Sativa Strain

by Alexi Venice

  Since Tommy had to interview Carlisle himself, he decided to call him at the phone number listed on the intake sheet.

  A male answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “I’m looking for Jared Carlisle.”

  “This is Carlisle. Who is this?”

  “Detective Tommy Vietti, SFPD.”

  “Oh. A detective. Good. How can I help?”

  “I’d like to meet and talk about your complaint if you have time.”

  “Like, right now? As in, this morning?” Carlisle asked.

  “Yes. Right now.”

  “I can make the time. When and where?”

  “How about your place? I can be there in 30 minutes.”

  Inviting himself into a complainant’s home was always a good test of the person’s resolve for pursuing charges. Plus, the home environment would afford Tommy a chance to size up the security measures in case he wanted to visit Carlisle’s home when he wasn’t there.

  “I guess so. Let me check my calendar,” Carlisle said.

  Tommy waited during a short silence.

  Carlisle came back on. “I have to tell my assistant that I won’t be at some meetings this morning, but if you can be here in 30 minutes, that would be fine.”

  “Is the Potrero Hill address where you are now?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you soon.”

  Tommy grabbed his tweed blazer from a hanger on the back of his door. He didn’t want to wear his navy SFPD windbreaker for fear of tipping off anyone who might be watching. His brown blazer, jeans, and brown street shoes allowed him to blend as an ordinary guy.

  As he left his office area, he didn’t have a receptionist to say goodbye to, or inform where he was going, which was a downside to being away from the cubicle farm. On the other hand, he had the freedom to come and go as he pleased without being accountable to anyone. He preferred it that way.

  The chill of the morning was still in the air when he emerged from the sarcophagus housing the police department, jail, morgue, criminal courts and the employees who served as the cogs in the wheel of justice. Rather than get in his car, he decided he needed another cup of coffee. He’d consumed only half a cup before Jen had arrived and tag-teamed for Kristin.

  He crossed the street to Terantino’s Coffee Shop where his old friend, Dom Terantino, roasted beans and served the brew. Tommy grew up in North Beach with Dom and his younger sister, Nadia, who ran the Terantino Coffee Shop on Columbus Avenue in the old neighborhood.

  “Good morning, Tommy. Not enough time to shave this morning?” Dom asked from behind the counter, rubbing his own babyface as if to remind himself that he had shaved.

  “Right. Thinking of growing it out.” Tommy smiled.

  “Going undercover, huh?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can’t even grow hair on my head, much less a decent beard,” Dom said. “The usual this morning?”

  “Yeah. How are you?”

  “Can’t complain. Business is good. The family is healthy. Speaking of which, how is Cy doin’?”

  “He’s recovering,” Tommy said, “but it’s going slow. Taking a bullet at his age, well….”

  “I can only imagine,” Dom said over the noise of his barista machine. “Maria and I would like to have you and Cy over for dinner when he’s healthy enough. Do you think next week would work for you?”

  “Pops would really like that. Let’s give him another week to regain his energy level.”

  “Perfect. I’ll tell Maria.” Dom handed Tommy a cappuccino. “Here you go.”

  When Tommy offered a five-dollar bill, Dom waved him off. “Fuhgeddaboudit.”

  “Thanks Dom. Gotta run.”

  Tommy’s battered, unmarked cruiser was waiting for him in the lot behind the Hall. He fired it up, took a sip of his coffee, and noticed his phone vibrating with a message from Jen. Thanks for checking. Everything went well with Kristin this morning. She loves staying with you. And her mom is grateful :).

  That brought a smile to his face as he started the car and set off toward Potrero Hill, a neighborhood he knew well. In the 1700’s, the Spanish missionaries grazed cattle and goats on top of the sunny hill, naming it “Potrero,” which was Spanish for “pasture.” There weren’t any pastures there now, but Tommy’s favorite brewery, Anchor Steam, was half way up the hill.

  As he drove, Tommy fell into a memory of when he and Jen had toured Anchor Steam then walked up the hill to a pizza joint, watching skateboarders scream down the hill beside them at 40 miles per hour. The skater dudes had a van waiting at the bottom that took them back up to do it again.

  During the brewery tour, Tommy had been amazed at Jen’s immediate understanding of the brewing process, and her subsequent recollection of every step their tour guide had described, especially since she had just come off the night shift in the ER. They had gone to his place after eating pizza, and she had passed out on his bed, leaving him to watch sports on TV.

  Drawing himself back to the present, he realized he probably had fallen in love with Jen on that brewery tour. He still loved her, and had made a play for her twice, but had lost out to Amanda—twice. I have to accept that Jen’s heart is in Amanda’s hands.

  Out of necessity, he refocused on the investigation at hand, doubting that an accomplished lady like Kara Montiago sexually assaulted a male colleague in his thirties. In Tommy’s experience, when a crime didn’t make sense, there was usually an ulterior motive lurking behind it. As Ryan had said, the motive was probably a smear job to eliminate Montiago from the Presidential race.

  Tommy found a spot close to the address Carlisle had provided. The air was warmer on the hill, the sun more penetrating in the morning above the fog line. He buzzed Carlisle’s front gate and the latch unlocked. Two steps into the courtyard, Tommy was met by an ordinary-looking man with close-cropped dark hair and a two-day old beard that paled in comparison to the thickness of Tommy’s.

  “Detective Vietti?”

  “Yes. Are you Jared Carlisle?”

  “Yes.” They shook hands.

  “Follow me.” Carlisle led Tommy up an external staircase to the main floor of the grey stucco house.

  They entered a sunny, spacious living room overlooking the street. “Nice place.” Tommy immediately scanned the ceiling corners for security cameras. Seeing none, he made eye contact with Carlisle.

  “Thanks. I own the house and rent out the lower level.” Carlisle sat in a comfortable chair in front of the window and motioned to Tommy to sit across from him. Tommy wasn’t surprised that Carlisle rented out the lower half, considering the estimated value of the house was probably $1.5 million. Rental arrangements were common by homeowners in the Bay Area, so they could afford the mortgage payment.

  “How long do we have?” Tommy asked.

  “An hour.”

  “Let me get right to it then, so I don’t waste your time. I’m here to follow up on the details of the complaint you made yesterday at SFPD. I work in the Special Investigations Unit.” Tommy removed his bi-fold from his inner coat pocket and flipped it open for Carlisle.

  Carlisle squinted at the card and badge. “Is that the sex crimes unit?”

  “I investigate a variety of crimes that are sensitive in nature. I’m an experienced detective.” Tommy folded and replaced his wallet.

  “Sensitive, huh? So, SFPD is protecting Kara Montiago’s reputation by keeping my complaint on the downlow?”

  “Hardly. I’m here, and I’m one of the best detectives on the force. I’d like to hear firsthand what Mrs. Montiago did to you.”

  Carlisle warily considered Tommy.

  Chapter 4

  Potrero Hill

  After scrutinizing Tommy, Carlisle spoke. “I get that it sounds farfetched for me to say I was sexually assaulted by a woman roughly 20 years my senior, especially since I could physically overpower her in a heartbeat. That isn’t the point. The point is that I’m her employee. She’s the most powerful woman in the company�
��hell—in the industry. If I pissed her off, I’d be fired. That’s what was on the line for me. It still is. Working at Tyche, but also getting a job anywhere in my profession, which is creating and marketing software systems.”

  Tommy nodded his head thoughtfully. In a respectful tone, he asked, “What did she say to you?”

  “She’s said a lot of things to me, but, before the first time, she made it clear that she wanted me, and I didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was like, ‘we’re going to have sex, and you’re going to like it.’”

  “Is that what she actually said?” Tommy asked.

  “No, but that was the tone of her voice.” Carlisle groaned, a painful look on his face, as he dragged the memory back to life. He took a deep breath. “We were at a pub in Palo Alto—The Rose & Crown—for a work celebration. It was packed, so everyone was standing really close. All of a sudden, she was standing right in front of me. She leaned in close to my ear and said something like, ‘I think you’re really cute. I like being around you,’ or ‘I like being close to you.’ I can’t remember exactly.”

  “And?”

  “I couldn’t believe what I heard. I’m sure I looked surprised, because I remember her laughing at me.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She told me she wanted to leave with me, so we could have sex.”

  “Is that how she phrased it?”

  “No. If you’re going to ask me to quote her verbatim over the course of our three-month affair, I won’t be able to. Who can remember the exact words someone used several months ago?”

  “If you can remember the quid pro quo quotes, that would be helpful,” Tommy said, removing his flip notebook from his pocket.

  “I’ll try. She’s very direct—in business and in her sex life—so she probably said what she became accustomed to saying to me: ‘I really need to get laid right now. Can you help me with that?’ Or, ‘I want to have sex with you.’ Or, ‘I need to fuck you right now.’”

  “Did she say you had to or you’d be fired?”

  “Really? Do you think she’d be stupid enough to say that out loud?” Carlisle asked, exasperated.

  “I’m just trying to see where we stand on consensual sex, Mr. Carlisle.”

  “Well, it wasn’t consensual, if that’s what you’re asking! Not by a long shot. I don’t even find her attractive.”

  “Okay. What did you say after she propositioned you in the bar?”

  “I was so dumbfounded. First, women don’t come on to me. In every relationship I’ve been in, I’ve initiated it. I mean, look at me. I’m an average guy. Second, she was my boss’s boss at the time. So, I think I asked her if I heard her right.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She leaned over—close to my ear—and said, ‘Let’s get out of here, so I can fuck you.’” Carlisle stared at Tommy, his upper lip beading with sweat and his eyes challenging Tommy to doubt the veracity of his claim.

  Tommy made a note. “Then what happened?”

  “I pretended like it was a joke and laughed. I was hoping she was just tipsy and had a warped sense of humor.”

  “What did she do when you laughed?”

  “She gave me a very stern look and said, ‘I’m not joking. I only have an hour, so we need to go now.’”

  Tommy nodded. “Do you think anyone overheard this conversation? A witness?”

  Carlisle shook his head. “No way. It was so noisy in there, you had to be right up in someone’s face to hear what they were saying.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I looked around at my work colleagues, hoping someone would rescue me and shatter the moment, but everyone was caught up in their own conversations, laughing and partying. I was trapped. For me, it was do or die. My career flashed before my eyes.” Carlisle buried his face in his hands and hunched his shoulders. “I should’ve just quit on the spot. Fucking quit. Instead, I followed her out.”

  Tommy gave Carlisle a moment to collect himself, using the silence to study the nooks and crannies of Carlisle’s living and dining areas. The place was clean but not too clean. It looked lived in. Tommy didn’t see any surveillance equipment. “Continue when you’re ready, Mr. Carlisle.”

  Carlisle straightened, defensive, as if expecting Tommy to laugh at, or worse, doubt him. When Carlisle realized Tommy was doing neither, he continued. “We walked a few blocks to an apartment she keeps close by the company. We had sex. She wasn’t rough or into her dominatrix routine the first time we did it, but she was in control of the show, trust me. I was surprised I could even get a hard-on, I was so nervous and in shock, but once she started blowing me, my body reacted automatically.”

  Tommy made a note. “Do you know the address of the apartment?”

  “Oh yes. We went there several times over the next three months.” He gave Tommy the address.

  “Are you still in a sexual relationship with her?” Tommy asked.

  “No. She stopped calling me after I told her I was having sex only because she wanted me to.”

  Tommy raised his eyebrows. “And, you were in a relationship with her for three months?”

  “I’d prefer if you didn’t call it that. We were never in a relationship. She was using me as her sex toy because she has power over me. She was fucking using me.” Carlisle’s voice cracked, his face contorting in pain, the power of his statement hitting home.

  “I’m sorry.” Tommy thought Carlisle looked genuinely broken. Tommy had a thousand more questions but needed Carlisle to share them at his own pace.

  After a time, Carlisle continued, “Part of me was relieved as hell when she decided to run for President, because she wasn’t at work as much. The other part of me is scared as fuck that she’s going to win. She’s a sadist bitch from hell who’s pathologic.”

  That’s one guy’s opinion, Tommy thought, but said, “Can you tell me, in general terms, about the nature of the sex you had?”

  “In general terms, she dressed in black leather and tried out a new, fucking toy on me each time we met. I never knew what was going to happen next. There was a whip, handcuffs, a gag, you name it. I drew the line at ice cubes, though. She tried to rub those fuckers on my body when I was tied up, but I screamed at her to stop.”

  “How did she react?”

  “She panicked—legitimate fear in her eyes. She stopped the ice cubes and immediately untied me, then went into the bathroom and changed back into her work clothes. She left abruptly, which was a relief because I was too angry to look at her. I’d never been alone in that apartment, so it gave me the opportunity to video the setup with my iPhone.”

  Tommy perked up. “You have video?”

  “Yes. Two clips.”

  “Why didn’t you show them to the officer yesterday?”

  “Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea of the stakes involved here?” Carlisle asked. He looked like he was having second thoughts about telling Tommy as much as he had.

  “Of course. It’s just that video can make or break a case. I’m sure you know that.”

  “I’m not naïve, Detective Vietti. The problem is that the sex video isn’t very good. I set up my iPhone and turned it on while she was in the bathroom. She sort of startled me when she came out, so I knocked the phone off kilter. It was pointing at only the foot of the bed and the hallway. You can hear her talking though. You can also see her walk through the frame in her disgusting dominatrix outfit twice, but other than that, you can’t see what she’s doing to me. You can only see my feet.”

  “Mind if I take a look?” Tommy’s curiosity was piqued.

  Carlisle, still acting cautious as a cat, removed his iPhone from his shirt pocket and tapped the screen. When the video was ready, he handed his phone to Tommy. “It runs about four minutes.”

  Tommy hit the play button and watched. A woman dressed in a leather corset, thong, fishnet stockings and garter belt walked through the frame. He paused and played that portion again. Carlisle was right. The angle was ba
d, and it was from a distance, but the woman was undoubtedly Kara Montiago. Tommy watched the rest of the video. There was music in the background, but he could hear her. In a syrupy sweet voice, she explained that she was tying Carlisle’s wrists to the bed posts. “Jared, are you comfortable? The bands aren’t too tight, are they?”

  “No,” he replied.

  “How does this feel?”

  Tommy couldn’t see what she was doing.

  “Okay,” Jared said.

  “Just okay?”

  “If it makes you feel good then keep doing it,” he said.

  Tommy wondered if Carlisle had changed his tone from previous occasions for the benefit of the video.

  “I have something new today.” Tommy heard the rattling of ice in a glass.

  “Not ice,” Jared said.

  “How about we try it before we say, ‘no?’” she asked.

  Jared moaned in agony for thirty seconds then yelled. “I said no! Get that shit off me!”

  “All right. All right. No need to get angry. I told you before that I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

  “I don’t want to do any of it, Kara. You and I both know the only reason I’m here: You’re my boss for Christ’s sake.”

  Tommy concluded that Carlisle was definitely creating dialogue for the video. Tommy was sure that Carlisle was going to tell him that this was their last sexual encounter. Maybe Montiago sensed it too.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll untie you.” Her voice lost the syrupy ring and instead took on an angry tone. Still off-camera, she must have untied him because she passed through the frame on her way back down the hall. The camera picked up a solid shot of her barely-clad ass as she retreated to the bathroom.

  Carlisle’s feet moved then he entered the frame, nude, and walked up to the iPhone, switching it off.

  Tommy looked at Carlisle.

  “Hit the next video,” Carlisle said. “I videotaped the bed and rest of the apartment after she left.”

  Tommy hit play and watched as Carlisle silently panned the bed, pausing to focus on the satin ties on the headboard and the feather and whip resting on the bedside table. Tommy thought he saw a one-hitter pipe there, too. Carlisle walked into the bathroom where there was makeup scattered on the counter. He also toured the kitchen and living room, which weren’t interesting except for a photo of Montiago and a group of men in business attire standing in front of Tyche International. Tommy paused the video and looked up. “Who’s in the photo?”