Alive in the Rose City (A Dean Drake Mystery)

By R. Barri Flowers

From award-winning literary criminologist and bestselling crime novelist R. Barri Flowers, author of the acclaimed Dean Drake hard-boiled mystery Dead in the Rose City, comes the much-anticipated sequel, Alive in the Rose City (Dean Drake Mysteries Book 2).

Dean Jeremy Drake, a six-five, biracial private eye, nicknamed D.J., is once again up to his neck in danger, deception, and murder as he works three cases in Portland, Oregon, in the mid-1990s.

The former Police Bureau homicide detective reluctantly agrees to be the bodyguard for a gorgeous lady named Bailey Carlyle, who claims to be on the run from her abusive boyfriend. When the boyfriend turns up dead and is identified as running a high-end call girl operation, the authorities point the finger at Bailey as a leading suspect in his murder, labeling her a jealous and vindictive prostitute. As he is seemingly her alibi, Drake works to prove Bailey’s innocence or guilt, possibly to his own detriment.

He also looks into the alleged suicide of former gang member, Liam Henriquez, on behalf of his grief-stricken grandmother, who insists he would never have taken his own life. The police think otherwise, attributing the death to either depression or issues related to his old life.

Lastly, Drake searches for a missing college student, Olivia McNamara, who is presumed dead by the police after disappearing without a trace months ago. Only her mother and stepfather believe she is still alive and hire Drake to try and prove it.

Packing a .40 caliber Glock, along with sharp detective skills, raw nerve, and gut instincts, Drake follows the clues wherever they may lead with a never-quit attitude, in spite of the obstacles and peril that he faces the closer he gets to solving the cases.

For fans of Dead in the Rose City, PI Dean Drake will be equally entertaining and in character in Alive in the Rose City.

Bonus material includes a complete mystery thriller short story, “The Wrong End of a Gun,” by R. Barri Flowers, and excerpts from the author’s bestselling mystery and thriller novels, Dead in the Rose City, Dead in Kihei, Deadly Defense, Killer in the Woods, and Justice Served.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. Barri Flowers
• Release date: Jan 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463270752

R. Barri Flowers

R. Barri Flowers is the award winning, bestselling author of mystery and thriller novels, true crime books, relationship fiction, young adult mysteries, and children's books. Follow R. Barri Flowers on Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, LinkedIn, Goodreads, LibraryThing, and YouTube. Learn more about the author on Wikipedia and www.rbarriflowers.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Jasmine’s was hands down the best damned jazz supper club in the Rose City. Period. Had been that way for longer than I cared to remember. Sitting right on the Willamette River on Southwest Montgomery Street in the heart of downtown Portland, it was the place to be for both veteran jazz vocalists who skillfully managed to turn back the hands of time and newcomers just trying to find their way in the business and, if lucky, use as a stepping stone to other venues.

It was also the right spot for a six-five, half Jamaican, half Italian, and all-American private eye who had a soft spot for sweet standards and soulful blues as a mellow way to step out from the disturbing world of missing persons, adulterers, crime, criminals, murder and mayhem, among other things investigated. Dean Jeremy Drake was my given name. Some called me D.J. Or simply Drake. There were a few other choice words used to identify me for one reason or another, usually not to my benefit.

The current singer to hit the stage was named Fudge Sundae. I kid you not. Her amusing moniker notwithstanding, the lady was able to deliver with her sultry voice and had the looks to match. I acknowledged her with a grin and continued to walk around the club as though I owned the place. In fact, I did own a piece of it after finally being talked into it as a good investment by the majority owner, Gus Taylor.

Gus didn’t get around as much as he used to, having dealt with some medical issues. He was still imposing, though, at six-three and around two hundred and seventy or so pounds, and bald with a neatly trimmed mostly white beard on a dark and puffy face. He was in his usual spot behind the bar, looking for someone to serve.

I was more than happy to oblige as I headed his way. His brown eyes crinkled when he saw me.

What’s up, D.J.?

Just checking the place out, I told him, taking a stool, and looking for a cold one.

You got it. He filled two mugs with beer, sliding one at me expertly.

I tasted it and glanced at the stage. Quite a performer you’ve got there.

Yeah, she can bring it, he agreed.

Thanks to you bringing them in for what seems like forever, man, I told him.

He chuckled proudly. It has been a while.

Tell me about it. I put the foam to my mouth reflectively. We go back a long way.

Let’s keep that our little secret, he joked, lifting his mug. Wouldn’t want folks to think we’re too old.

We’re not, I made clear with a laugh, disregarding the solid gray hair closely cropped around my head, matching the once trademark sable colored thick mustache around my mouth. Still, I’ve made it this far and I’m not looking to call it quits anytime soon.

You wouldn’t, D.J. Not when there’s still cases coming your way begging to be solved.

Some things never change, I confessed. I knew that wasn’t quite true. Each case stood out on its own merits. But, collectively, they kept me on my toes. And sometimes off them.

I drank more beer and found myself thinking back to the not always good old days of the 1990s, when I was still pining for a woman named Vanessa King and trying not to bite off more than I could chew when lovely danger came calling, amid other challenging investigations that fell into my lap…

* * *

It was a cool, crisp autumn evening in Portland, Oregon, known appropriately as the City of Roses, as I sat at the bar of Jasmine’s wearing a typical off the job outfit of a brown leather jacket over a gray twill shirt, black jeans, and athletic shoes. While not exactly dressed for a night out on the town, it beat the inexpensive suits I wore mostly while on the job as a private investigator. Or, for that matter, the even less appealing official clothing once worn as a homicide detective for the Portland Police Bureau. But that was then and this was now. At forty-three, I was happy, by and large, to be away from the stress and strain of police work for the last eight years. By comparison, being a private dick was not exactly a piece of cake. But I was at least able to move at my own speed with no oversight other than my own supervision, even if not always as reliable as I’d like.

It was just after eight and I was working on my second glass of beer. There were only a few people hanging around, mostly at one table, where they were cheering on a soon-to-be retired dude who was soaking up the attention. Gus was in the back room, using the lull in the action to assess his inventory, while his thirtysomething nephew named Butch Taylor filled in as the bartender. Oversized and baldheaded like his uncle, Butch wasn’t quite as intimidating but knew his way around drinks.

I sipped the beer and thought about Vanessa King, the one who had gotten away. It had been two years since we said our goodbyes and tried not to look back. But how could I not when there had potentially been so much to look forward to had things turned out differently. As it was, I had to play the hand that had been dealt, like it or not, and wish her well. So I did while doing my best to keep a positive attitude.

No one said it would be easy.

My thoughts turned elsewhere as a thirtysomething drop-dead gorgeous African American woman with a body that wouldn’t quit materialized out of thin air right in front of me. Or so it seemed. She had a complexion dripping in honey, long and straight brown hair, bold sable eyes, and a naturally pouty mouth covered with nude lipstick. I noted what looked to be a shiner on an otherwise flawless high cheek. That hot body was draped in a black sequined lace cocktail dress over long, shapely legs and high-heeled black sandals. I got a whiff of her expensive perfume.

If she was hoping to get my attention, she succeeded before ever uttering softly: Are you Dean Drake?

Something told me she knew the answer prior to asking the question, prompting me to respond with a question of my own. Who’s asking?

My name’s Bailey Carlyle.

The name had a nice ring to it, which went well with the rest of the package. Yeah, that’s me, I admitted.

You’re a private investigator, right?

I nodded. Yep.

I was told you liked to hang out here. Thought I’d take a chance—

Guess it’s your lucky day, I told her sardonically. How can I help you? I assumed she was there for business purposes, but was open to it if she had something else in mind.

I’d like to hire you… She paused deliberately before continuing: As my bodyguard.

Though guarding her body had plenty of appeal, I had to tell Bailey regrettably: I’m afraid I don’t work as a bodyguard.

She frowned. I thought private investigators did a little bit of everything?

Everything but that, I told her. Truthfully, when times were tough and cases few and far in between, I did take on a bodyguard gig or two. But I didn’t need to go there these days as little more than a six-five watchdog rather than an investigator.

I can pay whatever your going rate is, she persisted. I just need to get through the night in one piece…

The thought of her being anything but one lovely piece was unsettling to be sure. Obviously, someone else believed otherwise. I was still resistant to getting involved in this type of work, but found myself wanting to hear more from her.

What happened to your face? I asked, gazing at the discoloration.

She touched her cheek, wincing. My boyfriend did that. He has a temper and likes to take it out on me—even though I did nothing to deserve it.

I frowned. Does any woman—or man, for that matter—ever deserve to be the victim of domestic violence?

She shrugged, seemingly embarrassed at her earlier suggestion to the contrary. I suppose not.

So why do you need protection on this night in particular, as opposed to tomorrow night or the one after that?

Bailey stared at the question, as if caught off guard, before responding unevenly: Because I’m getting out of Portland tomorrow—to some place where he can’t find me. I need to get my things from the condo we live in, but not while he’s there. He’ll be at work in the morning—

I was beginning to get the picture and it wasn’t a pretty one. She had an abusive asshole of a boyfriend and needed to avoid being harmed any further long enough to escape. I might have asked why she hadn’t gone to the police, assuming that was the case. But I knew full well that justice could be slow as a crawl, especially when it came to domestic incidents. By the time investigations began and restraining orders were issued, the victim could be dead—or wish she were.

Can I buy you a drink? I offered, sensing she needed one. And I could use a refill.

Why not? She sat on the stool beside mine, perhaps believing I was sold on her rather precarious predicament. Maybe I was. I tried not to pay attention to those shapely long legs staring me in the face.

What would you like?

She looked at my empty mug and back. Same as you.

I interrupted Butch from his flirting with another lady and ordered two beers.

All right, all right, he muttered, seemingly irritated that he was being asked to do his job. Maybe Gus needed to teach him that paying customers always came before his libido.

After the drinks arrived, I asked Bailey: How did you get mixed up with this guy anyway?

She shrugged. How does anyone get involved with anyone else? You meet, think the person’s a great guy, fall for him, discover his dark side, and find yourself boxed into a corner.

Unless you can slither your way out of it, I suggested over my beer.

Yes, something like that, she muttered, sipping the beer. So, will you help me…?

I pretended to think about it, but had already decided to step up and be her bodyguard for one night. Yeah, let’s do this. I gave her my daily rate rather than my hourly, figuring it would cover the job, while leaving off extra expenses, assuming there would be none.

Bailey grabbed her handbag and took out a wad of cash. She pushed it my way without bothering to count it. That should cover it.

Do you always carry that much money around with you? I wondered, while counting out my fee and handing her back the rest.

Not always. In this case, it seemed like a good idea in hoping I would find you, without leaving a paper trail for him to put two and two together.

Seemed as if she had thought this out in advance. I wasn’t sure whether to applaud or wonder if there was more to the story.

In the end, I decided to take things at face value and earn a night’s pay for keeping the lady safe from the big bad wolf she had as a boyfriend.

CHAPTER TWO

After we stepped outside, I asked Bailey: Where’s your car?

I walked, she responded matter-of-factly. Our place isn’t far from here.

Not knowing if the boyfriend had followed her, I scanned the surroundings warily, while feeling inside my jacket the .40 caliber Glock I rarely went anywhere without. I saw no one who appeared threatening and, judging by the calm look on Bailey’s face, assumed she felt the same.

I led her to my car, a new burgundy Ford Bronco that replaced my last one after it had conked out on me during a car chase, with the jewel thief I was pursuing able to make a clean getaway before I nabbed his ass later.

Given her concern about going home tonight, I took Bailey to my house, figuring it was the safest place I knew to keep her safe till morning. I lived on Northwest 8th Avenue in the Pearl District. Once dominated by light industry, warehouses, and railroad yards, it had undergone major urban renewal in recent times and was now home to upscale homes and businesses, first-rate art galleries and restaurants, and in the process had become one of the best places to live and hang out in Portland.

I became a part of that picture when moving into the converted warehouse to a two-level penthouse loft a year ago. The two-bedroom, two bath condo had exposed beams, brick walls, high ceilings, hardwood floors, lots of windows, and a nice view of The Pearl. I gave it extra charm with a mixture of bamboo and wicker furniture along with a few pieces of contemporary art to hang on the walls.

Nice, Bailey commented as she looked around.

I agreed but downplayed it. It’s still a work in progress.

You live here by yourself? she asked curiously.

Not tonight. I grinned, while hoping she wasn’t reading anything into that that she didn’t want to. Hungry?

Not really. Think I’ll just call it a night.

I wasn’t in the mood for food either, having eaten a few slices of pizza before heading to Jasmine’s. I showed her the spare bedroom on the second floor. It was fully furnished and occasionally used by guests. In this case, the guest was a client needing a place to lay her pretty head for the night. The room was all hers.

Thanks for putting me up, she said.

It’s all part of what you’re paying me for, I responded coolly, and gave her privacy to perhaps sort out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life once she had ditched her abusive boyfriend.

I went to the master bedroom down the hall. It was spacious with an en suite and a bed that seemed too big even for a man my size. But companionship only came my way when it was ready, so I tried not to rush it.

I had just removed my shirt when Bailey walked into the room, still fully clothed and looking like she needed some direction. That direction was directly toward me.

I don’t really feel like sleeping alone tonight… she cooed, those curly lashes fluttering wantonly.

Looking at Bailey standing there so appealing from head to toe, I couldn’t think of a good reason to turn her around. At least not one I was prepared to use. Come to think of it, neither do I…

She took that for what it was worth. So did I, as we wasted no time with the getting to know you phase beyond what we already knew. Or establishing ground rules for who slept on which side of the bed, if there was any sleep at all.

Instead, the carnal instincts between a man and woman kicked into high gear as we sucked on each other’s lips for a while and got naked. I grabbed a condom and caught up with her in bed. The fact that Bailey had already made it clear that she was no longer into the boyfriend and was, if only for the night, into me, was more than enough to finish what she had started.

If the lady was hot, the sex was even hotter. She clearly knew how to please her partner and what she expected in return. I was happy to oblige, wanting to give at least as much as I was given.

By the time it was over, we were both exhausted and sleep came easily enough, still wrapped in each other’s arms. I found myself dreaming about Bailey Carlyle, not sure what was in my head and what was the real deal as a sexual fantasy.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I was still caught between two worlds. It was now morning and I was in bed—alone. For an instant, I wondered if my imagination had run completely wild and I had never brought Bailey home, took her to bed or the other way around, and let nature run its course.

Then I looked to my right and saw her standing there. She was wearing one of my shirts and nothing more while holding a tray.

Morning, sleepyhead, she said, grinning.

Good morning, I returned, rubbing one eye.

I borrowed one of your shirts this morning. Hope you don’t mind…

I gave her the once over lasciviously. Not at all. You look a hell of a lot better in it than I ever could.

She grinned. You think?

Oh yeah. Definitely!

Thanks, she gushed, and set the tray on my lap.

What’s this? I asked, gazing at her and the tray.

I made you a waffle. I don’t cook that much, but I figured it was the least I could do to show my thanks for taking me on as a client with short notice.

I was impressed with the gesture, but said in thinking about last night: I think you’ve already thanked me in more ways than one.

Maybe, she conceded. But I’m giving you a little bit extra now. She proceeded to slice off a piece of the waffle, dipped it in syrup, and held it up to my lips. Eat—

I obeyed, sitting up. Tastes good.

Glad you like it. She rested a hand on my upper thigh. If you’re hungry for something else, I’m game…

I felt myself getting aroused at the clear invitation. Though it was more than a little tempting, in the light of day it seemed wiser to remember she was a client. Maybe once that was over and she was free, we could see where things went, if anywhere. For now, I chose to confine my appetite to the food in front of me.

I sliced off a chunk of waffle and said tactfully: I better not let this food go to waste.

If you say so. Bailey shrugged with apparent disappointment. Mind if I use your shower?

Be my guest. Which, of course, she was. There are clean towels in the cabinet in there.

She unbuttoned the shirt and let it slide to the floor, before pivoting expertly and walking away stark naked, giving me an eyeful of delight, as if to punish me for what I would be missing out on the second time around.

I acknowledged as much to myself, but felt it was just something I would have to live with, all things considered. I finished off the waffle and downed it with orange juice, before getting up to complete the bodyguard stint, perhaps to never see Bailey Carlyle again afterward.

CHAPTER THREE

We drove to a gated condominium complex on Montgomery Street called River Oasis Condos. The place lived up to its name. Not only was it a stone’s throw from Waterfront Park that ran alongside the Willamette River, but it had its own courtyard and rose garden.

I parked in an underground garage right next to a white Chevrolet Corvette Coupe that Bailey said belonged to her. I imagined it would be nice to take a spin in it sometime. Right now, the mission was to ensure the lady’s safety while she packed some things and was hopefully able to avoid a confrontation with the boyfriend before being on her way.

The moment we stepped through the French doors of the first-floor corner unit, it was clear that something was up. Or better said, many things were down. It looked like a cyclone had hit the place, as expensive furnishings and other items were upended, and it was anything but welcoming. Not even for the co-resident, who understandably looked alarmed.

As an expletive spat out of her mouth, I whipped out my Glock and took the lead. Wait here, I ordered, fearing that whoever did this, including the boyfriend, might have still been inside the condo.

Grabbing hold of the arm of my blue suitcoat, Bailey uttered: Be careful—

I sensed she truly meant it. She didn’t need to tell me twice. I’ve got this, I assured her, while knowing anything was possible at this point.

With the gun barrel leading the way, I went from room to room across the hardwood floor, looking for any further signs of trouble. I found none. At least not in the form of a threat to my safety or Bailey’s. Whoever did this was long gone, but the place had been torn apart, as if searching for something or someone.

Made me wonder what Bailey’s boyfriend was up to. And if she was a party to it.

I found her in a bedroom that had been spared, relatively speaking, from the home invasion or whatever this was. There was a bag on the king-sized bed that she was haphazardly tossing clothes in.

What the hell happened in here? I asked, tucking my gun away but keeping it close just in case.

She frowned and said hesitantly: My ex is involved with some shady characters.

I cocked a brow. How shady?

The type that doesn’t take no for an answer, which is another reason why I have to get out of here and away from him.

I think that’s a good idea, I told her. Given that a crime had been committed, the former cop in me suggested: You should report this.

She rolled her eyes as if the notion was ridiculous. I’m not the one they were after. I’d rather not get involved any more than I have to, thank you. I just want to put this behind me and see what—or who—might be in front of me.

Bailey was eyeing me as she said that. But since she was leaving Portland and I was in no hurry to at the moment, it seemed unlikely that we’d bump into each other again. Even if a part of me wished otherwise, given her circumstances, it seemed best that we go our separate ways.

I didn’t press the issue of reporting the break-in to authorities. And something told me the boyfriend wouldn’t be in a hurry to either.

Once Bailey had gathered her things, she wasted little time reminiscing as we headed to the garage. She tossed her bag and a few other items