Vengeance

by Shana Figueroa

  Val finished her toast and realized she was hungry for more. With food in her belly and a sense of purpose came a newfound energy. The fog lifted from her mind.

  “I’d like some time alone, Stacey.”

  “Do you need help?” she asked with a hint of enthusiasm. Natasha would’ve flown into a rage if she knew Stacey meant the kind of help that might jumpstart a useful vision.

  Val declined, and Stacey shrugged. “Okay, if you’re sure,” she said like it was no big deal, though Val saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes. Their old intimate relationship was long dead, but it was hard not to idolize your first romantic experience. They’d almost rekindled it once before, and now Stacey held a candle for what could have been. It was Val’s fault. At the time, it had been the only way to save Stacey’s life without ruining it. But changing the future came with a price, and the consequences lingered.

  “I need time to think,” Val said. “Thanks for everything you’ve done for me these last couple days. I don’t think I’d be out of bed if it weren’t for you.”

  “That’s a lie. You were always the strong one. You’ll get through this.”

  They hugged, and Stacey slipped out the door.

  Val paced around the house for the rest of the day, watching TV and eating junk food, rebuilding her mental and physical energy. Finding Chet was her priority, but she had no leads on where he could be. She could try to backtrack from the clown graffiti to where Chet’s bike had been stolen, ask around for him and hope someone was willing to talk, but that was a long shot. She knew what she had to do. She wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Val propped her laptop on her bedroom nightstand and stripped off her clothes. After rummaging through a box in the back of her closet, she found her old vibrator, confirmed the batteries still worked, and grabbed a tube of lube from the bathroom medicine cabinet. She worked hard to ignore Robby’s toiletries, still propped next to the sink where he’d left them. Then she lay down on the bed and cued up a porno video on her computer, Back Door Babes 3—a little vulgar, but she wanted quick and dirty, to get it over with.

  Val hit Play on the video, lubed up her vibrator, and turned it up to max. She touched the head to herself and rubbed it against her outer folds to the moans of the movie. Robby’s caresses snuck into her thoughts, but she banished them. If she thought about Robby, she’d dissolve into a puddle of tears again, and she’d be no closer to finding his killer. No, she needed to pretend like she was someone else, one of the women in the video being rammed from behind by a hairy man with an eight-inch cock and loving every minute of it. She pushed the vibrator into herself and focused on the porn star’s squeals of pleasure. She licked her lips and thrust the vibrator in time with the movie, imagining she was the one bent over, his thighs slapping into hers, rubbing her clitoris, begging him to fuck her harder in a relentless rush to the climax. Val writhed on the bed and felt herself at orgasm’s sweet edge.

  “Where are you, Chet?” she said with ragged breath as her body climaxed and her mind snapped away—

  Chet sits at a table in a Chinese restaurant, a hole-in-the-wall with stained wallpaper and caterwauling music piped in through a scratchy sound system. He eats a dumpling with chopsticks and laughs with friends whose faces I can’t see.

  Blur.

  Chet pees in a filthy toilet in a nightclub, ripped posters and graffiti covering black-painted walls, while two men grunt in a stall next to him as they have sex.

  Blur.

  Chet sputters as the life drains out of him and into a shag carpet, pools of blood blooming from underneath his back, pawing at the bullet holes in his chest until his hands go still.

  Val gasped and her vision cleared, back in her bedroom again. Funk music played as the porno movie credits rolled. Chet might live somewhere near a Chinese restaurant—there were several dozen in the Seattle area. He might frequent a gay nightclub—also dozens in the Seattle area. She’d seen nothing of value in her vision, nothing to get her closer to finding Chet, nothing to help her bring Robby’s murderer to justice.

  “Goddammit!” Val threw her vibrator across the room. It crashed into a picture on the wall and fell to the ground amid shattered glass. A wave of hopelessness consumed her, and she burst into tears again. Why had she been given this horrible ability? It was a curse—a curse that killed a good person, a kind and decent soul, the man she loved.

  She wallowed in her pain until a harsh voice from the back of her mind scolded her for giving in to despair. Moping around the house and crying all day wasn’t getting her any closer to finding Robby’s killer. She had to pull herself together, if only for Robby’s sake.

  Val sat up in bed and took deep breaths until her tears abated and her mind focused like a keen blade on the real task at hand. She was a crack private investigator, dammit. Her visions were a convenient tool, but she didn’t need them to do her job, or to find Chet.

  Val rose and bathed, threw on jeans and a long-sleeved V-neck shirt, then slipped on her vintage brown leather jacket on her way out the door. A glimpse of herself in the mirror confirmed her eyes were still ringed with red and her cheeks hollow, but her gaze was sharp enough to demand answers when she started asking questions. Her only connection between Robby and Chet was Maxwell Carressa. If she couldn’t find Chet, then she’d go to the source himself.

  Chapter Four

  Val went to the Carressa mansion on Mercer Island first, figuring Max was most likely to be home in the early evening, but she was turned away at the gate that surrounded the property by a Mexican housekeeper over the intercom.

  “Mr. Carressa is still at work,” the woman said with a thick Spanish accent through the crackling speaker. “And he is not talking to reporters,” she added, sounding personally annoyed for him. “So if that is who you are, then don’t come back, please. Thank you.”

  Val half smiled—apparently Max had earned his staff’s loyalty. Maybe he wasn’t a stereotypical rich asshole with a penchant for murder after all.

  She made the trip to the commercial district in Seattle, where Carressa Industries occupied the top half of the Thornton Building, a modest skyscraper. At the headquarters, Val exited the elevator and sidestepped a janitor sloughing a mop across the marble floor of the lobby. She approached a young woman in a pantsuit—either a secretary or an intern—manning the front desk. The woman looked up from a business textbook and greeted Val with a superficial smile.

  She took in Val’s casual clothing with a slight sneer. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

  “I’m looking for Maxwell Carressa,” Val said.

  “He went home for the day.”

  “I was just at his house, and his housekeeper told me he was here.”

  “Well, he’s not.”

  “Where else would he be, then?”

  The woman frowned. “Are you the police?”

  “Yes,” Val said. “I’m investigating the murder of one of his lawyers, and I just need to ask him a few questions. If you know where he is, you should tell me. Obstruction of justice is a felony punishable by jail time.”

  The woman’s lips tightened for a moment, then loosened with a sigh. She grabbed a sticky note, scribbled something on it, and peeled it from the pack.

  “He’s at this address,” the woman said as she handed Val the note. “He goes there a lot after work to…blow off steam, I suppose. He owns the place, but it’s not common knowledge. He likes to be discreet. I only know because I have a friend who works there, and she helped me get this job. I don’t frequent the place or anything, really. Don’t tell anyone I sent you.”

  Val lifted an eyebrow at the woman, then glanced down at the address. Another place in downtown Seattle, a much posher area than South Washington Street—though going by the woman’s attempts to distance herself from Max’s home-away-from-home, even the highest social elite couldn’t bury all their dark secrets. Whatever he was hiding wouldn’t stay hidden from her for long.

  * * *

  Val parked on
Union Street, across the road from the address the woman at Carressa Industries had given her. She double-checked to make sure she was indeed at the right place. All that marked the existence of Max’s hideaway was a single red door inlaid in a featureless commercial building, sandwiched between a jazz bar and a handbag store. No windows or signs gave a clue as to what the place might be. Tourists and locals alike walked by it without a second glance on their way to the waterfront.

  Val approached the door, illuminated by one sole lightbulb, and knocked. A rectangular peephole slid open to reveal Asian eyes surrounded by thick eyeliner.

  “Yes?” a no-nonsense voice asked.

  “I’m here to see Maxwell Carressa.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Seattle PD. I need to talk to him about the murder of one of his lawyers two days ago.”

  The peephole snapped shut.

  “Shit,” Val muttered. She considered whether kicking the door down would be enough to get Max’s attention until about a minute later the entrance swung open. A gorgeous Asian woman in a strapless leather dress beckoned for Val to enter. Val followed her through a corridor so dark she could barely see the outline of the woman’s lithe form three feet ahead. They rounded a corner and came to another door, this one all black, a red neon sign with the phrase “Red Raven in Moonlight” scrawled in cursive above it.

  Val crossed the threshold into what seemed at first like a posh, mellow nightclub, all blacks and reds set in a dim glow to smooth electronic music. A few dozen people in expensive business suits sipped drinks and chatted with each other at black lacquer tables. Val did a double take when she realized at least half the crowd wore black bathrobes. What in the world was this place?

  “Wait here,” the Asian woman said before disappearing through one of three corridors that led away from the mingling room where Val stood. Val did as she was told for a couple minutes, trying not to stare at the weirdoes in black robes. They unabashedly stared at her, however, casting furtive glances at her comparatively cheap look, someone who clearly didn’t belong at whatever this place was supposed to be.

  She turned away from their judging eyes until she faced a corridor where darker, faster music wafted through. Out of curiosity she walked toward the music until she reached the source.

  The hallway deposited Val into a lounge area with black leather couches surrounding a small stage. A beautiful man and woman performed a sensual dance for the benefit of a modest crowd. Val’s mouth fell open when she realized the man and woman, writhing against each other in time to the music, weren’t actually dancing—they were fucking. Her eyes cut to the spectators; she now noticed at least half a dozen of them masturbating while two couples performed oral sex on each other.

  Holy shit—I’m in a high-end sex club.

  Val had never been prudish, but this level of immodesty shocked even her. It was one thing to watch people screw each other on a computer screen; quite another to be in the same room with them. She felt herself blush and tried to look anywhere but at the people engaged in overt sex acts. Her eyes rested on a man in an expensive-looking suit, lounging on a sofa as he swirled liquor around in a tumbler glass and watched the show. In the dim light he looked like a twenty-years-older and thinner version of Robby, with close-cropped blond hair and a boyish face. His eyes wandered from the performance like he was bored until he noticed Val staring at him. He smiled and tipped his glass to her.

  “Miss.” The Asian woman’s voice caught Val’s attention. She stood in the threshold of the corridor Val had come through, arms on her hips and tapping her foot like she was dealing with a misbehaving child. “I told you to wait in the other room.”

  Val shrugged her shoulders.

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Mr. Carressa will see you now.”

  She followed the Asian woman back through the mingling room, up a staircase, and into another dark corridor that ended at yet another black door. The woman opened the door and let Val enter Max’s private office.

  Val expected some kind of kinky setup with maybe a giant heart-shaped bed and chains dangling from the ceiling. Instead, bookshelves lined the entire periphery of the room, broken only by a ten-foot-tall Celtic-style tapestry depicting an ancient tree—Val guessed either the Tree of Knowledge or the Tree of Life—directly behind a huge mahogany desk piled with papers and more books. Through the cozy light that illuminated the study, she made out hundreds of tomes on advanced mathematics, interspersed with works by Shakespeare, Dickens, and many authors she’d never heard of, some in foreign languages.

  A thin blonde in a skirt so short Val could almost see her vagina leaned against the desk. She regarded Val as if the disheveled PI were a new lab specimen. On the far end of the study a man in his late twenties stood next to a bookcase, head down as he leafed through a textbook. He wore the dark gray vest and slacks of a fine three-piece suit, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. Thick, wavy black hair framed a Hollywood-quality face with a sharp jawline and rough-textured lips pressed together in concentration. Val heard the door close behind her as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. She’d seen him enough on the news that an introduction wasn’t necessary, but he gave her one anyway.

  “Hello,” he said as he snapped his book shut, then put it back on the shelf. “I’m Max.”

  “Valentine Shepherd.” The photos they used on television hadn’t done him justice. He looked even handsomer in person, she couldn’t help noticing.

  Max gestured for her to sit down at a thick leather chair across from his desk. The movement exposed dragon tattoos inked in bright aquamarine colors across each of his inner forearms. As Val took a seat, she tried not to stare. They weren’t dragons, she realized, but fractal patterns, like the intricate designs on folders she’d had as a kid.

  He sat across from her at the head of the desk. “Kitty,” he said to the blonde, “please bring Miss Shepherd a drink.” He looked at Val. “What’ll you have?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. And call me Val.”

  “Sure thing, Val.” The words rolled thick off his tongue as if he’d made a clever joke. He popped open a silver cigarette case, pulled out a joint, and held it up in front of him. Kitty sashayed over with a lighter and lit it. She went back to the periphery of the room while Max took a drag and then let out a long exhale, his hazel eyes watching the smoke drift away from him and disappear into the ceiling before snapping back to Val. His gaze pinned her down with an almost scary intelligence.

  “You are not a cop,” he said. “Impersonating a police officer is a crime.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t really give a shit,” Val said. “Somebody’s got to do their job. Might as well be me.”

  He cracked a smile and took another puff from his joint. “I’m curious why you think Robert Price’s death was murder. I heard he was hit by a drunk driver.”

  So that was why he’d let her into his inner sanctum instead of turning her away—curiosity.

  “Robby was run down in broad daylight as he was about to meet an informant. That’s not a coincidence. I was there when it happened.”

  “And what was he to you?”

  “My fiancé.”

  “You?” Max raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have figured that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Robby was a bit of a dough boy.” He took another drag. “And you’re not.”

  Val gritted her teeth at his backhanded compliment. Whatever Robby had lacked in the looks department compared to Max, he’d made up for in spades through compassion and warmth, something this pretty boy who might’ve murdered his own father probably wouldn’t know anything about. She forced herself to stay objective and focus on what she came for.

  “Robby was meeting someone named Chet, who said he had information that could exonerate you.”

  “No kidding,” Max said, and looked lost in thought for a moment.

  “Do you know anyone named Chet?” she asked.

  “Got a last name?”r />
  “No. Just Chet. Might be short for Chester. Effeminate Hispanic guy, early to mid-twenties. Probably lives somewhere around South Washington Street.”

  Max bit the tip of his thumb and squinted his eyes as if he were scrolling through a mental Rolodex. “Nope, I don’t know anyone named Chet or Chester who fits your description.” He looked at the blond woman. “Kitty, can you think of anyone?”

  “No,” she said in a voice like black velvet.

  “What about the information that Chet said he had?” Val asked, a hint of desperation creeping into her tone. “What could an anonymous person know about you that might help your case?”

  Max shrugged. “I have no idea. I would help you if I could. No one is more invested in proving my innocence than myself obviously.”

  Val deflated in her chair as the chances of finding Robby’s killer went from slim to anorexic. She could search every gay bar and Chinese restaurant within a ten-mile radius of where Robby died, but even with Stacey’s help, that could take weeks. The longer she went without any leads, the colder the case got. And that didn’t include the planning she needed to do for Robby’s funeral, boxing up his things, deciding what to give to whom—if she even had the option to choose since they weren’t married—and figuring out what to do with the house she couldn’t afford on her own.

  Val realized she’d been staring at the tree tapestry behind Max at the same time she noticed he’d been staring at her. She blushed a little while his warm hazel eyes studied her, as if he could see into her and read her thoughts like one of his books.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Max said. “Maybe it was just an accident. The world is cruel that way. Sometimes bad things happen to good people for no reason.”

  She scoffed. “Like how your dad accidentally fell off his balcony?”

  His gaze hardened but he smiled. “Yes,” he said in a tone drier than the Mojave. “Like that.”

  Val stood. “I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’ll see myself out.”