Blood Justice, page 22
“Clem?”
I jump to my feet, my heart flailing in surprise. “Huh?”
Cris starts to say something but stops and looks at me and then quickly around the room, pausing briefly on Yves’s self-portrait before landing on me again.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “Yeah.”
She gestures at the picture hanging on the wall above Yves’s bed. “That one’s gorgeous.”
It’s the painting he did of us last summer, the one where we’re both nude and he’s lying on a cloud, pulling me up from the chaos of the world below my dangling feet. Admiring it now makes my throat go dry, and the boiling air in here becomes too thick to breathe.
“It is,” I say as I leave Yves’s bedroom, sliding past my sister. “There’s nothing in here.”
Cris follows me back out into the main area but doesn’t say anything else. This whole stuffy apartment is suffocating me. I’m beginning to think this was a waste of time when I glance at the kitchen and notice something odd. A few small appliances lie on their sides as if knocked over. A butcher’s block is likewise overturned, knives spilled across the counter. I walk through and examine it all closely, but there’s no sign of a struggle or blood or anything else of note.
The door of the walk-in pantry at the back of the kitchen is open, so I peek inside but don’t find anything interesting. I turn back, and something on the floor catches my eyes. Hidden in shadow beneath the lip of the cabinet overhang are the shards of a broken vial in a small pool of a clear oily liquid.
I kneel to examine it but bolt back up when the overwhelming scent of Ho-Van hits my nose. I stagger backward from the sudden rush of blood to my head and the magically ensnaring fragrance of ripened cherries.
“What’s wrong?” asks Cris, watching me from the edge of the kitchen.
I shake off the bewitching influence of Fabiana’s signature oil. That shit should be illegal. “It’s a broken bottle of Ho-Van Oil. I think something might’ve happened in here.”
“It does look like there could’ve been a struggle. Though it must have been quick because it’s hardly noticeable.”
“Right.”
“Fabiana’s luggage is still in her closet,” she reports. “I don’t imagine she’d go on a months-long trip without it. Unless she has multiple sets.”
“What if she was abducted?”
“Hmm … That’s not impossible. But who would kidnap her? And why?”
I shrug and stifle a groan. I hate how nothing ever leads to a definitive answer but instead branches into a bunch more questions that I can’t answer either.
“I don’t think we’re gonna find anything else here,” I say. “But I have one more stop to make.”
“Where?” asks Cris.
“It’ll be quick,” I tell her. “It’s right downstairs.”
* * *
I pull open one of the tall front doors of the House of Vans, and Cris and I slip inside. I glance over my shoulder just as the door closes and catch a glimpse of the undercover cop watching. The lobby beyond is dark, the ceiling and walls painted black, and the concrete floor blends with the rest of the shadows, which are barely kept at bay by the flickering flame of a lone candle atop the deserted front desk.
The air is rife with the intoxicating scent of ripe cherries. I glance up at the maze of ductwork and piping snaking overhead, pumping out a gaseous derivative of Fabiana’s signature oil. After breathing it for only a few moments, I feel lighter on my feet and a tad giddy. I turn to Cris to see if it’s affected her too, but she only frowns.
“I don’t like this place,” she grumbles. “It’s giving me a headache. Reminds me of Bath & Body Works.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll be quick.”
The muted sound of music, which I recognize as a song by the Weeknd, comes from the other side of a set of heavy dark drapes concealing what lies beyond the arched entrance across the lobby, above which is a lighted sign that reads ECSTASY AWAITS.
I part the drapes and slip through, then hold them open for Cris to follow. Once on the other side, I stop, not realizing my mouth’s agape until Cris tells me to close it.
The House of Vans is an alternate reality.
I can see how someone might lose themself in here. I’m not sure what I was expecting, maybe a high-end spa with stripper poles and thin waterfalls cascading from an accent wall in the back, a heavily made-up front attendant handing out little cups of tea and espresso and condoms for clients. I dunno. But certainly not this. I’m sweating again, and I’m suddenly extra self-conscious.
Low red lighting paints everything in bloody swatches as if we’re underground at the chillest rave ever. Covering every external window are thick drapes, which have been bolted to the walls on either side. I guess this place never gets natural light. Prominent in the center of the main room is a soaking pool filled with all sorts of people, all mixed together in naked utopia. Curling tendrils of steam rise from the water and snake through the tight sweaty spaces between bodies. A few folks lean against the outer walls, relaxing with their arms spread and resting on the lip of the pool.
Cris glances at the time on her phone and then at me. “It’s the middle of the day, and this place is packed.”
“Must be nice,” I mutter.
The main floor is open to the second and third levels in a way that reminds me of a fancy hotel we stayed in once on a family trip. Each floor is serviced by the same piping system steadily pumping every square foot of this place with the tantalizing fragrance of Ho-Van. Endless silk ropes are attached to the three-story ceiling; some dangle over the pool, others over another expansive sunken portion of the floor filled with cushions, pillows, and patrons—those engaging in couple, group, or solo activities as well as others just soaking up the ambiance. Scantily clad people hang from several of the silk ropes and perform the most sensual and erotic acrobatic dance I’ve ever seen. It’s as bewitching as the tainted air in this place.
At the back of the room, grand staircases on either side of an elevator lead up to the second and third levels, whose corridors are open with intricate iron lattice railings. Each floor holds what must be dozens of rooms hidden behind the same dark drapes all over this place. People prance back and forth throughout and from room to room, making it hard to tell employee from patron.
To my surprise, the House of Vans appears to be operating well despite Fabiana being gone for so long, but then again, I’m not sure exactly what a normal day is like in here.
“So,” Cris says with an overwhelmed sigh, “where do we start?”
“UH-UH!” The shrill voice clips across the air behind us, making me jump.
Cris and I whirl around, and she grabs my hand, seeming just as shocked as I am that we’re the people this person’s shouting at.
Dear gods. Why can nothing be easy?
“Who let you children in here?” they ask as they storm over, pointing the tablet they hold in one hand at us.
Notwithstanding that they look as if they want to throw us out by the scruff of our necks, they carry themself with the elegance and opulence of an esteemed East Asian drag queen who takes their job and station very seriously. They’re wearing dangling gold earrings; the right one helpfully reads THEY, and the left, THEM. As “together” as they appear, they do have an air of frantic energy about them. The screen of the tablet they point at us lights up constantly with new notifications, and the two phones they hold in their other hand both begin vibrating with incoming calls, one after the other. They pause to glower at each device and silence them one by one.
They’re wearing a golden-stoned dress and matching heels that perfectly complement the shimmering gold dusted on their prominent cheekbones. I’m intrigued that their elaborate eye makeup, while over-the-top for a Tuesday afternoon, is still not dramatic enough to detract from their naturally narrow brown eyes, which are draped in luxuriously thick long lashes like the finest faux-fur coats.
“Absolutely no minors are allowed in this building,” they say in a squeaky, exasperated voice.
“We didn’t know,” I say, raising my hands. “There was no one at the front desk when we came in.”
“WHAT?” they exclaim, peering around us as if they can see through the thick velvet curtain. Then their lips prune as they shift all the devices in their hands to hammer out an angry text on their phone. “If Fabiana knew anyone could just waltz in here off the street, she’d murder me with her bare hands! I swear, I’m going to filet Tommie for this.”
A woman in skinny jeans and a black tank that reads HOV in plain block lettering walks up and interrupts the person scolding us. “We’re out of Tru Reserve, Colby. I thought you said the delivery was coming this morning?”
Colby’s shoulders slump, and they close their eyes and take a long, deep breath. “It’s late again,” they inform the woman.
“But the customers are getting pissy,” she insists.
“Then give them something else until I can get the time to visit the distribution warehouse myself.” Colby tucks the tablet in their armpit and raises their brows at the employee, who leaves, grumbling under her breath.
“We’re friends of Yves,” I tell Colby, and their expression lightens. “He sent us by to pick up something from his sister’s offi—”
One of Colby’s phones rings again, and they hold up a finger and roll their eyes at the same time they answer the call on speaker.
“I’m off today,” announces the droll voice on the other line.
“Then who’s supposed to work the front desk, Tommie?” asks Colby. “You know we can’t leave the front door unsecured.”
“Look, I told Fabiana last fall that I needed Tuesdays off starting this month, and she said she was hiring more people to cover it. I’ll be in tomorrow for my regularly scheduled shift.”
“Tommie, wait—” Colby glowers at the phone and shakes their head. “Fuck me,” they sigh, and close their eyes a moment before jerking back to attention as if suddenly remembering Cris and I are standing in front of them.
I guess things aren’t going as well at the House of Vans as it may seem on the surface. Relatable.
“Y’all wouldn’t happen to know where Fabiana is right now, would you?” Colby asks, their eyes wet with desperation.
“We were just about to ask you the same,” I tell them.
Colby shakes their head. “She left me hanging right before Thanksgiving with only some bullshit text about going out of town. I had to coordinate the entire staff holiday dinner on my own. Christmas too. I couldn’t just cancel it. That wouldn’t’ve been right—not with how everyone looks forward to it every year.”
“Do you remember specifically what the text said?” asks Cris.
“It was very vague,” they reply. “Something about some last-minute international trip. She hasn’t answered any of my calls, and whenever I text to ask when she’s coming back, she only responds with ‘soon’”—Colby makes air quotes and rolls their eyes—“but it’s been months.”
“When was the last time she responded to you?” I ask.
Colby checks their phone and replies, “The day after the mayor was murdered.”
“Can we see?” asks Cris.
Colby eyes us suspiciously and pauses for a too-long moment before handing Cris their phone.
She and I huddle together to read the text thread.
Fabiana! Where ARE you??
You need to come back ASAP.
The fucking mayor is DEAD. Nite-Lite got to Vice Hall somehow. And the police are watching us now
The lawyers are on it but they don’t kno how much longer they can hold off the cops
wtf is happening I can’t do this by myself
BE BACK SOON!
“Do you think it’s really her you’ve been talking to?” I ask after Cris hands Colby’s phone back over.
A familiar shadow, cast by guilt, slinks across Colby’s face as they turn their gaze to the floor. “I—I don’t know. I’ve certainly wondered. But I felt silly going to the police, considering…” They gesture at our surroundings. “Not to mention Fabiana is a well-known member of the unofficial ACAB club, so even if I did have the time to report her missing and deal with the cops, I doubt they’d truly give a shit. Women and girls of color, especially Black women, go missing way too often—more than a hundred thousand this year, to be exact. But no one who can do anything about it seems to care. And this is for girls who didn’t have a bone-deep vendetta against the police.”
I’ve never seen someone look both so divine and defeated at the same time.
“What’s keeping you here?” I ask. “Why not find another job?”
Colby’s pristine thin brows scrunch together. “The House of Vans saved my life. Being a Vanguard is more than a job, it’s an honor—for many of us. This place is our home. Choice is a privilege many of us didn’t have until Fabiana gave it to us. And if the House of Vans ceased to exist, the most vulnerable among us might be tempted to turn toward other institutions that prey on the powerless behind closed doors.”
“Like where?” I ask.
“Too many to name, but I’ll always start with the Temple of Innocent Blood,” Colby sneers. “More than a few of us fled that place, Fabiana included. She took us all in and made us Vanguard.” They pause and look off to one side as if contemplating whether to tell us more when something across the room grabs their attention.
The elevator doors slide open, and three uniformed employees exit, each steering a separate gurney that carries an unconscious person wrapped in a red satin bedsheet. I gasp, thinking they might be dead at first, until they draw close enough for me to hear two of the three people snoring.
“Shit,” Colby says under their breath, shaking their head and turning back to us. “Three aggros in one morning—which means three rounds of paperwork, out-counseling, and system updates. Yay me. Thank the gods for Nite-Lite though. I can’t imagine having to wrestle with these grown folks in the midst of everything else I have to wrangle around here.” Before either of us can say anything, they add, “I need to get back to work. Fab’s office is on the third floor, first door on the right after you exit the elevator. And be quick about it. I don’t need any more problems.” They start to walk away but double back and add, “Oh, and if you hear from Fabiana, please tell her I said to bring her raggedy ass back home ASAP.” They give us one last warning glare and hurry off to tug on the reins of what appears to be delicately controlled chaos.
Cris tugs me by my hand toward the elevator. She presses the button for the third floor, and after the doors close, she says, “I hate to admit this out loud, but I think you were right. Someone might’ve kidnapped Fabiana.”
I nod and pinch the bridge of my nose. “What the hell is going on around here?”
Cris sighs as the elevator dings and the doors open. “Hopefully, we’ll find out soon.”
I use Yves’s keys to unlock Fabiana’s office, and Cris and I go inside and shut the door behind us.
I’m not gonna lie, the sight of this place catches me by surprise. The decor is bold and undeniably masculine, with dark-stained bulky furniture and bookshelves, a gigantic soft leather executive chair that resembles a throne, and a leather couch across from a standing humidor stocked with cigars. Next to it are several other cases that display small personal collections of fancy wines and spirits. The space reeks of power, almost overwhelmingly so, as if possessed by the spirit of Victor Newman (whom I only know because Aunt Ursula is obsessed with him). Knowing what I do about Fabiana, there’s a story here, and I’m almost terrified to find out what it is.
Fabiana also has one of those cool clear dry-erase boards on rolling wheels, like the crews always have in those heist movies, which, admittedly, is kinda dope. But what’s even more interesting is the information written on it.
Project Nite-Lite
3 FORMULATIONS: (1) OIL (2) SPRAY (3) GAS
DEVELOPMENT PROCESS
A. FORMULATION: (1), (2), (3)
B. TESTING: (1), (2), (3)
C. REFINE & RETEST: (1), (2)
D. FINAL APPROVAL: (1)
“Cris, come take a look at this,” I call to my sister, who’s consumed with plundering the drawers of Fabiana’s desk. “Fabiana was tracking the development of something called ‘Nite-Lite.’”
“And Colby’s text mentioned Nite-Lite making it to Vice Hall,” Cris recalls, frowning as she ponders. “That must’ve been the knockout gas that put everyone to sleep right before Ben was murdered.”
“But why would Fabiana be making something like this?”
Cris’s jaw clenches as she thinks. “Remember those three people who got wheeled out on stretchers?” When I nod, she says, “Colby called them ‘aggros,’ which is another word for ‘aggressive’; something I only know from hearing Valentina talk about online gaming.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “So, let’s say someone kidnapped Fabiana from her apartment last November—that means she couldn’t have been involved in Ben’s murder. And if that’s the case, how’d the killer get ahold of Nite-Lite, especially considering the gas looks as if it was still in development?” I gesture to the notes on the dry-erase board.
“Maybe one of the Vanguard is the killer?” Cris wonders aloud. “Or maybe they’re working with the killer?”
I take a frustrated deep breath and shrug. This is giving me a headache. “I don’t know.” I stare into my sister’s eyes, and the doubt I see there staggers me. “What am I gonna do, Cris? I gotta find Yves’s sister—”
“Clem—”
“In the middle of this complete drama shitstorm that’s taken over my life, I now have to solve a kidnapping…” My mind wanders into the dark place I’ve barely been avoiding. Lately my anxiety has felt like wandering down a long, scary hallway with doors on either side, behind which lie my most carnal fears. Sometimes random doors open when I walk by them, and whatever’s inside claws me to pieces, but then I just pull myself back together and keep wandering. And in this hellish hallway inside my head, there’s one door I’ve been avoiding because I know exactly what’s on the other side of it.
