Vengeance by Shana Figueroa Page B

curtain with one strong yank. He gaped at the sudden intrusion just as she slapped him across the face. “Pervert,” she said, and snapped the curtain shut again.
    “Damn, you hit hard,” he said, rubbing his cheek and eyeing her over the shower rod. “If I had seen you in one of the Red Raven’s rooms, it wouldn’t have been on purpose. Sometimes I’ll do a general look around the club from the observation area to make sure everyone’s safe and—”
    “Yeah, whatever. Make it up to me by getting your ass out of the shower sometime today. And buy me a gyro for lunch.”
    She thought she heard him chuckle softly before the shower turned off. Val picked through his books and pretended not to notice his erection as he toweled down and got dressed.
    “All right,” he said after he’d changed into jeans and a black V-neck sweater that killed all the anger she had left. Did he always have to look so good? “I’m ready to go do something incredibly ill advised. You?”
    “Just a sec.” Val ran back into the main house and returned a minute later with her coat and handgun. She checked the magazine, slapped it into the hand grip and racked the slide back, then slid the gun into the shoulder holster under her jacket. “Okay. Let’s go talk to Norman Barrister.”

Chapter Eleven
    T he Barristers’ white Colonial-style house in Arbor Heights reminded Val of something a Civil War general’s wife might run out of to hug her husband returning from battle, but surrounded by evergreens instead of weeping willows. Val and Max drove past the house, not too slow to be suspicious, then parked a block away.
    “How do you plan to catch the conscience of the king?” Max asked, baseball cap pulled down over his face again to avoid being recognized by passersby.
    “What?”
    “Catch the conscience of the king—convince him to incriminate himself. It’s from Hamlet .”
    Val snickered. “You are such a nerd. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. A showboat like Barrister will want to talk.”
    “At what point should I charge in to save you?”
    “Give me thirty minutes, or until you hear gunshots. Then call the fire department. I think they’re less likely than the police to try to murder me.”
    Max’s lips tightened like he might try one last time to talk her out of it, but instead he said, “Be careful.”
    “Being careful doesn’t get shit done,” she said as she got out of the car, “but thanks.”
    Val walked down the sidewalk, past white picket fences with immaculately manicured lawns of green grass turning brown with the season, up to Barrister’s heavy white door with a wreath of red and gold polyester leaves propped on the front. She rang the doorbell, heard the BONG-bong on the inside. A few seconds later, a prim brunette in her early fifties answered. Val recognized her from Norman’s campaign ads as his wife, Delilah.
    “Good morning, I’m Val Shepherd. Is Colonel Barrister home?”
    Delilah smiled a big toothy grin, exposing teeth as perfect as the milky white pearls strung around her neck. “No one’s called him that in a while.”
    “I served under him while I was in the Army five years ago. Best commander I’ve ever had. I want to offer to help his campaign, testify to what a great leader he is. I’d like to say ‘hi’ and catch up first, before going to his campaign headquarters.”
    “That’s sweet of you. Come on in, I’ll take you to him. I think he’s doing yard work out back.”
    Val followed Delilah through the house, an homage to French country living that was a spiritual twin to the Carressa mansion—beautiful and soulless. As they crossed through the kitchen, Val saw flyers for the Washington State Ladies for Family Values, a conservative action group based out of Olympia, stacked on the countertop. Delilah must be an active member. It made sense, given her husband’s Republican leanings.
    Past the kitchen and out the sliding glass door, the backyard extended for a