Taste of Vengeance Read online

  Taste of Vengeance

  Kristi Belcamino

  Contents

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  PROLOGUE

  1. Bitterly Cold

  2. Losing Control

  3. Cuddle Puddle

  4. Like it Rough

  5. Doppelganger

  6. Star Struck

  7. Dream Come True

  8. Fake

  9. A Regular Person

  10. Special Delivery

  11. That Girl

  12. Midnight Spin

  13. Thunder & Lightning

  14. Boom Box

  15. Health Freak

  16. Hindsight

  17. True Love Forever

  18. Boom

  19. Success

  20. Sexy as Fuck

  21. Birds of a Feather

  22. Yin & Yang

  23. Full of Crap

  24. Unstoppable

  25. Close Call

  26. Dangerous Liaisons

  27. Soiree

  28. Sydney Rye

  29. A Fatal Mistake

  30. Not a babysitter

  31. Blow out the Candles

  32. Love Nest

  33. Cherry Ice Cream Smile

  34. In the Flesh

  35. Eye-talian

  36. Clem

  37. Purple Pills

  38. Molding the Future

  39. The Shine

  40. Drugged

  41. Out of Time

  42. First Kill

  43. Welcome to Silicon Valley

  44. Dangerous Ground

  45. Release

  46. Truce

  47. Game On

  48. Over the Edge

  49. Favela

  50. Vigilante Assassin

  51. No Dogs Allowed

  52. Samba

  53. Wait and Watch

  54. Monster

  55. Brainwashed

  56. Orgy

  57. The Dog, Too

  58. Rock and Roll

  59. Pity Party

  60. Carmen Miranda

  61. Liquid Courage

  62. Delusional

  63. Going Home

  64. Coffee and Cornettos

  65. Fast Friends

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  PROLOGUE

  Rio de Janiero

  Carnival

  Every which way I turned, it seemed there was a masked figure leering at me, reaching for me, hands and eyes and mouths stretching and elongating to the throbbing beat of the samba music.

  Fingers caressed me intimately as I squeezed my frame through the mass of bodies swelling the street. I shrank from the inevitable petting, a cupped hand reaching to fondle my breast, a lingering caress. My nerves were electric, my body tense as I imagined the cool blade of a knife sliding between my rib case. As I wove through the crowd, a popping sound made me jump. It was all too easy to imagine the crack of fireworks as a volley of gunfire. I kept walking. I didn’t have time to fight off the sensual assault coming at me from all sides. I could only hope the man who hunted me wasn’t the next body I brushed against.

  The pulsating, movement of the parade gave me more refuge than the sidewalks, where someone running among the stationary spectators would attract attention. That type of exposure could be fatal. So, I ran into the thicket of bodies. I bore the stroking of strangers, slipping through the squirming mass, emerging slick with their sweat only to be embraced by the next clump of costumed humanity.

  Ahead, I could see a massive float spreading across the entire street. To get around it, I’d have to mingle with the crowd on the sidewalks. I’d have to take my chances.

  That became clearer when the parade abruptly ground to a halt for the start of a new samba school performance.

  Afraid to move my head and attract attention, I strained to see, using my peripheral vision to scan the crowd. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a tall figure I would’ve recognized anywhere. He was headed my way.

  Despite the bauta mask—a white grotesque face with a large nose, no mouth, and creepy beak-like chin—I knew it was him.

  At that moment, he looked up and our eyes met. Both of us masked but instantly recognizing one another.

  We held each other’s gaze for a second before I darted, toppling people as I went, throwing apologies over my shoulder as I created a human domino effect to stop the man trying to kill me.

  I reached the sidewalk and paused. A door lay before me, but it could be locked. To the right of the door was a passageway. But it could be a dead end.

  There was no time for indecision so I started toward the passageway. Before I could take a step, I felt cold steel on my neck.

  I’d run out of time.

  1

  Bitterly Cold

  Before …

  Ocean Beach, San Francisco

  Sydney Rye woke at dawn so she could take Blue for a run before anyone else hit the beach and could bitch about leash laws. She wasn’t sure what the rules were in San Francisco so it was best to avoid anyone else out running for now.

  Without turning on any lights in the small cottage, she did a series of stretches and a smattering of yoga.

  Blue stretched beside her, mimicking a few of the poses. He was a Great Dane-sized dog with the furry white coat of a wolf and a Collie’s nose.

  Sydney tugged a black fleece jacket on over the layers she’d already donned. Today would involve a shopping trip for warmer clothes. The bitterly cold wind pierced right through the clothes she’d brought from the tropical island headquarters of Joyful Justice. When she’d flown in late last night, she’d shivered the entire ride from the airport to the beachfront rental.

  But she was used to missions and leads that sent her around the world. Syria. India. Mexico.

  She’d lived in caves, tents, motorhomes.

  San Francisco was posh in comparison.

  Her latest mission was to find a San Francisco woman who had last been seen partying in Rio with some Silicon Valley big shots. A family attorney had contacted Joyful Justice saying that Alaia Schwartz was missing and he believed she might be the most recent in a string of missing Bay Area women. That piqued Sydney’s interest.

  When Sydney learned the names of the Silicon Valley luminaries the woman had last been with—Damien Thornwell and Richard Zimmer–she’d arranged a “chance” meeting with the men at the Cannes Film Festival.

  While there, Sydney finagled a dinner seat next to Thornwell. During small talk, he asked what she did. She made up a story about a business she thought would interest him—high-tech developments in private security forces.

  She left France with an invitation to call on him when she so coincidentally happened to be attending a meeting in San Francisco a few weeks later.

  As she ran along the San Francisco beach, Sydney received the text she’d been waiting for from Dan at headquarters.

  “The caretaker is waiting for you at the Schwartz house. I told him to expect you there this morning,” the text said.

  “Thanks,” she wrote back and thought, caretaker?

  Sydney double-checked the address before she lifted the huge Gargoyle knocker. The brass thudded dully on the wooden door. Blue looked up at her expectantly.

  The Pacific Heights neighborhood perched on the north side of San Francisco. The drive over had revealed spectacular views of the Golden Gate Bridge as the sun rose casting the iconic landmark in a pinkish orange light. The neighborhood was old money. Huge mansions crammed onto tiny lots.

  She waited for somebody to answer the door.

  Nobody came. She l
ifted the knocker again, but put it back down gently. That wasn’t going to work. The surrounding walls were enveloped by trailing branches of ivy. There had to be some type of doorbell somewhere. She lifted one branch to the right. A white intercom lay beneath.

  She pushed the button.

  “Schwartz residence.”

  “It’s Sydney Rye.”

  The door clicked open with a buzzing sound. She waited and then pushed it open with the toe of her shoe a few inches, revealing a slice of Persian carpet.

  A second later, the heavy door swung open, and a man stood there blinking. He was balding with a paunch and wore black pants, a white shirt, and a black vest.

  “I’m Cyril. Ms. Schwartz’ manservant.”

  Sydney bit back her retort and settled on a simple smile.

  The man jumped when he noticed Blue.

  “Don’t worry. He won’t bite.”

  Cyril pursed his lips in disapproval.

  “Really,” Sydney said.

  Exhaling loudly, Cyril shook his head. “When Mr. Schwartz was alive, animals were not allowed, but I suppose we could make an exception today.”

  Blue loped in beside her. He touched his nose to her thigh—a gentle tap to let her know he was there.

  After Cyril shut the door behind her, he turned and walked down the hall, speaking over his shoulder.

  “We are besides ourselves with worry. I hope you can find her.”

  We? The royal we? Or did he mean himself and the family attorney?

  As they passed open doorways, Sydney peered inside. Old money. Old everything. It didn’t seem like the home of a twenty-three-year-old heiress.

  They reached a kitchen area—obviously, Cyril’s part of the house. A small table was pushed in one corner with a Dashiell Hammett paperback splayed open.

  “I just made some tea and mini croque-monsieurs. We will take them in the sitting room.” He grabbed a tray and kept walking.

  Sydney, with Blue pressed close, followed him into an alcove containing an upholstered couch, love seat, and chair. Where they weren’t covered with massive oil paintings, the walls radiated a peaceful buttercup yellow.

  Very. Old. Money.

  Cyril settled into an armchair in the far corner, placing the tray on the coffee table.

  Sydney settled on the edge of the loveseat closest to the chair. Blue sprawled at her feet. She reached for a croque-monsieurs, took a bite, and then dropped the rest at her feet. Blue swallowed it whole. When she saw the horrified expression on Cyril’s face, she was secretly pleased.

  “Sorry, he didn’t have much breakfast. We got in late last night and I haven’t had time to buy dog food.”

  Cyril nodded and swallowed. He handed her a small white cloth napkin. Sydney realized she had dropped a crumb on the coffee table. She placed it in the napkin and leaned back in her seat. Manservant. More like uptight baby man.

  “Has Alaia lived here long?”

  Cyril paused. He blinked rapidly. “She only moved back when her father, Mr. Schwartz, passed last December.” A small tear dropped down one cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it.

  Two months.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “If you count when she returned from Europe to be with him during his final days, it would be more like November.”

  Three months.

  Alaia had not only inherited the house—she’d apparently inherited Cyril.

  “How long did you work for Mr. Schwartz?” Sydney asked and took a sip of her tea. Mint. Surprisingly good.

  Cyril sighed and shook his head, pressing his lips together. He fanned his eyes with his hands to prevent the tears. It didn’t work. “I’m sorry. It’s really hard.” His voice was thick with emotion. “I was with Mr. Schwartz for twenty years.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sydney said.

  He sniffled and nodded his thanks.

  “What can you tell me about Alaia and the last time you saw her.”

  He blew out air loudly. “Honestly? She told me to take a vacation. That she really didn’t need me. She didn’t want me to fix dinner. She didn’t want me to make tea. Frankly, I’ve felt completely and utterly useless…”

  “What will you do now?”

  “Mr. Schwartz made provisions in his will that I can remain here for as long as I live.”

  “That was generous.”

  He sat up straight and frowned. “I took care of that man for twenty years. I clipped his toenails. I even, when he was ill, tended to his business after he was done on the toilet. I don’t think it is too much to ask to not be kicked out of my home.”

  “Hold up, cowboy. I think you took that completely wrong,” Sydney said. “It’s my job to figure all this out and ask questions”

  He sat back and she pressed on.

  “Did the will stipulate that Alaia couldn’t sell the house?”

  “That’s right.” He settled back, seemingly pacified by her comment.

  If she were a detective, Sydney knew she should instantly consider Old Manservant Cyril a suspect. Kill the pesky daughter. Live alone in a mansion in Pacific Heights until he died. Jackpot. But it didn’t feel right. Cyril seemed incapable of killing a mouse. He’d be the one up on a chair screaming and cowering. But who knew? She wasn’t ready to rule him out, yet, but he didn’t feel good for it. Other theories, like something fishy with the Silicon Valley crowd, was a better bet.

  She put down her cup. She didn’t really have time for any more niceties. She stood. Blue followed suit.

  “Can you show me her room?”

  That’s why she was here, after all. She didn’t think Cyril could provide much detail in how or why Alaia disappeared. Unless he had killed her. And she’d circle back around if that started to seem likely.

  Cyril smoothed his pants legs as he stood. “There are eight guest rooms in this home. And yet, Alaia decided that she wanted to sleep in the cabana by the pool.” He clucked his disdain.

  Sydney had expected to be taken outside—hadn’t he said “pool?”—but instead Cyril led her past a wall of windows that overlooked a massive indoor pool below. The ceiling was made of an elaborate domed skylight.

  Cyril pushed the button for an elevator. Sydney balked. “It’s just one flight down. Are there stairs?”

  The elevator door slid open revealing a gold phone attached to the wall. He held his arm out for her to go first. Internally shrugging, she stepped inside with Blue at her heels.

  Inside the elevator, the lighting was dim. A small, red velvet covered bench was pressed against one wall. Cyril stood pressed against the door, as far away from Blue as he could get.

  Sydney jutted her chin at the phone. “Does it work?”

  Cyril lifted the receiver to her ear. There was a dial tone. He smiled and hung it back up.

  The elevator doors slid open to reveal the pool area. She and Blue followed Cyril along the Italian tiles surrounding the pool to a large free-standing building on the opposite side of the massive space. The cabana.

  Cyril flung open the door and then leaned over to flick a light switch. Sydney’s first impression was that it was a room full of clothes and nothing else. “I haven’t touched it since she disappeared,” Cyril said, wrinkling his nose. “Take the elevator back up to the second floor when you are finished and I will see you out.” He gave Blue a wary glance. “Does he need to use the facilities?”

  It took her a minute to figure out what the hell the man was talking about.

  “He’s fine. Thanks, Cyril,” Sydney said, tempted to punch him in the shoulder and call him “Old chap.” Manservant. How archaic could you get?

  Before she stepped inside, Sydney paused, trying to gather a first impression of the girl who had lived here for three months. The photos she’d been sent showed a young woman with dark hair and striking green eyes against olive skin. Her buxom figure was draped in flowing, bright clothing. The floor of the cabana reflected her flamboyant style. A small twin mattress was pushed up against one wall. Everything was bathed in a
n otherworldly light from the reflection of the blue pool water that seeped in through filmy white curtains.

  An open doorway revealed a small bathroom and counter lined with cosmetics and beauty products. The room smelled both exotic and sweet—a mix of tangerine and spice and vanilla.

  A tidy row of books, spines facing out, rested against the wall near the head of the mattress. Siddhartha. The Four-Hour Work Week. Boss Babe Manifesto. Taking it all in with a glance, Sydney nodded to herself.

  The report from the family attorney had said that Alaia was looking for an investor for a new business venture. She was developing a device—a mobile pod—that would be placed at public locations, such as parks and shopping center, that could scan bodies and immediately send a health report to a doctor or hospital.

  Her father’s will had stipulated that once she made her first million, she would inherit the fortune he’d left for her. But until then, the only provisions his will had made for her was house and board.

  On the bed, a three-ring notebook was open.

  At first, as she made her way over to the bed, Sydney tried not to step on the clothes, but quickly gave up. She eased herself down on the bed, imagining that this was where Alaia sat when she wrote in her notebook. Sydney nodded at Blue—who laid down at the entrance, putting his chin on his paws watching her—and began to read.