she said forcefully. “It’s just the right time. Yes, we made love. Yes, it was great.” Her eyes lowered then lifted. “But it takes time to really get to know a person. I just don’t want you to get carried away with what happened between us tonight because I’m not really sure what we have.”
I was beginning to get the message. My ideal lady was trying to tell me that it was too early to make assumptions concerning us. And though I was ready to jump into this relationship head first, I knew deep down inside that she was the voice of reason. I had to respect that even if I didn’t necessarily agree.
My mouth parted into a platonic smile. “We’ll take things one day at a time, Vanessa,” I promised, happy to have this day under our belts.
“Thank you for that.” She kissed me tenderly on the cheek. “In the meantime, friends?”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but knew I didn’t want to lose her. Not after I’d found her.
“Friends,” I replied enthusiastically, already thinking ahead as well as thinking about what had just transpired between friends.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
There was a terse message from Nate on my answering machine when I walked into the office the following morning. It said he had to see me and it was urgent.
I took him at his word.
It was late afternoon on an overcast day when I found Nate at Pioneer Courthouse Square. He was playing the Rose Clown and the crowd to perfection, dressed in a bright red-green costume. I watched him stand on his head, and then do a few back flips, before landing squarely on his feet.
I cleared my throat to draw his attention. Once Nate saw me, he took a break, much to the disappointment of onlookers.
“Got your message,” I said tonelessly.
“You sure took your sweet time getting back to me,” he said disappointedly.
“I was tied up with other things, man,” I told him, thinking about the night I’d spent with Vanessa King and hoping it wasn’t the last. Then I returned to the real world and the man before me who insisted on being a clown. “What’s so urgent?”
Nate wet his lips and looked around with trepidation. “You want The Worm? I think I know where you can find him.”
“Where?”
A sigh, then in an undertone: “Word is he’s holed up at Madam Harriet’s.”
“Madam who?”
He chuckled. “Harriet. She’s a psychic, or claims to be. She’s got a crib on Broadmoor.”
“Why would The Worm be there?” I asked myself as much as him. “Don’t tell me he believes in fate?”
Nate shrugged. “I can’t read minds, man. You’ll have to ask him that. Or her. I only know what I heard.”
I narrowed my eyes. “So far, Nate, everything you’ve heard has gotten me nowhere!” I grabbed him by his ruffles. “If I end up at another dead end, I’ll be pissed and you’ll have to answer for it. You follow me?”
He looked as if he was about to melt. “Hey, I heard you, man.” He snorted whatever was already in his nose, and squinted. “I’m on your side, remember? Ain’t no reason to dog me in front of my fans—”
In fact, his “fans” had pretty much disappeared, attracted to a saxophonist who seemed to have real talent. I released Nate anyway and said sternly: “Just so we understand each other.”
Even then, I knew that in some ways I would never understand him.
He stuck his hand out. “Hey, I’m puttin’ my neck on the line for you, D.J. That’s gotta be worth somethin,’ ain’t it?”
I balled up his empty hand. “It will be,” I promised. “When I find Jessie Wylson.”
* * *
Madam Harriet’s place was located along a stretch of neon lit adult bookstores, strip clubs, and other businesses that catered to pornographic tastes and psychic astrology addicts.
I entered a candlelit room with a glass table and wicker chairs. A poster of a fire-breathing dragon covered one wall. African artifacts sat on a shelf in a corner. A curtain led to another room.
If The Worm really was hiding here, considering all the circumstances, he probably picked about as unlikely a place for someone to look for him as Bosnia. Or Iraq.
Almost.
Instinctively, I took out my Glock, keeping it close to my side, but ready.
A woman came through the curtain. She was in her forties and heavily made up, including blue shadow around the eyes and loud purple lipstick. Her gray hair was in a tight, short ponytail. She wore a long, colorful gown and enough cosmetic jewelry to open up her own store.
“How can I help you?” she asked, one eye on the gun in my hand.
“Are you Madam Harriet?” I asked, feeling foolish in doing so.
She nodded. “What do you want?”
“Maybe I want some advice on my love life.”
A doubtful fluttering of her false lashes. “You don’t need a gun for that.”
“I said maybe.” My gaze focused on the curtain, and what or who might be behind it. “My name’s Drake. I’m a private investigator.” I glanced at her. “I’m really looking for Jessie Wylson. You may know him as The Worm. My own crystal ball tells me he’s been using this place to hide from the law—and me!”
“You’re mistaken,” she said in a controlled voice. “I don’t know any Jessie Wylson or Worm.”
I could see that she was nervous. Why? Did she have something to hide?
“If it’s all the same to you,” I told her, “I think I’d like to see for myself—”
My feet moved toward the curtain. She blocked my path with her body. “You cannot go back there!” Her voice was explosive.
“Don’t try and stop me, lady—” I gazed down at her intimidatingly.
She did an about face, saying: “I know Worm. But he’s not here.”
She did a bad job of convincing me.
“If he’s not,” I said tartly, “I’ll be out of your hair before you know it.”
I shoved her aside and opened the curtain with my gun. I had entered a behind-the-scenes apartment divided into several rooms. Despite the protestations of Madam Harriet, I went from room to room hoping to land my eyes and Glock on Jessie Wylson’s face.
Once again I came up empty. No sign of The Worm. I saw evidence—clothes, shaving cream—that a man was or had been staying there.
Entering a bedroom, I got a frontal view of a bare-chested, young, African American girl. She looked, but made no attempt to cover up, as if the cat had already been let out of the bag. Then I heard a baby’s cry and watched as s
he raced over to a crib and lifted the baby to her breast.
“Satisfied?” Madam Harriet blared at me, slamming the door to the room.
“Where is he?” I turned on her.
“I have no idea.”
“He was hiding here, wasn’t he?” I probably sounded about as uptight as I felt.
“Mr. Wylson came here to have his charts read,” she insisted. “That’s all—”
“Has anyone else come looking for him?”
“No,” she said scathingly.
I could tell she knew more than she was saying.
Had The Worm been tipped off once again? What rock had he slithered under now?
Was he still alive?
Had Cornwell and Muncie gotten to him? Or Frank Sherman?
Disregarding Madam Harriet’s vehement objection, I opened the bedroom door where the girl I assumed was her daughter was breast-feeding. “Do you know where I can find Jessie Wylson?” I asked the girl.
She shook her head carefully, as if she had been trained to whenever asked that question. “I’m sorry,” she added as if she truly was.
Who was I to say otherwise?
Madam Harriet walked me to the door. “Good day,” she said with venom.
I gave her a hard look. “I’ll be back if I have to.”
Somehow I doubted I would need to. Whatever else I thought of Jessie Wylson, he seemed to cover his steps well while staying on the move. And never looking back.
* * *
Outside, I wondered if Nate had been leading me on a wild goose chase. Could he have somehow been protecting The Worm by warning him at every turn that I was coming after him?
It didn’t really make sense, but at this stage I couldn’t rule out anything.
I made a futile attempt to ask a few questions of the locals, but they were quick to shut me out like I had bad breath. Or worse, wanted something of them they didn’t care to part with.
Including information.
By the time I got back to my Bronco, I was ready to pay Nate another visit. There was a light knock on the passenger window. I used lightning speed to whip out my Glock and make sure if I went down I took someone with me.
Facing me with expected dread was an unexpected person—the girl from Madam Harriet’s place. She was alone. I let her in warily, my finger on the trigger as a precautionary measure.
Dead in the Rose City: A Dean Drake Mystery Page 18
