Valentine's Revenge: Valentine's Vendetta, #2

By Laura J. Leeson

Rekindling passion with Jim is Megan's priority, but with their worst nightmare Anthony Valentine out for revenge, is an uncontrollable inferno inevitable?

 

When a teenage girl disappears in sleepy Santa Perdita, attention turns to Jim Carello, the town's newly installed Chief of Police. In the scramble to find the missing girl, suspicion falls on a local family. But with little in the way of evidence, how will Jim work out who's ultimately responsible? The bullish store owner with something to hide or his wayward son—in and out of trouble with the authorities his whole life. Or is it someone else?

 

Meanwhile, Megan's fighting her own battles. Living small-town life with a teething baby and a workaholic cop for a husband isn't her idea of utopia. Convinced Jim's keeping secrets from her, she wishes she could rewind to the excitement of her early days with him, before she loses him to his work—and his tantalizingly young, super-confident deputy.

 

But secrets aren't always what they seem to be, and Megan should be careful what she wishes for…because their worst nightmare is about to come crashing back into their lives. Anthony Valentine is out of prison. And he's also out for revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959036562

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Valentine’s Revenge

Valentine’s Vendetta, 2

LAURA R. LEESON

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Valentine’s Revenge

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

712 SE Winchell Drive, Depoe Bay OR 97341 U.S.A.

~~~

First Edition 2023

eISBN: 978-1-959036-56-2

Copyright © 2022 Laura R. Leeson All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melody Pond

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you for complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

www.champagnebooks.com

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To the Fossilers Four—you know

who you are!

Dear Reader:

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this book – I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, I’d be so very appreciative if you left a review.

I’ve loved writing about the next stage in the lives of Megan, Jim—and Anthony Valentine, and there’s still plenty to come in the final installment, so watch this space!

With my very best wishes

Laura

Chapter One

Wednesday 30th June

Anthony Valentine watched as Officer Monroe checked the time, then plucked a two-way radio from its clip on his shoulder and held a brief conversation with one of the towers. When the crackle of static obliterated the reply, a frown creased the officer’s forehead.

The bus was late. That much was obvious. They’d all been standing in the hot sun far too long, the officers watchful and increasingly tense. Meanwhile, Anthony and his fellow transferees did their best to feign a lack of interest but remained acutely aware this had the potential to be a flash point.

On whichever side of the razor-wire fence you fell, transfers between one hole and another were risky procedures, no matter how confident the screws tried to appear. Sweat gathered beneath the squared edge of Monroe’s sideburn, beading there for a few moments before it slid, gathering pace down the side of his craggy face, disappearing into the fabric of his uniformed collar.

Was the sweat purely created by the day’s heat, or was there a level of anxiety underpinning the officer’s constant communication with the tower? Monroe was right to be anxious.

Anthony couldn’t stop the twitch at the corner of his own mouth at the secret he guarded more closely than the screws guarded H-wing. The Hell Holes, as inmates termed the solitary cells.

A crackle on the radio had the officer holding another brief conversation with one of the towers. Bus is on its way, Monroe said as he clipped the handset away.

Nothing like stating the obvious. Anthony narrowed his gaze and looked beyond the wire mesh gates. After all, it would be hard to achieve a prison transfer without transport. A shimmer on the horizon caught his attention. A dust cloud swirled and grew larger as the silver cigar shape of the bus zig-zagged its way toward the penitentiary. Sun glinted from each of its windows in turn, and the bus drew to a stop, engine running as more officers carried out their checks.

Eventually the bus moved again, pausing for the series of razor-wire topped gates to slide open in sequence.

Rolling slowly into the embarkation area the bus turned, its tires flicking small rocks before the vehicle came to rest.

Okay. Everybody in. Officer Monroe gestured toward the bus as its central doors opened on the hiss of hydraulic arms.

Did Monroe maintain such a scintillating level of conversation with his wife? Anthony presumed there was a wife. The man wore a gold band on the third finger of his left hand. However, he was wound up so tight most of the time it seemed wholly possible that if a wife remained in residence chez Monroe, she wasn’t giving him any—and probably hadn’t for a while. Maybe she’d found herself a more entertaining lover, one with more amusing repartee and less body odor.

Even though the question hovered on the tip of his tongue, Anthony stopped himself from asking. However entertaining to discover how hard he could poke the dragon before it breathed fire, now was not the time to heighten the stakes—Anthony wanted Monroe on this bus.

Anthony’s chained ankles hampered his progress and cheap dark blue canvas deck shoes kicked up dust with every step he took towards the bus. Payback for this humiliation would be so sweet. Bringing manacled hands up to his face, he wiped at the side of his nose but could do nothing to alleviate the irritation from the steady trickle of sweat rolling down his back.

He allowed the other transferees access to the bus ahead of him. The guards would fill the bus from the rear first, and he didn’t want to be seated in the back.

Hurry it up, Valentine, Monroe barked. We haven’t got all day.

You’re right, you haven’t. Mrs. Monroe wouldn’t have to hide her lover for much longer. Doing my best, Officer.

The leathery texture of Monroe’s skin was obvious at such close quarters, the wrinkles set deep into the corners of his eyes. Too much time spent outside in the hot, dry Texas air had left the man with an elephant-like quality to his skin. Not much even the most powerful of moisturizers could do to combat the level of damage already inflicted. Especially in the period of existence the officer was unaware he had remaining to him.

Anthony shook the chains linking his wrists to the one around his waist. It takes a while to get anywhere carrying all this iron around, that’s all. He found it impossible to suppress a creeping smile. I’m glad you’re accompanying us today. Did I mention that?

Monroe frowned and sniffed. Yeah, well. Want to make sure you get there safely, don’t we?

Anthony snorted. He couldn’t stand any of the screws in this hellhole, but Officer Monroe had gone out of his way to make Anthony’s time at Harkinson Correctional difficult. Far more likely Monroe wanted to make sure he saw the last of Anthony once and for all.

Sliding into one of the bench seats halfway down the bus, Anthony sat motionless while another guard fiddled with the arrangement of the chains. Anthony struggled to contain a shiver of excitement as the doors whined and sucked closed, and the revving from the engine rocked the whole vehicle.

Wheels would soon be set in motion, both in a literal and a metaphorical sense. His transfer back to California was the final piece of the jigsaw to fit into place and the first element of his involvement in the plan. He’d been waiting for this day with an anticipation as sharp as the tang from a fresh squeeze of lime.

He had ample time, rotting in that soulless concrete human dumpster, to decide the revenge which would serve him best. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d lain on his bunk, thinking the simplest solution would be to put a contract on Detective Jim Carello. Just get it done, quick and clean. Pierce would do it, in a heartbeat, had told him as much many times.

But Anthony needed something more up close and personal. Riskier, no doubt. Pierce kept telling him that. And while he might be correct, ultimately Anthony wanted something far more fulfilling than a small hole in Jim Carello’s skull. Something worth all the risk.

What was the expression? Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes? That’s what Anthony wanted—to see the whites of Jim Carello’s eyes as revenge was delivered.

Outside, the world consisted of dry vegetation, the bluer-than-blue sky, tarmac dark and slithering through the escarpment like a giant snake, the hot sun beating on everything. Anthony’s focus returned to the plan and the first day of the rest of his life. This was all going to work out, he could feel it.

Chapter Two

Megan Carello flicked to the calendar on her phone, then stopped herself. She knew the date, it was Wednesday thirtieth June, not that it mattered much. Every day was the same with a teething baby. Just another day in paradise.

Pouring herself a glass of white wine, she huffed a laugh at the description. Paradise. Life in Santa Perdita wasn’t even close to what sprang into her mind in association with that word.

She shoved the wine bottle back into the fridge door with a little more force than necessary, the rest of the jars lining the translucent door shelves rattled in protest as she swung the door closed and turned on her heel.

Some wine slopped over the edge of the glass running down the curves of her knuckles. Swearing under her breath, she licked her fingers. No way was she wasting Pinot Grigio. Especially as she’d made a promise to herself that she wouldn’t have more than a single glass when she was home alone with the baby. Promised herself—or promised Jim?

There was no escaping the intense stress and frustrating dullness which went with being stuck at home at the beck and call of a teething five-month-old, and when she’d stopped breastfeeding George a month or so ago, the need to curb her drinking had dried up alongside her milk.

At least he was asleep. Thank God for small mercies. The tinny tune from the mobile circling above his crib, the sole sound from the nursery, audible through the crack in the door.

Megan supposed Jim did have a point. She did need to be able to drive, to get George to the hospital in an emergency. Having to call a neighbor for help because she was too tanked to get in the car wouldn’t look great.

Small town gossip spread fast. That much was clear. She could imagine how it would play out. Santa Perdita’s brand-new and much lauded chief of police, receiving pitying looks from the locals. He’d hidden her issue well, hadn’t he, but how had the poor guy managed to tangle himself up with an alcoholic? A woman who’d probably trapped him in the first place by falling pregnant. A woman who wouldn’t wear his ring, even though they were married.

She wondered if Barbara, the doyenne of the local diner, would take the lead in spreading the gossip. Santa Perdita’s diner might be a far cry from The Tick Tock in LA, where Megan had spent her most intimate first moments with Jim, but this town’s diner was a hotbed for the local news. Everything from realtor Cynthia John’s inability to control her randy leg-shagging dog, to the inadequacies of everybody up to and including the president himself, were fair game at the Here’s Pie in Your Eye diner.

Or perhaps it would be Nancy Krantz, long-time resident, and permanent fixture in her husband’s hardware store. Maybe she’d set the ball rolling. Discussing in muted tones how that’s what you got for living in the City of Angels for too long. A set of skewed priorities. All the while tweaking at her high collars and long-sleeved blouses. There was up tight, and there was Nancy Krantz.

The thing was, neither of those women, nor anyone in the town for that matter, had any idea what Megan and Jim had survived before their move there. Nobody knew what made her tick, or why she was making the best of this move to a town with a larger population of cacti than people. If they knew, they’d be passing her the bottle of Pinot to help her forget.

Sinking back against the cushions of the big, squashy sofa, Megan flicked channels, settling on the final rounds of a game show. She didn’t have the answers, didn’t much care what they were as she scrunched her legs underneath herself and took a sip from the glass. Closing her eyes, the irritating, upbeat voice of the game show host washed over her, as she wondered how late Jim would be. Was there any point in making dinner, or would he have grabbed something already?

It wasn’t as if she could blame him for being late. He was in the middle of a murder investigation.

A sixteen-year-old girl had been dumped on a trail, where she’d then been discovered by hikers. Thankfully they found her before the animals did. No leads as to why or who was responsible. Forensics were still at the lab. In short, a whisker more than nothing to go on.

Megan sucked in a breath. The whole point of moving from L.A. to Santa Perdita in the first place had been to give Jim a break from high-profile, difficult cases.

He’d told her the move was because he wanted to raise their family away from the city environment, but she’d always known it had more to do with the toll the Valentine Retreat case had taken on him—on them both.

An image of Jolie floated into the front of Megan’s mind. Her crazy, kleptomaniac, flawed and absolute best friend, shot in the back as she’d fled their abductors. Jim had always blamed himself for her death, and even though Megan wasn’t being fair, she sometimes let him shoulder the burden of guilt. A burden which was partly hers. She knew that too.

Above the canned applause as the credits rolled on the quiz show, the rattle of a key sounded against the door lock followed by squeaking from the hinges. Damn her baby brain. She’d meant to pick up some oil earlier in the day and had forgotten, again.

Megan? You here?

Where else would I be? She slipped from the sofa and met him in the hallway.

Hi, she said.

Dark rings on the fabric under the arms of his uniform shirt were unmistakable as he rested hands on either side of his gun belt.

Instead of unhitching the belt and putting the weapons away, he took hold of her in a fierce hug, holding her tight and hard until she slipped her hands around him, too. As she leaned into him, the scents of sweat and aftershave created an instinctive response, a familiar but recently neglected shift in her body had her hugging him tighter, breathing him in. It had been a while since they’d gotten this close.

Just as suddenly he pulled away, rubbing fingers across his eyes as he sighed.

Are you okay?

No. Not really, he said. I have to go back to work.

She didn’t ask, but it must have been written all over her face. Why?

Another girl’s gone missing.

~ * ~

Oh, my God. Who is it?

Jim couldn’t answer, watched Megan’s face run through the same emotions he’d felt when he’d heard. All he could do was shake his head as she pressed fingers to her lips, her expression full of concern.

He walked her into the kitchen, shoving his hat onto the counter.

What happened? Is it the same as…?

Megan didn’t finish her question, and he understood why. The exhaustion at the thought of another abduction robbed him of breath, what had happened to the first girl loomed large in his mind, and he wasn’t sure he had the words to explain. The call hadn’t come in until almost five, and this girl was only fifteen, her distraught mother and angry father living in one of the houses sloped into a valley over which they’d built the freeway.

He and his deputy, Lana, had already visited them. Not much of a house, but neat and clean, with crucifixes in every room and a rosary clutched in the mother’s hand. A few photos of the girl, Paola Grianti, rested on a mantle, arms around younger siblings and an open, innocent smile for the photographer. A tussle of hands as the mother had given him one of her most recent, precious images for the department to use.

Instead of speaking, Jim ran a hand over his eyes, pinching at the top of his nose. Uncinching his gun belt, he shoved it onto the counter and rested a hip against one of the stools.

Do you want to talk about it? Megan asked, edging away from his firearm. He forgot, every time, just how much she hated guns.

He shrugged. There wasn’t much to say, because they didn’t have much information. And the department was still reeling from finding the first girl’s body.

Have you eaten today, Jim?

He glanced at the clock. Almost seven and he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Not much. Been drinking coffee mostly.

I’m the one who mainlines stimulants, not you, she said, with more than a touch of pathos as she reached into a cupboard for a bag of pretzels and pushed them toward him. Can I fix you a sandwich?

That would be good, thanks. Taking a handful of pretzels, he shoved them into his mouth, one by one. The salt and the crunch took away some of the bitter dryness.

Are you sure she’s been taken? His nod had her frowning again. Are you sure she’s not just acting out? Spending some time with a secret boyfriend—or girlfriend? Maybe she’s gone to the city to get a tattoo and doesn’t want her parents to find out. Maybe there’s an innocent explanation.

Megan spread butter and mayo onto the bread, then layered slices of chicken and hard cheese. She was trying to put a positive spin on this situation.

As she squashed a lettuce leaf on top, along with the other slice of bread and sliced the sandwich into triangles, he grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. No. We’re certain it’s more serious than that.

There was a perfectly good tattoo parlor in Santa Perdita, as Megan well knew, and as much as he appreciated her efforts, where his line of work was concerned, there was hardly ever an innocent explanation. The school principal was insistent that she’s a model student, never been in trouble for anything. Never acted out. In line for top grades. No sign of a boy or girlfriend, no mixing with the wrong crowd. No substance abuse or drinking. Stable family life. Apparently, this has come completely out of left field. And after the other girl, well, we can’t afford to waste any time.

The sandwich looked great but tasted like cardboard. After a single bite he tossed it back onto the plate.

Megan’s shoulders dropped. No, I suppose not. I won’t wait up for you, then.

I’m sorry, sweetheart. He pushed the plate away, his appetite gone. You know how it is.

Yeah, she said on a sigh. I know how it is.

The photograph of Paola, her image fresh and bright and smiling as if she didn’t have a care in the world, had been replaced in Jim’s mind by the scene at the first girl’s body dump. Nicoletta Price. Had whoever taken her even been aware of her name?

Discarded like trash a week to the day after she disappeared. Her eyes rolled back, body twisted, straight brown hair fanned out from her head. Bright pink nail polish chipped at the tips of her fingers, still perfect on toes peeking from sandals. He closed his eyes for a couple of seconds, trying to rid himself of the image.

How’s my boy? he asked, focusing on the baby monitor, trying his best to fill his mind with George instead.

Flashes of green lights every now and again indicated his son was there. Safe. How did parents cope when they had to let their children out into the world and were unable to watch or monitor their kids’ every move?

Finally asleep, she said. I think another tooth must be on its way because he spent most of the day mithering about pretty much everything. He must have worn himself out.

Mithering? There were still many British words he hadn’t added to his dictionary.

Moaning, complaining. Generally being a pain in the ass, she said. I forgot to get oil for the door hinges again today and baby wipes. By the time I got to the store he was so grouchy I forgot why I went and came home again.

D’you want me to pick some up if I get a chance?

That would be great, she said. But it’s not a priority. You need to concentrate on finding this girl.

The statement wasn’t meant as pressure, even if that was how it felt. Anyway, by tomorrow, it was all anybody would be saying to him. Which was why they needed to get a head start on this thing. He nodded and moved away from the counter.

I’ll grab some clean clothes before Lana gets here, he said. What he really wanted was a shower, a beer, and some time with his family. With Megan.

Spraying himself with a liberal dose of deodorant, he put on a fresh T-shirt and uniform shirt. As he buttoned it up, he watched his actions in the mirror. God, he looked like shit. The move to Santa Perdita was supposed to make their lives simpler, make his job more to do with talking to kids in schools about doing the right thing, rather than having to deal with their dead bodies.

He opened George’s bedroom door, far enough to allow the slice of light from the hallway to widen and spread to the crib. Looking from the doorway wasn’t enough, though. The yearning to be closer was too strong to ignore. The carpeting muffled his footsteps as he approached the crib and soaked up the scene.

George’s arms and legs were spread like a starfish, his features slack in an impenetrable slumber. Enjoying the kind of sleep Jim wasn’t sure he’d ever experience again—wasn’t sure he deserved to experience if they didn’t manage to find Paola in time.

Not that his restless nights had begun with the disappearance of the first girl. No, this was an ongoing problem, one which stretched way back to L.A., to when he and Megan had first met. Back to the bungled undercover operation at The Valentine Retreat and their subsequent abduction by Anthony Valentine’s men. To Megan’s friend, Jolie, and the blame Jim still carried for her death.

A few more shuffling steps brought him to the crib, close enough to bend under the mobile and touch the warm, soft skin of George’s cheek. The baby snuffled, and shifted, but stayed soundly asleep.

Please don’t wake him. The pleading tone in Megan’s whisper was clear. Lana’s here.

It was always time to leave. Why was there never enough time with George? Why was he always being taken away, when he should be here, with them both?

Shall I plate something up for you? she asked once they were in the hallway.

Jim eased the door closed behind him. Food was the last thing he needed. Don’t worry, I’ll get something when I’m out.

She followed him back to the kitchen, watchful as he picked up his gun belt, her eyes on him as he fiddled with the pin, hitching at it until it sat comfortably. Then she held out his hat.

I love you, he said. I’ll see you later.

She arched an eyebrow, motioning to the front door, where his deputy waited.

Go find the girl.

Chapter Three

A couple of hours later Jim skirted the patrol car’s bumper, brushing the edge of the hood with his fingers as he glanced back toward the house of the Grianti’s neighbor. His gaze found Lana’s as she rounded the other side of the car.

The shake of her head spoke volumes, an almost imperceptible motion which conveyed everything she felt as she slid into the driver’s seat. She yanked at her seatbelt as he opened the passenger door and climbed in beside her.

Like bashing your head against a brick wall, Lana said, firing up the engine. What a waste of time.

Yeah. You’d have thought someone would’ve seen her on her way home. He settled his hat on his lap with exaggerated care, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. Always presuming this is the route she took every day. You know what kids are like. Even the ones who manage to stay on the rails don’t tell their parents everything. Goes with the territory. He frowned. Got to start somewhere, though.

Drawing away from the curb, they picked up speed.

Doesn’t help that she’s Mexican, she said.

Oh, come on, Lana. This close to the border, Paola’s family heritage couldn’t come as a surprise. What did surprise him was Lana’s attitude. There were plenty of cops who had issues with anyone who wasn’t like them. But Lana?

No, you come on, Jim. You worked in L.A., for Christ’s sake. You’re nowhere near that naïve. At best, you get how people turn their backs. They close ranks. It’s no different here. Just because it’s a small town, doesn’t make it all flowers round the door and folks calling on one another for cups of sugar. And it doesn’t matter what anyone says, however hard people try, no one’s truly color-blind.

He sighed. He’d watched people in L.A. cross the street rather than get too close to an elderly Vietnamese man having a heart attack. Not that his ethnicity would have made a whole heap of difference in that case. People en masse tended to not want to be involved in anything that wasn’t their business, but it didn’t detract from what Lana said, and she was right.

So, where are we with this thing? she asked.

Precisely nowhere.

Do you believe her disappearance is connected to the death?

Jesus, Lana. I don’t know. I hope to God it isn’t. But Santa Perdita hasn’t seen abductions like this in the last twenty years, and now there’s been two in ten days.

True enough. Lana paused at the intersection, then pulled out.

Tomorrow we’ll talk to the other kids from her class. Maybe there’s something we’re not aware of. Maybe Megan was right about her heading to the city for a tattoo.

Lana glanced at him, but he didn’t elaborate.

You do realize how long it’ll take to pin down Paola’s friends, she said. They’ll be scattered everywhere for summer work, and we don’t have time on our side.

He caught her gaze in the rear-view mirror and sighed. Whatever it takes, yes?

"Whatever