Killer Men Mysteries & Suspense 5-Book Bundle: Dead in the Rose City\Killer in The Woods\Murdered in the Man Cave\State's Evidence\The Sex Slave Murders

By R. Barri Flowers

Killer Men Mysteries & Suspense 5-book bundle contains four full length crime novels and a complete true crime book by award-winning criminologist and bestselling author R. Barri Flowers, including Dead in the Rose City, Killer in The Woods, Murdered in the Man Cave, State's Evidence, and The Sex Slave Murders.

Dead in the Rose City (A Dean Drake Mystery)
In this hard-boiled detective novel nothing is quite what it seems. Dean Jeremy Drake, nicknamed DJ, is a private investigator and ex-homicide detective for the Portland Police Bureau. He is tall, hip, tough, armed with a .40 caliber Glock, and courts danger and romance with equal abandon. These qualities are put to the test when Drake is framed for murder in the midst of two seemingly unrelated cases. The more he investigates, the more he realizes they are intricately and dangerously connected. It literally becomes a life and death issue as Drake has to use all of his detective skills, and then some, to fit all the pieces together in a deadly, high stakes whodunit and why.

Killer in The Woods (A Psychological Thriller)
In the town of Bluffs Bay, Washington, a serial killer dubbed by the press as "The Woods Strangler" is killing beautiful women in the affluent neighborhood of The Woods. In an effort to bring the community together to fight this terror, Selene Herrera, director of a local battered women's shelter, helps establish a neighborhood crime watch group with the help of second husband, Quinn. When he is accused of being the strangler, Selene is left to wonder if it is a cruel hoax or if she has married a brutal killer, who has now set his sights on her to join his growing list of victims.

Murdered in the Man Cave (A Riley Reed Cozy Mystery)
In the first book of an exciting new cozy mystery series, Riley Reed has a popular blog offering advice on home décor and renovation and does part-time consulting work in Cozy Pines, Oregon. When Riley is asked by an old flame, Brent London, a bestselling mystery writer, to help him spruce up his man cave as a newly single man, she readily accepts the assignment. But when she discovers him bludgeoned to death with a pool cue in his man cave, she finds herself thrust into the investigation to track down the killer, risking her life in the process.

State's Evidence (A Beverly Mendoza Legal Thriller)
In this heart-pounding legal thriller, assistant district attorney Beverly Mendoza appears to have an open and shut case when she prosecutes Rafael Santiago for the murder of a judge and the sexual assault of his wife in Eagles Landing, a town in Northern California. Santiago was recently released from prison and had a grudge against the judge. But her case against the suspect is put in jeopardy when career criminal Manuel Gonzalez, arrested for the murder of a young woman, also confesses to killing the judge. As Beverly and Wilameta County Sheriff's Homicide Detective Stone Palmer try to sort out fact from fiction, a case of mistaken identity becomes a real possibility. Or is it more likely that two violent men with close ties are trying to beat the system?

The Sex Slave Murders: The True Story of Serial Killers Gerald & Charlene Gallego
In this much-more-frightening-than-fiction tale of domination, depraved lust, substance abuse, violence, and murder, top selling true crime writer R. Barri Flowers tells the whole story of a couple's twisted relationship, their ghastly crimes and ability to elude the law, how they were finally captured, and the two riveting trials that ultimately pitted wife against husband, with the stakes higher than either one imagined in their murderous bond.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Barri Flowers
• Release date: Mar 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310831966

R. Barri Flowers

R. Barri Flowers is an award winning and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of romantic suspense, mystery, thriller and crime novels, with twenty Harlequin titles published to date, such as Honolulu Cold Homicide and Special Agent Witness. Chemistry and conflict between the hero and heroine, attention to detail, and incorporating the very latest advances in criminal investigations, are the cornerstones of his crime thriller fiction.

Book preview

DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY

A Dean Drake Mystery

By R. Barri Flowers

DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY: A Dean Drake Mystery is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEAD IN THE ROSE CITY

A Dean Drake Mystery

Copyright 2000 by R. Barri Flowers

All rights reserved

ONE

I’d just stepped out of the restaurant, the greasy food still settling in my stomach, wondering if I was ever going to get out of the Rose City, when I saw her approaching with a tall man. I did a double take, barely believing my eyes, but trusting the sudden racing of my heart.

It was her—Vanessa King. Still as gorgeous as ever. How many years had it been? Ten? Eleven? Too many to even want to think about. Yet that was all I could do at the moment, especially when she was the best thing that ever happened to me. And I’d thrown it all away for reasons I couldn’t explain.

If only I could turn back the hands of time, things might have turned out differently. Me, Vanessa, and all the joy we could bring to each other.

The day we met in the early 1990s was forever ingrained in my mind for more reasons than one…

* * *

The dictionary defines fate as unfortunate destiny. Once upon a time, I didn’t buy into forecasts of doom and gloom, much less associate it with my life as a private eye and even more private individual. But then I took on two seemingly unrelated cases and one bizarre thing seemed to lead to the next and even I began to wonder if I was somehow tempting fate.

Before I begin my fateful tale, let me introduce myself. The name is Dean Jeremy Drake, or D.J. for those close enough to be called friends or kin. Otherwise it’s simply Drake. Some call me a pain in the ass. Others see me as a half-breed with an attitude. I prefer to think of myself as a forty-one-year-old, six-five, ex-cop turned private investigator who happens to be the product of an interracial affair.

My parents, who have both since gone to heaven, couldn’t have been more different. My father was Jamaican black, mother Italian white. But for one steamy night they found some common interests and ended up with me for their trouble.

I admit I can be a pain in the ass with an attitude, or a gentle giant with a perpetual smile on my square-jawed face, depending on which side of the bed I wake up on. But that’s another story. Let’s concentrate on this one for now.

It was raining like the second coming of Noah’s Ark on that day at the tail end of July. I was sitting in my Portland, Oregon office, my feet on the desk as if they belonged there. The Seattle Mariners were on the tube playing the Oakland A’s in sunny California. With three innings to go, the Mariners were getting a major league ass whipping, 11-0. To add insult to injury, there was a rumor that the players were planning to go on strike next month.

Who the hell needed them anyway? I’d had just about all I could take from greedy players, and owners who never seemed to tire of bleeding the fans dry. For me, this was merely a tune-up for the mother of all sports—football. The exhibition season was due to start next month in what might finally be a winning season for the Seahawks, my adopted team and a three hour drive away on a good day with light traffic.

The Mariners had finally gotten on the scoreboard with a solo shot when I heard one knock on my door and watched it open before I could even say come in.

A tall, chunky, white man entered wearing a wrinkled and dripping wet gray suit. He had a half open umbrella in one hand that looked as if he had forgotten to use it, a leather briefcase in the other. Nasty out there, he muttered, and let out a repulsive sneeze.

Tell me about it, I groaned. You didn’t live in a city like Portland if you expected sunny, dry weather year-round, though a soaker like this was pretty rare in late July. I was still partly distracted by the game, when I asked routinely: How can I help you?

That’s when he walked up to me, stuck an I.D. in my face, and said: Frank Sherman, Deputy District Attorney for Multnomah County—

Only then did it dawn on me that I knew the man. Or at least I used to. Like me, Sherman was an ex-cop in his early forties. He had made that relatively rare jump from law enforcement to criminal law, while I had chosen private investigation work as my answer to justice for all. The closest I’d come to law school was the B.A. I’d earned in criminal justice from Portland State University. This hardly made me in awe of the man before me. He had gone his way and I had gone mine. Right now, it looked as if our ways had converged.

Narcotics, right? I asked, taking my feet off the desk.

He nodded proudly, and ran a hand through wet, greasy dark blonde hair. And you were homicide?

Seems like two lifetimes ago, I exaggerated. In fact, it had been six years since I turned in my badge and the stress and strain that went with it for a lesser, more independent kind of misery. That Sherman could identify my department meant he had done his homework or my reputation preceded itself. I chose to believe the latter.

At least we made it out on our own two feet. Sherman looked down on me with big blue eyes and a twisted smile. He was heavier than I remembered him, by maybe fifteen pounds. No, make that twenty. I turned off the TV to give him my undivided and curious attention. I did maybe a quarter of my work for the D.A.’s office, but I almost always went to them rather than the other way around.

So is this a social call? I asked, but seriously doubted. Or have those unpaid traffic tickets finally caught up with me?

He lost the twisted smile, and said directly: I’d like to hire you, Drake—on behalf of the State. Mind if I sit?

I indicated the folding chair nearest to him—a flea market pickup that was a bargain. I’m listening…

Sherman laid the briefcase on the desk, opened it, and removed a folder. "It’s the dossier on Jessie The Worm Wylson, he explained, handing it to me. He’s wanted in connection with the sale and distribution of narcotics and methamphetamines. This bastard is personally responsible for most of the drugs poisoning our city and turning our kids into junkies!"

I looked at the face of a bald, dark-skinned black man on the dossier. It said he was thirty-five, six feet tall, and one hundred and seventy-five pounds. Wylson was a resident of Portland and had been in and out of jail most of his life for an assortment of drug and theft charges.

Even if I believed he was the scum of the earth, I had trouble buying that this one dude was behind most of the drugs floating about the city. In my book, that distinction belonged to the Columbia drug cartels and the rich Americans who made getting drugs into this country as easy as addicts getting crack on the inner-city streets.

Why do they call him The Worm? I had to ask.

Sherman shrugged. Heard someone gave him that name while he was in the joint, probably because he always seems able to worm his way out of trouble. He scowled. Not this time.

There was something sinister about Sherman’s, Not this time. I took another look at Jessie The Worm Wylson, before shifting my gray-brown eyes to the man on the other side of the desk. If I find him—which I assume you’d like me to do—what makes you think he won’t manage to slip away again?

Sherman shifted somewhat uncomfortably. It’s a chance we’re more than willing to take, he said evenly, provided you can locate his ass. If I have my way, once he’s in custody, Wylson will be in a cheap wooden box the next time he gets out. He sneezed then wiped his nose with a dirty handkerchief. So what do you say, Drake, will you take the case?

I glanced once more at the dossier and the man called The Worm. It seemed like a simple enough investigation. But I knew that no investigation ever turned out to be that simple, especially when it involved the district attorney’s office. In fact, finding anyone on the streets of Portland could sometimes be like searching for a hypodermic needle in an urban jungle.

For some reason, I found myself hesitating in jumping all over this case. Like most P.I.’s, I liked to go with my instincts. And, from the beginning, there was definitely something about the case that rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the surreptitious meeting with a member of the D.A.’s office outside the D.A.’s office. Or perhaps it was uneasiness in taking on an investigation that I presumed was still active with the Portland Police Department. Experience told me that they didn’t take too kindly to meddlesome private eyes muscling in on their territory.

Sherman seemed to be reading my mind. If you’re wondering why you instead of one of our regular investigators, the answer is simple. I want this asshole off the street! I was told that you do things your own way, and not always within the guidelines you learned as a cop. We both know that sometimes the guidelines can be a bitch when it comes to justice for all. He sucked in a deep breath. I’m willing—unofficially—to do whatever it takes to find Jessie Wylson. Of course, the D.A.’s office will cover all of your regular fees and expenses.

The private investigation business had been fairly good to me by the standards of most trying to make a living as dicks for hire. I managed to stay one step ahead of my debts and have some money left over for recreation. But business had been lean of late and the bills never went on holiday. I could hardly afford to pass up a cash-paying reliable client, assuming that at least a minimal standard of acceptability was met. This one seemed to qualify, though barely.

Can I keep this? I held up the dossier, which was my way of saying I was on board.

Sherman smiled. I was counting on it. He stood and pulled a card from his pocket, handing it to me. Keep me informed, Drake. If and when you find him, I want to be there to personally slap the cuffs on.

I wanted to remind Sherman he wasn’t a cop anymore. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt that old habits died hard, and said: I’ll be in touch.

Once the Deputy D.A. left me all by my lonesome, I turned the TV back on. Mercifully for the Mariners, the game was over. Final score: A’s 14, Losers 3.

* * *

The sun had begun to peek through the clouds by the time I left my downtown office, which was not far from the Riverplace Marina. It was on the third floor of a building that seemed to house everything from a psychic hotline office to a Jenny Craig weight loss center. I wasn’t complaining though. The rent was affordable and most of the tenants tended to mind their own business.

I was wearing a jogging suit that fit well on my six-foot-five body and my Nike running shoes. People asked me all the time if I ever played basketball. I usually responded truthfully with, I was lousy at basketball, but give me a baseball bat and I can hit the ball ten miles. That almost always left them speechless.

I liked to think that I was in pretty good physical condition for the forty and over crowd. Jogging was my forte, so to speak, these days. It was a carryover from my days on the force. Before they brought in all the high tech exercise equipment to keep everyone lean and mean.

I half-jogged, half-walked the two miles on the street parallel to the Willamette River, till I reached my apartment building. It was not far from the Hawthorne Bridge—one of several bridges that connected the city that was separated by the river. Since Portland was so beautiful and pedestrian friendly, I favored being on foot to driving or light rail.

Home for me was an old brownstone on Burnside Street. It was old, but comfortable. Most of the residents fit the same profile: single, divorced, or widowed and available, over thirty-five, and professional in some capacity.

Just as I was entering the building, exiting was another tenant who I seemed to pass by every other day lately. I didn’t know her name or anything about her, but I liked what I saw. She bore a strong resemblance to Halle Berry, only she was better—and sexier!

She looked to be in her mid-thirties with jet-black curly hair that grazed her shoulders, cool brown eyes, and an oak complexion. She had a streamlined, petite figure that I could imagine cuddling up to on a lonely night. If there were such a thing as my ideal woman, she was probably it.

Though my mouth always seemed to go dry whenever I got near her, I managed to utter: Hello.

She gave me a faint smile in return, perhaps flattered, but obviously unimpressed. I tried to convince myself that she was just having a bad day. Some other time, pal.

I climbed three flights of stairs before I reached my one-bedroom apartment. It was pretty much what you would expect of a single, male, private investigator: not particularly tidy, cluttered, bland, and sorely in need of a woman’s touch. The right woman just never seemed to come along and volunteer her services.

I showered, shaved, and stepped into one of two cheap suits I wore on the job. This one was navy blue and the most broken in. I combed my short, black hair that was sprinkled with more gray than I cared to admit. Since high school, I’d had a thick coal black mustache. It was probably the best part of me and hung just over the corners of my mouth, tickling me whenever I yawned.

Dinner was some leftover KFC drumsticks, canned pinto beans, and milk. Afterward, I caught a bit of the news on TV, glanced at the front page of the Oregonian, and pondered my newest case.

* * *

Pioneer Courthouse Square was the place to be if you wanted to mingle with your neighbors and tourists alike, be right in the heart of downtown Portland, and catch some of the city’s best free sidewalk talent.

Nate Griffin had made a name for himself as the Rose Clown, in reference to the annual Rose Festival held in the city. He did everything you expected of a clown and more, including cartwheels, telling bad jokes, and giving an often distorted, comical history of Portland. Nate also happened to be my best street informant ever since my days on the force. Sometimes he was helpful, other times helpless. At twenty-nine, he had succumbed to a life mostly on the streets after off and on bouts with alcohol and drug abuse, and failed opportunities to better his life.

The Rose Clown was in full costume and makeup when I saw him on the Square working his magic on anyone who cared to watch and listen. Nate was tall, lanky, dark, and bald. One wouldn’t recognize him when looking at the clown in a baggy outfit, white curly wig, green painted face, and big red nose.

He acknowledged my presence with a half-hearted nod. I dropped a few dollar bills into his bucket that was sparsely filled with mostly dimes and quarters. He finished a terrible rendition of a rap song before giving me a moment of his time.

They love you, Nate, I told him encouragingly, even if your singing stinks.

It’s all in the ears of the beholder, he said, smiling and showing off a gold front crown. Then he looked into his nearly empty bucket and seemed to do an about face. Guess I could use some work on my chords.

Guiltily I dug into my pocket and came out with a couple more dollars, dropping them into the bucket. Maybe this will help—

He wet his full lips. Thanks, D.J. Times are tough these days.

"For all of us," I said with a sneer.

He peered at me suspiciously. So what brings you my way? He chose to answer his own question, fluttering his false lashes. You probably missed seeing my pretty face!

Don’t believe that for a minute, I said firmly. I’m not into clowns, pretty or not. It had been about six weeks since I’d come his way. If there was anyone who could find out where Jessie Wylson was holed up, it was Nate and his seemingly endless network of street contacts.

I removed the photo of The Worm from my pocket and laid it on Nate’s palm. Know him?

He studied the picture as if it held the secret of the universe. Should I?

His name is Jessie Wylson. They call him The Worm.

Ugly dude, commented Nate bluntly, his brow furrowed.

For once we agreed on something. Nate was still staring at the photo when he asked: Why you looking for the man?

I decided to be straight with him. He’s wanted by the D.A.’s office for drug trafficking, among other things.

Nate scratched his fake nose, then sniffed like it was clogged with a white powdered substance. So why come to me? he asked, as if he hadn’t a clue.

I need to find him. My mouth became a straight line. "And I need your help—"

Nate’s eyes popped wide. Don’t know the man. Don’t want to know him, especially if he’s got the D.A. on his ass. Sorry. He handed me the photo as if glad to be rid of it.

I had a feeling he was holding back on me, but didn’t press it—yet. Ask around anyway, I insisted. Maybe you’ll get lucky.

Can’t make no promises, he hedged. But I’ll give it my best shot—for you.

I’ll check back with you in a couple of days.

That soon? He rolled his eyes. What do I look like, a miracle worker?

Gazing at the Rose Clown, that wasn’t exactly the first thing to come to mind. I told him: The sooner you give me what I want, the sooner I’ll leave you alone—for a while.

Nate went back to what he arguably did best and I headed to my favorite nightclub, satisfied that I had at least put the wheels in motion to find the man known as The Worm.

TWO

Jasmine’s was located right on the Willamette River. The jazz supper club was owned and operated by Gus Taylor, Vietnam vet, friend, and, at fifty-one, the ninth wonder of the world. I liked to think of him as the black version of John Goodman or Dom DeLuise. He hovered somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds on six feet, three inches of flab. His salt and pepper beard was thick, as were his brows over large brown eyes. He was shiny bald like Mr. Clean.

Jasmine’s had the best jazz in town. Gus had named it after his late wife who was his pride and joy. I couldn’t remember a time dating back to my days as a rookie officer when I didn’t come to the club and leave feeling genuinely uplifted. Tonight was well on its way to following suit. The featured singer looked like a young Diana Ross, but had a voice that sounded much more like Billie Holiday than Ross ever did in Lady Sings the Blues.

What’s shakin’, D.J.? The boisterous voice was none other than Gus himself, who often doubled as bartender, waiter, janitor, and security guard.

She is! I declared from my stool, while my eyes remained riveted on the singer who called herself Star Quality.

Don’t even think about it, Gus warned me. She’s too hot for even you to handle.

I wouldn’t doubt it, I said, finishing off my beer.

How ’bout another?

Why not?

Gus filled two mugs. Why don’t you come and work for me, D.J.? he said as if he really meant it.

I raised a brow. "You mean you want me to sing?"

Not if I wanna stay in business, he quipped. I was thinking more along the lines of security.

I looked at him like he was half crazy, though I suspected he was dead serious. Thanks, but no thanks, Gus. I’m afraid I’m not cut out to break up bar brawls.

Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, he said. You hang out here almost as much as I do. Why not put your talent to good use?

I thought I was, I responded with serious sarcasm, and tasted the beer.

Gus leaned at me from across the bar. He could tell that I was a little pissed. Don’t get me wrong, he said apologetically, putting froth to his mouth. I’m not knocking what you do to earn a living. We need some of our own doing the private eye bit. ‘The Man’ sho ain’t gonna bust his ass to find out whodunit, especially not in the part of town where most of us live. But you, my man, could do better than that. And I could use a man with your background and guts to help keep law and order around here. Think about it, D.J. That’s all I’m askin’.

I already had thought about it, but saw no reason to tell him at that moment. Good intentions aside, I didn’t quit the force to wind up checking I.D.’s for the proper drinking age. I’ll think about it, I lied.

He left it at that and went to jaw with another patron. I refocused my attention on Star Quality and became lost in her velvety, soulful voice.

* * *

The Worm’s last known address was a house on Thirty-Third Street and Drummond, an area in Northeast Portland that was known more for its crack houses and gang bangers than its law-abiding citizens.

That next morning I paid the house a visit, figuring I might hit the jackpot the first time around and catch The Worm with his pants down. Not that I really believed I could be that lucky. If it had been that easy to locate Jessie Wylson, Sherman could have—and probably would have—done the job himself.

Wearing my alternate P.I. suit, this one dusty brown, with a tan shirt and thin brown tie, I rang the doorbell. It seemed that dressing the way people expected detectives to dress—somewhat rumpled and sleazy—made it easier to get a little cooperation from those least apt to give it.

There was a beat up Olds Cutlass in the driveway. From the looks of the house, with its peeling paint and overgrown lawn, it was as if no one had lived there in years.

I heard a rustling noise inside. It sounded more like a snake than a worm. But I was taking no chances. I placed my hand close to the .40 caliber Glock I kept between my waist and pants. I had never been accused of being trigger-happy as a cop or P.I., but that didn’t mean I wasn’t ready and willing to confront any dangerous situation that came my way.

The door slowly opened. A walnut skinned woman in her early thirties stuck her face out. Her short, permed dark hair was highlighted with blonde streaks. The way her sable eyes squinted like taking a direct hit of bright sunlight suggested that I had disturbed her beauty sleep. A terrycloth white robe was loosely wrapped around her voluptuous body, revealing enough cleavage for my eyes to get sore.

What? she asked brusquely.

My name’s Drake, I said tersely. I understand Jessie Wylson lives here.

Her brow creased. He ain’t here. Ain’t seen him for weeks.

I glanced around skeptically and then back at her. Who are you?

She batted her lashes as if to say Who’s asking? Used to be his girlfriend.

Anyone else home? I asked guardedly, my hand still within reach of the Glock.

I live by myself, she hissed.

Do you have a name?

She hesitated, regarding me suspiciously, before saying in a higher octave: Nicole.

Nicole, do you expect me to believe that even a low-life drug dealer like The Worm would dump a lady as fine as you? I figured that would elicit a meaningful response.

She gave me a coquettish grin and seemed genuinely flattered. Then her face became an angry machine. I dumped the bastard after he stole from me—every chance he got.

Maybe the biggest mistake of his life, I offered, almost feeling sorry for her. Do you know where can I find him?

Her nostrils ballooned. You’re askin’ the wrong person. I’m not his damned keeper—not anymore. She sighed raggedly. If there’s nothin’ else, I got things to do.

I was not altogether convinced that she had no knowledge of Wylson’s whereabouts, but gave her the benefit of the doubt—for now. Your ex-boyfriend’s wanted on drug charges, I said coldly. I’m not a cop, but I’ve been hired to bring Wylson in if I can find him. My eyes sharpened on her. If you know where he is, you’d better think twice about keeping it to yourself. He’s not worth going to prison for. I slipped my card in her cleavage for a perfect fit. Give me a call if you hear from Jessie or happen to remember where he’s hiding out.

* * *

By afternoon I had finished up some paperwork from a previous case. I rewarded myself by running. There was an unexpected joy in feeling the stress and strain course through my entire body as I pushed myself to go the extra mile, so to speak.

I took the long way home—about four miles along the river—leaving me exhausted and regenerated. I finished my run by cooling down and walking about the last quarter of a mile.

As I approached the front of my apartment building, I noticed a cab pull up to the curb. My ideal woman, the attractive lady whose name I still didn’t know, got out of the back seat. She was wearing a gray business suit that flattered her nice figure. She reached in the back seat and came out with a painting that seemed nearly as tall as her. With obvious difficulty, she began to carry it toward the brownstone.

Let me help you with that. I took full advantage of the moment, catching up to her in looping strides. Maybe this was the break I’d been hoping for to get to know this angel. I grabbed the painting before she could say no thanks.

Thank you, she said in a shaky, but appreciatively soft voice. I think this one was just a bit too much to handle.

I looked at the painting. It was a scenic landscape of Mount Hood and the surrounding area. I was not exactly a connoisseur of the arts. I wondered if she was the artist. The apartments in our building hardly seemed large enough to hold such a painting.

Where to? I asked. For one of the few times in my life, I was actually intimidated by someone. Her attractiveness, grace, and sensuality really did a number on me.

I’m in 427, she said with a slight smile that revealed small, straight white teeth and thin sweet lips.

She even smelled good, as I got a whiff of her perfume. Definitely not the cheap stuff.

We took the elevator up and neither one of us seemed to have much to say. For my part, saying the wrong thing seemed worse than saying nothing at all.

Do you live here? she asked, seemingly out of courtesy, and apparently oblivious to the fact that we had been practically bumping into each other every other day for the last two months.

I nodded. Third floor.

She smiled ingenuously. Thought I’d seen you before. I suppose it’s a good thing you came along when you did.

If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else, I muttered like an idiot.

She gave me a look to suggest that she agreed.

The elevator doors opened and I followed her to the apartment.

Just set it there, she pointed to an empty wall in the living room.

I did and we stared at each other for seconds that seemed like hours. I started to ask her if she wanted to go for a drink, but something told me I wouldn’t like her answer. So I kept my mouth shut. There was plenty of time to get to know this lady. Why rush a potentially good thing?

Well, I’d better get going now. The words crept from my mouth as if they were stuck in cement.

She did not argue the point. Thanks again. Maybe I’ll see you around.

I nodded miserably, and left without even finding out her name or telling her mine.

At the mailboxes, I discovered that her name was Vanessa King. It seemed to fit her. This was another possible step in the right direction for me.

THREE

Once again, I found Nate Griffin holding an audience captive at Pioneer Courthouse Square. There was wild applause when he finished his impersonation of Michael Jackson as a clown.

Your timing sucks, D.J., he complained in a crass voice once we were alone.

So sue me, I spat. Admittedly, I was an impatient man, but I would make it up to him if I could, as long as he delivered. What have you got for me?

Fumbling with his braided wig, Nate said waveringly: Not much, man. I heard The Worm likes to hang out at a club in Northeast Portland called Nightmares. He rubbed his nose as though it was itching to have something nourishing. Nate was a recovering cocaine addict. As far as I knew, he was clean these days. But what did I know?

You’re one tough dude, Nate was saying, but believe me, man, that’s not the type of place you wanna go into by your lonesome—if you get my drift?

Thanks for the advice, I said, dismissing the warning. I think I can take care of myself. Especially with a little help from my friend. I patted the gun tucked away inside my pants. I splurged and dropped a ten spot in the Rose Clown’s bucket, feeling a bit generous for some reason. I’ll be in touch, Nate, I promised.

* * *

The difference between Northeast Portland and the rest of the city was like night and day. Whereas most areas of Portland were generally safe and comfortable places to live, the Northeast area seemed to have a disproportionate share of drug activity, gangs, drive-by shootings, and uneasiness in the air like a constant cumulus cloud hanging over that part of the city.

I had heard of Nightmares, but never had the pleasure of going there until now. It was one of Northeast Portland’s most notorious hangouts for reputed gang members, drug dealers, and other lowlife types. Police raids and dead bodies had done little to tarnish the appeal of Nightmares for those who liked to live dangerously.

I entered the establishment after getting some less than supportive glares from a few mean looking dudes and ladies hanging around outside as though they had nothing better to do. It was smaller than I imagined and had Bloods and Crips written all over it. A few pool tables sat in one corner and were occupied. Rap music blared loudly through huge loud speakers suspended from the ceiling. All in all, the place was rather empty since it was a Monday night.

No sign of The Worm.

By the time I reached the bar, those who were present had noticed or been notified of my entry, judging by the looks I received—like I had just dropped in from Neptune. I had the feeling that strangers were not welcome. That didn’t deter me from approaching the bartender. He was a tall, dark man in his mid-twenties with short gerry curls and a goatee.

Before I could speak, he asked in a frosty tone: What do you want?

For a moment, I thought he was speaking to someone else. Meeting his eyes, I asked curtly: Is there some reason a person can’t get a drink? Or is it members only?

He looked me over like I was a side of beef that may or may not have been contaminated. You The Man?

I’m not a cop, I told him. I glanced around at some of the patrons who had moved threateningly close. Being an ex-cop did have its advantages. It taught me that no crisis was ever as bad as it seemed. I also learned that intimidation and respect often neutralized each other when fear gave way to fearless.

I looked the bartender straight in the eye and said with a definite edge to my voice: I’m a private investigator. Not looking for trouble—just need some information.

If you want information, he told me snidely, call the operator. He was not smiling.

Neither was I. I’m looking for Jessie Wylson. Or don’t you give a damn that he’s selling drugs to your kids?

His eyes bulged. Who the hell do you think is supplyin’ him the drugs?

And that’s supposed to make it all right? I sneered, hoping I could reason with him, but doubting it.

Even if I knew who this dude was, the bartender barked loudly so everyone in the place could hear him, what makes you think I’d tell you?

This guy was really starting to piss me off.

He aimed his eyes menacingly at me. I think you’d better get your ass outta here while you can still walk on your own two feet.

Maybe he’d rather be carried out, said an ominous, deep voice behind me. I swiveled and saw a heavyset man with a zigzag part in the middle of his closely cropped brown hair. A cue stick was dangling at his side as if that was supposed to be insurance for his flabby body. You heard the man. Go find somewhere else to play private asshole.

Heat began to ooze from my pores. Get outta my face, dickhead, I warned him, or I’ll make you eat that cue.

He took umbrage to that and decided to put me to the test, swinging the pool cue toward my head like a baseball slugger. My reflexes acted quickly and decisively. I grabbed the stick from him and jammed it into his fat gut twice, then hard under his chin, rendering him ineffective and out like a light.

I threw the stick against a wall, pulled out my Glock, and said to the closing ranks: No one has to die tonight. But if I go, I guarantee I’ll take several of you with me. I moved up to the bartender and put the gun barrel against his throbbing temple. Starting with you, my man—

He got the message. Let him go—

I hoped those who were eyeballing me like I was Public Enemy Number One were listening. I kept the Glock in a firing position just in case.

If you happen to run into The Worm, I told the bartender in a parting shot, tell him to give himself up. It’s the only way he’ll get a moment’s peace.

The bartender stood mute, defiant. I carefully made my way out the door, glad to still be in one piece with my head firmly planted on my shoulders.

For a person who seemed to have few redeeming qualities, Jessie Wylson had remarkable support from those he was arguably harming the most. Evidently, he really was a worm who was slithering his way through a network of cooperative tunnels.

For me, it was just a job—one I was determined to complete as if it was my last. For The Worm, it was staying one step ahead of the law and a private eye named D.J. Drake.

FOUR

After Nightmares, Jasmine’s seemed like a dream place to unwind. I took a table and a beer. Star Quality had been replaced by another soul singer only half as attractive, but with stronger backup vocals. Gus had the night off. This was a minor miracle, since I could scarcely remember a time when he wasn’t hovering around making his intimidating presence known.

I couldn’t help but notice the woman sitting all by her lonesome two tables over, as if anyone getting too close to her would pollute the air she breathed. It would have been hard not to notice a platinum blonde white woman in a club that catered predominantly to blacks and Latinos. But she was something special, if appearance counted for anything.

She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a ruby red dress, which had latched on to every curve and fold of her voluptuous body like a second flesh. A white hat, tilted slightly with class, sat atop golden hair that was cascading like a waterfall onto her broad shoulders. If her intentions were to bring men down to their knees without so much as lifting a finger, she had succeeded from where I sat.

Wonder who the lucky dude is? Al Johnson whispered in my ear. He was a regular at the club. At forty-eight and nearly all muscle, Al was still reliving the glory days when he was a linebacker for the Seahawks. He made his living now as a dentist, deciding it was better to help people keep their teeth than lose them on the field. He appeared to be leaving when his imposing frame came between her and me.

Not me, I said sadly. I can’t get that lucky. For some reason that made me think of Vanessa King.

Don’t sell yourself short, D.J., Al said, and rubbed his horseshoe shaped hairline. You never know. Your name could be the one on the winning lottery ticket. I don’t see anyone else claimin’ the prize.

I had to admit that he had a point. So I said hopefully: I’ll keep that in mind.

Big Al gave me a supportive pat on the shoulder and left with a nice-looking Latino woman. I did not feel particularly lucky tonight, except for the fact that I had avoided serious bodily harm in Nightmares.

I glanced over at the blonde bombshell and was surprised to see she had already discovered me. She offered me a tantalizing smile and I reciprocated unevenly, in case it was someone else who held her attention.

After mulling it over with the rest of my drink and deciding the lady was not waiting for Mr. Right to show up, present company excluded, I figured what the hell. I flagged down a waitress to offer her a refill of whatever she was drinking, courtesy of the gentleman sitting two tables over.

But she declined, got up, and left as if she suddenly realized she had no business being there or perhaps had already completed it. She never once looked my way as she sauntered toward the door and exited.

I let out an expletive or two, suddenly wishing I had a hole I could crawl into. That old saying immediately came to mind: If it seemed too good to be true, it probably was. At least that was the case for me tonight.

I had an urge to follow blondie, but decided it was best to leave well enough alone. Tonight, I would let the sweet sounds of jazz be my lady. I called it quits after the set ended, slightly intoxicated, but still in control of my faculties.

Outside, I breathed in the warm air for a moment or two, before beginning the quarter of a mile walk to my apartment. I had only covered half a block when a bright red Porsche pulled up alongside the curb and a sexy voice said: Can I give you a lift somewhere?

Upon closer inspection, I realized the person behind the wheel was none other than the sexy blonde bombshell from the club. If I hadn’t believed in fairy tales before, I was beginning to now.

She leaned across the front seat, her chest flirting with me, opened the door, and said: Get in.

It was an offer too tempting to refuse on this warm—and getting warmer by the second—night.

Where to? she asked without looking at me.

Straight ahead.

She no longer wore the hat. Her lemon-colored hair seemed to glow in the dark, as did that tight red dress. Whatever perfume she was wearing filled the air with something delightfully appealing.

If I hadn’t known better, I would think I was being picked up. Coming from the macho brotherhood of the police academy, it had taken me a while to catch up with the times of liberation and equality when it came to sexual aggression. Fortunately, I was a quick learner.

Who are you? it seemed time to ask.

My name’s Catherine Ashley Sinclair, she said, the words rolling off her tongue with a slightly Southern tilt.

Dean Jeremy Drake, I followed. You can call me D.J.

Nice to meet you, D.J. She gave a rich, melodious laugh.

I studied her sculptured profile. Do you always give men you don’t know rides, Catherine? The question was one of pure curiosity. Especially when they tried to buy you a drink and were dumped on.

She fluttered her long lashes at me. I saw you. I liked you. I didn’t need to go through the BS of pretending to get to know each other.

So you waited for me outside? I was left scratching my head.

Why not?

We stopped in front of my building. So where do we go from here? I hesitated to ask, reluctant to see this fairy tale come to an end prematurely.

She ran a silky smooth hand down the side of my face and said without preamble: How about to bed?

The lady certainly didn’t pull any punches. This wouldn’t be my first time being with a white woman. If I learned one thing from my parents, it was that there was no such thing as racial incompatibility when it came to sex.

But there were other considerations. I didn’t consider myself especially promiscuous, not these AIDS days. But my sex drive was about as strong as a twenty-year-old’s. Okay, a forty-one-year-old who had never lost the desire to be with a beautiful woman. That, combined with being a bit tipsy and currently unattached, made it a done deal.

* * *

I hadn’t exactly prepared the place for company, but had the feeling she wouldn’t mind dirty sheets.

Would you like a drink or something? I asked Catherine Ashley Sinclair, gazing into eyes so blue they appeared to be violet.

She licked her full, glossy red lips, smiled, and said: "Nothing to drink, but I would like something— She kicked off her high heels and unzipped her dress. In slow motion it sank down her perfectly curved and angled, very naked, tall, tanned body. Her eyes danced at me provocatively. That’s assuming you like what you see…"

It would have been damned hard not to. The woman had a body to die for, and knew it. Like a man on a mission, I held her cheeks and put my mouth to hers. It turned into a passionate kiss, neither of us backing off in the slightest.

She finally did, looked me ravenously in the eye, and lowered to her knees. There, she methodically unbuckled my pants, yanked them down and took me in her mouth, all without missing a beat. To say it—she—felt good would be an understatement. But the better part of me refused to have this fantasy end only half completed.

I brought Catherine Ashley Sinclair back to her feet and scooped her up in my arms in one motion. We made our way to the bedroom where I tossed her on the bed, dirty sheets and all. It took me only a second to whip a condom out of the nightstand, put it on, and join the lady who had my full and undivided attention.

For the next hour, we made love as if there were no tomorrow. Or yesterday. I felt as if I had been reborn. Or maybe given a new lease on life. This was a woman who demanded every bit as much as she gave, and then some.

When it was over, I was one exhausted, but contented man. I was not looking ahead, only basking in the glow of one night to remember and cherish.

Somewhere between the oohs and aahs of orgasm, I must have told Catherine Ashley Sinclair I was a private eye, for as we unraveled from each other’s limbs, she said to me casually: I’d like to hire you—

At first, I thought she meant as a boy toy. I’m afraid my services as a lover are not for sale.

I want to hire you as a private investigator.

I sat up, intrigued and surprised. Since when?

She tilted her head slightly. Since I overheard someone at Jasmine’s say that you were a private investigator.

I rubbed my nose with annoyance. I never liked mixing business with pleasure and definitely not tonight. You picked one hell of a way to solicit my professional services.

Catherine shrugged her beautiful pink shoulder. I got your attention, didn’t I?

I looked at her naked body. Yes, I’d say you definitely got my attention. There had to be more to this seduction than attention grabbing. So why come on to me? I don’t require my clients to sleep with me before I take their cases.

She seemed unaffected by this. Maybe I wanted to see what you were made of. Maybe you turned me on. Does it really matter? She rolled off the bed, giving me a bird’s-eye view of her shapely, firm ass.

I was now feeling more than a little unsettled, and perhaps inadequate. It would get worse before it got better. Leaning on my elbows, I asked the logical question: Why do you want to hire me?

She drove fingers through her thick mane like she was searching for something and said evenly, without giving me the benefit of her stunning blue eyes: "I think my husband is cheating on me. I’d like you to prove it—"

I thought I had heard it all, or at least most of it. But this strange bit of irony nearly left me speechless. If I hadn’t detected a strong note of sincerity in her voice, I might have broken into a boisterous laugh. Instead, I was deadly serious when I said: You’re joking, right? The joke was not that she was married, though not many married women ended up in my bed that I was aware of, but that she had a problem with an unfaithful spouse, considering the present circumstances.

Catherine painted my face in even strokes with her eyes. This is no joke, she stated firmly. I’m very serious. She placed her hands on curvaceous hips, teasing me with that gorgeous frontal view of her full breasts. I mean, this is what you do for a living, isn’t it?

She was serious, I decided. That didn’t make the situation any easier to swallow. I sighed. "Lady, I do a lot of things in my line of work. That doesn’t mean I’ll do anything—for anyone. I found myself fumbling with the covers as if I had nothing better to do with my hands. Are you saying you want me to get the kind of proof on your husband that we just experienced?"

Color stole into her cheeks. That’s exactly what I’m saying.

That cliché about the pot calling the kettle black or in this case, white, immediately came to mind. Whatever she was up to, I wasn’t buying it. You picked the wrong man for the job. I got up and went for my clothes, scattered about the floor like leaves.

I picked the right man, Catherine insisted, coming over to me and dribbling her fingers across my chest. What happened between us in a moment of passion has absolutely nothing to do with me and my husband.

If you say so, I muttered sourly, grabbing her fingers, which had suddenly become more irritating than pleasing. And it was more like an hour of passion.

Who the hell was I to tell her how to conduct her life? Whatever was going on between this lady and her husband was between them, as long as she didn’t put me in the middle. A part of me knew she already had and I was still trying to figure out why.

Catherine sucked in a deep breath and said: Maybe I should explain—

I was all ears as I watched her sinuously pull the dress over her body and zip it, as if performing in a Broadway show.

She flipped her hair back haphazardly. My husband is a very wealthy man and also quite a bit older than me. We signed a prenuptial agreement before we married three years ago, giving me a generous sum in the event of a divorce. Last week, I overheard him asking his attorney if the terms of the agreement could be renegotiated, giving me less. She sighed exaggeratedly. I don’t want a divorce, but it seems as though he does.

I stared at her. And you want to make sure if it comes down to that, you’ll get every cent coming to you.

She batted her lashes. Wouldn’t you?

Only if I deserved it. I wasn’t usually this flippant and judgmental with potential clients. But I usually hadn’t just slept with them either.

Catherine hit me with a look of indignation. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I love my husband very much!

I couldn’t help but laugh in stark disbelief. Lady, if you call making love to another man that you just met loving your husband, that’s your business—not mine.

I have never been unfaithful to my husband, she insisted, until now. But the same is not true for him. She sat on the bed and began to whimper like a child who had just been told she wasn’t getting a Barbie doll for Christmas after all. I just accepted his affairs as part of the package because I loved him and wanted to make our marriage work—no matter what! She dabbed convincingly at her eyes and gazed up at me. I guess when I heard him talking to his lawyer, I felt used and humiliated; betrayed that he should think me such a fool. All I could think of was getting revenge.

So you seduced me to get back at him? I uttered, feeling a certain sense of betrayal myself.

It started out that way, she admitted, but it ended up being more than that.

I knew it didn’t make one damned bit of difference one way or another. She was a married woman and I was a single man. There was no future here. And, based on what I now knew about her, there should never have been a past. What makes you so sure your husband has been cheating on you? I asked, not sure I even cared.

He told me, Catherine surprised me by saying matter-of-factly. He said it had nothing to do with me or how he felt about me, but that he could never be faithful to just one woman.

And you accepted that? A doubtful thread stitched my brows.

What choice did I have? she whimpered. I didn’t want to lose him.

You mean his money, don’t you?

That’s not fair, she whined.

Life isn’t fair, I said sadly, suddenly in need of a drink. Somehow, I found it hard to accept that any man would need more woman than this blonde, blue-eyed beauty with an insatiable sex drive.

I pressed on for more feedback, though having serious reservations about taking on another case—this one in particular. I asked, while slipping into my leather boots: Other than the call to his lawyer, has your husband given you any other reason to believe he wants out of the marriage, short of telling you face to face?

Yes. Her nostrils flared. He hasn’t been in my bed for the last six months.

Was he out of his mind? I wondered incredulously, and conceded to the embittered would-be client: I’d say you definitely have a problem.

That could certainly explain her need for me tonight. Sexual repression had a way of making most normal people horny. Myself included. I was still left with a sour taste in my mouth. Knowing that I had been nothing more than a sex object in her eyes was a wound to my normally powerful male ego.

Catherine rose, facing me. I want to know who my husband is seeing! Once I have positive proof he is having an affair, I’ll be better equipped to try and save my marriage or—her voice broke—leave it with dignity. She turned her eyes up at me with emotion and asked tenderly: Will you take the case, D.J.?

I thought about it. While doing so, she upped the ante. I’m willing to pay you twice your normal hourly fee, plus expenses—

Wealthy clients were always willing to shell out more, usually as much an indication of their desperation as their bank statements. It was getting harder by the minute to turn her away. Though I had a problem working for Catherine Ashley Sinclair, her generous offer definitely got me to think in terms of financial reality rather than sexual frustration and resentment.

Besides, it seemed like a relatively quick and easy job that wouldn’t really take much time away from my search for Jessie Wylson. The Worm could remain free just a while longer. You’ve got yourself a private investigator, Catherine, I told her unenthusiastically. For better or worse.

She seemed to think it was for better. Before I could react, she kissed me excitedly on the mouth and said with relief in her voice: Thank you, D.J. I’ll be forever indebted to you!

I raised a brow thoughtfully. Better not make promises you may not be able to keep, lady, I warned her.

We went to the living room where she had left her purse on the couch. I watched as she removed a stack of fresh hundred dollar bills as if it was Monopoly money, and a color photograph.

This is my husband, Gregory Sinclair. The photo was a headshot. The man in it was in his early fifties with grayish thinning hair. His dark eyes were smudged underneath. An aquiline nose seemed misplaced on a jowly face.

What does Sinclair do for a living? I asked. Or is he too rich to have to work?

He owns an investment consulting firm, she said without apology. Stocks, bonds, real estate. It seems like he’s into everything to one degree or another. Our home and his office addresses are on the back of the photo.

I had the feeling Catherine didn’t really know what the hell her husband was into. It seemed, more often than not, women knew far less about their husband’s financial wheeling and dealing than they should. Especially if the woman hoped to realistically get her fair share of the pie, should it come to that.

Another thought entered my head. Catherine, has it occurred to you that your husband might be arming himself with incriminating evidence against you? The mere suggestion prompted me to go to the window and peek out. All I could see was the darkness of the night. That didn’t mean someone wasn’t out there with a high-powered zoom lens, waiting and watching.

I’ve given him no reason to suspect me of being unfaithful, she suggested with an exaggerated sense of confidence.

I turned my eyes on her, half amused. "Where the hell does he think you are right now, midnight Mass?"

Her mouth tightened. He’s out of town and won’t be back till Friday.

There is such a thing as a phone.

I never answer the phone, she said with a flip of the hand. He just leaves messages on the machine and I call him back whenever—

I should have guessed that, I intoned foolishly.

She counted out thirty, one hundred-dollar bills and placed them in my hand. Here’s an advance. I hope it’s enough for now—

I think it will suffice. I put the bills and photo on the table. How do I get in touch with you? I always made it the client’s prerogative. After all, it was usually their neck on the line when all was said and done. Discretion was a private eye’s constant companion, if not friend.

It’s better if I get in touch with you, replied Catherine with a nervous catch to her voice. Either here or at your office.

My office, I said tersely. Something told me that it was best all the way around if this was our last meeting at the place I called home.

She regarded me with what looked to be a displeased frown, and said: I think I should go now—

I’ll walk you to your car, I offered. It seemed the least I could do to end the night on a proper note.

Don’t! She said sharply as if she had just been pinched on the ass. I think it’s better if I go alone.

Who was I to argue? Anything you say, Mrs. Sinclair.

I watched her advance to the door with a walk that seemed like it had plenty of practice. She stopped on a dime, turned to look at me, and said, sounding sincere: I don’t regret what happened here tonight. Then she left.

I stood there for a moment longer, recalling our time in bed, and had to admit to myself: Neither do I. But I had a feeling I would.

FIVE

By the following morning, I had managed to chalk up the one-night stand as something to remember and forget. It was business as usual otherwise. I had cereal, toast, and coffee to start my day. Then came the stretching exercises and warm up.

Wearing a dark gray jogging suit, I left the apartment at 9:45 a.m., sprinted down three flights of steps, and was on my way. As I passed the mailboxes, I couldn’t help but wonder what Vanessa King was doing at this very moment.

Why couldn’t I have spent the night with her? I wondered wistfully, a touch of guilt lighting my soul like a torch. The very notion of being with one woman, but longing for another, seemed to increase my adrenaline tenfold.

After getting off to a slow start, I found a nice groove and jogged spiritedly to the building that housed my office. No sooner had I reached the door that read: Dean J. Drake, Private Investigations, when two beefy men seemed to come from nowhere. They surrounded me like polar bears looking for food. One had a brown flattop,