Vengeance

by Shana Figueroa

  “Probably not. It must’ve been an unintended consequence. Or maybe Norman double-crossed him, and now he can’t go to the police because he’s in too deep. Or…or I don’t know. But he’s a goddamn liar. And he probably sicced the police on you because we were getting too close to the truth.”

  “You sound paranoid.”

  “Hell yes I’m paranoid! Haven’t you been paying attention to all the insane shit that’s happened to us? Your brain can’t be that damaged.” She paced around the hotel room for a minute while Max watched her with cool eyes, though he said nothing. Val grabbed the burner phone off the nightstand. “Come on, Stacey.”

  She nearly dropped the phone when it rang in her hand.

  “Norman and Dean were high school classmates!” Val said to Stacey when she answered the phone.

  “Okay,” Stacey said. “So what?”

  “So Dean is definitely hiding something. And what the hell took you so long to call me back?”

  “You told me you needed time for your slam piece to heal.”

  Val glanced at Max and rolled her eyes. “Well?”

  “I finally got in touch with Dean. It wasn’t easy because he’s been skipping work and disappearing for days at a time. I had to call Robby’s sister to get a line on him. Josephine is worried about her dad, says he’s not handling Robby’s death well, that he’s unraveling. Jo gave me Dean’s phone number. When I talked to him, I told him that I wanted to meet to talk about setting up a scholarship for poor law students in Robby’s name. He took the bait. Though he wants to meet at Robby’s gravesite, for some reason. Today at six o’clock.”

  “Okay, we can do that. We can make it.” Val started snatching clothes off the ground and throwing them into a pile. She nodded to Max; he stood and started to clean for their imminent departure.

  “Val, you gotta be careful,” Stacey said. “Dean didn’t sound well. He might give you up to the police, or do something crazy. And your faces are still all over the news. Someone could easily spot you when you come back to the city.”

  “We’ll take precautions.”

  Stacey whispered, “And you don’t know the truth about Max. He could have killed his father. He could turn on you.”

  Val frowned. “He’s not a murderer.” She looked at Max. His eyes stayed glued to the trash he gathered into the wastebasket.

  “Did you come to that conclusion with your noodle or your taco?”

  “That’s disgusting. And if you must know, his hot dog truck has not parked itself inside my taco stand. Happy now?”

  Max snickered.

  “Fine,” Stacey said. “One more thing—Delilah Barrister called for you.”

  Delilah? Sweet, Norman’s wife was finally taking the lifeline Val offered…Unless it was a setup, though Delilah obsessed over maintaining appearances, so it seemed unlikely she’d tell the police about their one-on-one chat.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Val asked.

  “Because she wouldn’t say what she wanted. She sounded fine anyway, all chipper. I thought she was trying to sell us cookies.”

  “Did you get her number?”

  “Um, yeah…” Val heard rustling as Stacey moved papers around. “Got something to write with?”

  Stacey read off the phone number while Val used a pen to write it down on the palm of her hand.

  “Just be careful,” Stacey said. “I don’t want to lose my best friend.”

  “Thanks, Stacey. For everything. I’ll be as careful as I can be.” Val hung up, then dialed Norman’s wife. If it was a setup, the cops wouldn’t be able to track her burner phone. She’d have to be careful not to drop any hints as to where she was, though, just in case.

  “This is Delilah Barrister,” said a proper voice full of confidence and privilege.

  “It’s Val Shepherd. You wanted to talk?”

  A shuddering exhale came through the other end of the line. “I didn’t know who else to call,” Delilah said, the confidence gone from her voice. “You were right. I—I think he’s cheating on me. I can’t live like this anymore.”

  “If you think he might hurt you, you need to leave immediately. You must have friends, family—”

  “No, no, they wouldn’t understand. I’d be breaking my vows. And he won’t let me just walk away. He has friends in the police department. He’d find me. I need…I don’t know. I need you to help me. Please.”

  Val held her breath and looked at Max. He met her gaze, matching her apprehension with his own.

  “I’m wanted by the police. If I come out of hiding to help you, then I can’t clear Max Carressa of his father’s murder. Don’t tell me you have no idea if your husband was involved.”

  A sound between a sigh and a whimper answered Val. She wanted to help Delilah, but she wouldn’t risk getting caught and damning Max to a life of false imprisonment without a major payoff. The silent standoff lasted almost a minute.

  “I’m sorry, Delilah—”

  “I have e-mails,” she finally said in a frantic whisper. “That’s how I know he’s cheating on me. And he’s been corresponding with someone about money, and they mentioned Carressa. I don’t know what it all means, but I can get them for you, if that’s what it takes.”

  “That’ll work.” It was better than nothing, and if it did turn out to be something, it’d be worth the risk. In the best-case scenario, she’d help Delilah, clear Max’s name, and nail Robby’s killer. Three birds with one stone. “Will you be at that Science Center thing tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay then. When you have the opportunity, slip out of there and meet me at—”

  “Oh God, he’s coming. I have to go.” The phone went dead.

  “Delilah? Delilah!” Val dialed the number three more times—no answer. “Shit!” She dropped the phone on the table, folded her arms, and drummed her fingers on her biceps. Why couldn’t anything ever be easy?

  “Well?” Max asked.

  “We’ve got a date with Dean at the Lakeview Cemetery at six o’clock, which means we need to clean up and hit the road in twenty minutes. And Delilah says she’ll give us possible evidence of Norman’s connection to your father if we help her leave her husband, but she hung up before we could nail down a place and time other than tomorrow at the Pacific Science Center.” She threw up her arms. “We’ll figure it out later. If you gather stuff up, I’ll carry it to the car. Then we’ll wipe down all the hard surfaces to remove our prints.” She grabbed the keys off the dresser, then stopped at the door. “Did you ever learn how to hotwire a car during your rebelling-against-rich-daddy days?”

  “No. They didn’t teach you that at PI school?”

  “No. Damn. What are the chances that the friend who loaned you this car has told the police about it?”

  “Low.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because he wouldn’t talk to the police. He’s my dealer.”

  Val raised an eyebrow. “Your car dealer?”

  Max’s lips tightened and he looked off to the side.

  “You know marijuana is legal now.”

  “Sometimes I need something stronger than marijuana.”

  “Like what?”

  He cringed like he kicked himself for bringing it up. After a long pause, he said, “Heroin.”

  “You’re a heroin addict? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I’m not an addict.” Max dropped the wastebasket and crossed his arms over his chest. “I haven’t done it seriously in ten years. But sometimes I just need my brain to stop.”

  They stared each other down. What other critical pieces of his past did he keep from her? He didn’t look like an addict; she hadn’t seen any track marks on his arms or signs of withdrawal, so he was probably being truthful. Probably.

  After a tense few seconds where every bird chirp and car engine was a thousand decibels, Val sighed. “Holy shit, you’re a hot mess,” she said. “Some women are really into that. Not me, for the record, but some.”


  He unfolded his arms, and a hint of a smile touched his lips.

  She flipped up the hood of her sweatshirt and opened the front door. “Tell your dealer thanks for his car.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A light rain misted the car where Val and Max waited at the base of the rolling hillside that composed Lakeview Cemetery, five minutes late for their meeting with Dean at Robby’s gravesite. She wanted to be sure they’d arrive after Dean, in case he saw them and bolted.

  “Come on, Max, just put it on.” Val held the tube of black lipstick out for him. “When someone looks at you, all they’ll see is a beat-up, overgrown Goth kid.”

  He pushed it away. “I’d rather be raped in prison.”

  A line of cars with their headlights on filed past, then began to park around Max’s car. Mourners in black exited their vehicles and loitered for a moment, popping umbrellas open, then shuffled up the hill. Max and Val sank into their seats and lowered their heads together.

  “Do you know you’re still on Seattle’s Twenty Most Eligible Bachelors list? That baseball cap and hoodie combo is not going to cut it if someone gets a good look at you. Put on the damn lipstick.”

  “I’ll do it if you beat me at rock-paper-scissors.”

  “No. You always win.”

  “Then it’s settled.”

  Val sighed. “Okay, fine.”

  They put their fists together and shook them one, two, three times—Val had paper, Max had scissors.

  “Dammit!” she said. “You’re jerking off so you can look into the future and know what I’m going to throw, aren’t you?”

  He snickered. “Actually, you have a really obvious tell.”

  “That’s still cheating.”

  “Interesting observation, coming from the world’s biggest Go Fish cheater. I’m not wearing the lipstick.”

  Val scowled at him, then gave up and slathered the lipstick on herself to complete her Goth Girl disguise before letting it drop into the cup holder. She checked her watch, adjusted her gun in its chest holster underneath her hoodie, drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, and glanced at Max. He watched the rain streak down the windshield as he chewed his thumb, lost in thought. The patchwork of bruises on his face made his already sharp jawline even sharper. The shadow of facial hair left by the cheap hotel razor contrasted with his pale skin to give him a gaunt, heroin chic look, though he probably wouldn’t appreciate the observation.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” she asked him. “You still don’t look one hundred percent, no offense. It’s okay if you want to stay here. I won’t think of you as any less of a man.”

  “I feel fine,” he said, like she knew he would.

  “Suit yourself.” She tried to squelch her worry that he was pushing himself too hard, though they didn’t have much of a choice at this point. With every cop in the city looking for them, they wouldn’t get far if his strength failed and she had to drag him away from trouble again.

  She rechecked her watch. “Dean should be here by now. You ready?”

  He nodded. They flipped their hoods up over their faces and got out of the car.

  The last of the day’s sun cut through a wisp of clouds on the horizon as they hiked up the hill together, side by side, heads down. Despite Max’s previous assurance that he felt fine, he walked up the incline with effort and steadily slowed as they ascended. At the crest he stopped, put his hands on his knees, and leaned forward, breathing hard. Val put a tender hand on his back while she waited for him to recover. She looked around and spotted Dean, alone at Robby’s gravesite on the far side of the funeral party. He stood with his back to them, facing the gravestone, shoulders slumped in a black trench coat. Max touched her arm and straightened, recovered enough to continue. They walked around the group of mourners, all quiet as a priest recited a eulogy for the dead, and approached Robby’s father from behind.

  “Dean,” she said when they reached him.

  He turned his head toward them, but otherwise didn’t move. “I figured as much,” he said. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

  “Your son was murdered,” Val said, struggling to keep her voice low, “and you know it. You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”

  Dean turned to face them, and Val stifled a gasp. He’d lost at least fifteen pounds, his skin pulled taut over a skeletal face, dark circles under his eyes. The smell of alcohol wafted off him. His gaze cut from Val to Max and stayed there for a long while, studying the Carressa heir with an intensity that made Max squirm.

  “Yes, I know,” he said, still staring at Max. “I guess I’ve always known.”

  “Was your friendship with Barrister worth more than Robby’s life?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched into a mirthless smile that quickly fell away. “No. But it was never about friendship.”

  Val stepped closer. “Then what?”

  “Revenge.”

  She grabbed the collar of his trench coat in her fist. “I hope it was worth it, you son of a bitch,” she hissed. “You managed to kill your own son, ruin my life, and ruin Max’s life. Do you feel better, now, huh? Do you—”

  “Val.” Max gently pulled on her arm from behind. He made a subtle nod to the funeral party only thirty feet away.

  She forced herself to let Dean go, her hand still clenched in a fist. “Revenge against who? For what?”

  Unaffected by Val’s simmering rage, Dean’s eyes wandered to Max again as the crowd of mourners launched into a group prayer. “You have her eyes,” Dean said to Max. “And my nose, I think.”

  Max froze. “What?”

  “I loved her, but we were young and stupid then. I had Robby to think of, and you didn’t want for anything. Who was I to take you away from that?”

  Val’s eyes widened. “You’re talking about Lydia Carressa, aren’t you? Holy shit, you were the one having an affair with Max’s mother! Did you kill Lester over her?”

  “I didn’t kill that bastard,” Dean said, “but I let it happen. For what he did to Lydia.”

  “So Barrister killed Lester?”

  “Yes.” Dean wiped tears from his bleary eyes with the palms of his hands. “He told me he could make it happen if I made a donation to his campaign using the money Lester stole from Carressa Industries over the last couple decades. It was easy, since the offshore account was already in my name, because what’s a little embezzlement between friends?”

  So that’s how the three men were connected—Norman wanted Lester’s money that only Dean had access to, and Dean wanted Lester dead. Then another connection clicked into place.

  “The accountant at Carressa Industries—he helped you embezzle that money, didn’t he?”

  Dean answered by rubbing his face and mumbling something incoherent into his hands.

  “What’s his name?”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s probably dead by now.”

  “Goddammit, Dean—” She was close to yelling again, or punching him. Forcing herself to calm down, she concentrated on optimizing the little time they had left before Dean took off or someone recognized them. “Lydia’s been gone for twenty years. Why wait until now to get revenge?”

  He scoffed. “What was I gonna do, hire a hit man? Smother him while he slept? I’m a lawyer, I know how this shit works. The more you plan, the more likely you are to get caught. And I had Robby, Josephine, and my firm to think about.” He nodded toward Max. “And keeping an eye on you, making sure he didn’t hurt you, too.”

  “Don’t forget your cushy business deal with Carressa Industries,” she said. “Wouldn’t want to give that up, right?”

  His unsteady gaze met hers again, and his mouth twisted into a snarl. “All these years I’ve wanted to punish him, thought about how I might do it, waited for the right time. Norm finally gave me the opportunity without putting my own family at risk. But Robby”—his face fell—“God, Robby…”

  Dean put his head in his hands and sobbed. A softer person might have felt p
ity for the man who’d only wanted to avenge his lost love and ended up losing everything he had left. But Val wasn’t a sucker for tragic irony, nor was she soft.

  “Why did Robby have to die?” Val asked, her voice like a knife.

  “I don’t know!” he cried. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I know one thing at least,” Val said, “He died because of you.”

  Val folded her arms and turned away from him in disgust. This whole mess revolved around a two-decades-old revenge fantasy? It was almost too pathetic to accept. She considered laying into Dean some more, until she saw Max. He’d been silent through Dean’s confession; now she saw why. His already pale face looked completely drained of blood and he swayed half an inch from side to side, like he’d done in Lester’s study right before his freak-out. He stared at Dean with a roiling mix of emotions.

  Crap—Max was about to have another panic attack. That was their cue to leave, fast.

  She turned back to Dean one last time. “I hope Robby’s life was worth it.”

  “It wasn’t,” Dean said.

  Then he pulled a gun from the pocket of his trench coat, put it in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The gunshot cracked through the cemetery, drowning out every other sound so all Val could hear was its echo ringing in her ears. Dean’s head jerked back with the blast and his body slumped to the ground, six feet above his dead son. She watched blood leak out of the back of his head and pool in the grass, the gun still in his limp right hand.

  Did she just goad Dean into killing himself? Or had he planned to commit suicide before he’d even shown up? Maybe he’d been on the edge, and Val had pushed him over. God knows he looked like hell, was drunk and probably not thinking straight. Racked with grief as his murder-for-campaign-donations scheme had spiraled out of his control, culminating in his son’s death for reasons even he didn’t understand. Dean made a terrible mistake entering into a deal with the devil in the form of Barrister, but Robby wouldn’t have wanted this. She’d pushed Dean too hard.

  I killed him, she thought as she stared at his body, the gunshot still ringing in her ears. I killed Robby, and then I killed his father.