Dead Wrong

by H L Goodnight

  The radio belted out a tune about how it was the best time of the year. The radio stayed on holiday music in stores and offices this time of year. After the song ended the weather report detailed a large storm that would due this week.

  “So much to do. I still have Christmas shopping,” wailed a DJ named Frank. His cohost, Beca, chuckled.

  “That’s why I shop the sales in June, Frank,” Beca chided.

  Frank the DJ was right. Most people still had a lot to do to prepare for the big day. As the day of giving crept closer, you could feel the nervous excitement, even in the waiting room.

  A handful of others waited. Most focused on their phones. Were they here due to court-mandated anger management therapy? Three of them had shopping bags with them.

  People in town seemed to be carrying shopping bags at all times. Gifts made me think of the first one I'd bought Max. It hadn't been much, just a simple knit blanket because he complained how his room at the frat house was chilly.

  We hadn't been dating then. Just friends. Max had often called me Dia, sounding like Dee-ah. He'd had a slight accent when he got tired. He always said it was just one of those things from growing up in Europe as a child.

  Thinking about Max hurt. The worst part of it all was that I'd never know why. Why did he drug me? I’d loved him. I would have eagerly hopped into bed with him. He had betrayed me, but no one deserved death at the hands of that monster. Now I had a mark from something with Max's eyes. It was too much.

  I rubbed my temples and tried to think of anything else.

  Was there was a link between the men in suits in the alley and the recent home invasions? The Music Man murders. If they were the criminals responsible that solved one problem.

  I hoped the deaths stopped. So much suffering.

  How could people run around pretending that this was a season of wonder and hope? Closing my eyes, I centered myself. It was over. This is now. I never added the last part my therapist had instructed in the mantra, I am safe.

  I tried to avoid lying to myself whenever possible.

  One of the others waiting was a man in his thirties. He had a buzzcut and his large brown muscles bunched up his jacket. We didn't know each other's names, but we’d seen each other over the last few months. Sometimes he had on army fatigues.

  We didn't talk. If you carry too much pain inside, it is oftentimes hard to take on more. We were polite to each other and always said hello.

  I nodded, "Hello."

  He nodded back, "Hello, ma'am."

  I smiled at him and rested my head on the wall waiting to for my name to be called.

  He was called in and gave me another nod as he left. Each time we met, I hoped he was keeping his life on track. Rage was hard to live with.

  Grandfather Erik had once told me that anger was temporary and that it wasn't worth making a mistake on such a short-lived emotion. However, I'd made a large mistake and had to take counseling. Court ordered therapy.

  I'd wrenched the arm of a co-worker who had put his hands on my breast and waist back in my temporary employment service days. If I hadn't hurt him, the company could have him dead to rights on sexual harassment.

  Instead, he hadn’t pressed charges as long as I sought help for my anger issues. Proof that mistakes made while mad are stupid. Thinking about Marcus getting away with putting his grubby hands on another unknowing woman made me angry at myself.

  I was called in and led to the office of Ms. Vanderwault. She was a no-nonsense type of woman. Taking a seat on a cushioned love seat, I waited for her to sit back down. I signed the usual bunch of papers for her practice and the court every time I came.

  After I did that, she stared at me. Waiting for me to talk. If I didn't talk, she wouldn't sign off on the day. Silence could not help me she said. However, part of the difficulty talking to her was because she had the empathy of a tiger shark.

  "Hello, Ms. Vanderwault."

  "Dianna, I've told you it is disrespectful to call me Ms. Call me by my title."

  She was so picky about being called a coach. She said it aided in creating a bond.

  "Coach Vanderwault, hello."

  She mimicked a smile. Her eyes were brown, but they lacked the warmth usually associated with them.

  Flicking her pen, she waited.

  "I had some flashbacks," I started. "And I used the mantra we've practiced. It actually has helped a lot."

  As she wrote, she asked, "Well done. So, where were you when the first flashback happened?"

  "It was at different times, at home, once at a friend's place." I really didn’t want to talk about this. But I’d learned she was an expert lie detector. So she got half-truths. It was the best I could do.

  Her eyebrow rose, "Your café owner friend? The hipster?"

  I grit my teeth. "No. A new friend. Detective Dominick Zachar." I said it out of spite. Ha! A detective chilled with me. Stuff it!

  "Well, that is nice news." She scribbled some stuff on a notepad. "Z-A-C-H-A-R?"

  "Yes."

  "Wonderful." She wrote some things down. "Miss Grant this is what I'm talking about. Healthy relationships with responsible adults will help you as much as anything I can do." She signed some of the paperwork and then held out her card. "I'd like you to take this to Detective Zachar. Let's include him in your circle of healing."

  I stopped from screaming and said as politely as possible, "That sounds awkward." Oh hell no.

  "As a member of our city's police force, I'm sure he has seen worse than you."

  Vanderwault really had no fucking clue.

  She crossed her arms. "Give it to the detective. Let him know he can call me if you need help. This is all for your benefit."

  I flashed my business smile. "Great."

  "Until our next session, I'd like you to try and meet up with Detective Zachar at least five times. Please record the dates, and I can confirm with him later."

  I gulped. Son of a bitch.

  "This really will go a long way to helping you end these sessions," she looked at me and nodded. "Good evening, Dianna."

  "Thank you and good evening, Coach Vanderwault."

  Me and my big mouth. Crap. Now I had to see Dominick.

  Well, my next appointment wasn't for a month. I could easily just see Dominick five days in a row. Let him know my therapist demanded it. Seeing him anytime soon was too hard.

  Circle of healing my ass.

  All things considered, Vanderwault probably saw many violent offenders every day. Over the years that had probably worn away any chance at sympathy. Whatever the case, she actually tried to help and fulfill the court's request. Because no charges were filed, my now full-time employer had no clue.

  Anger management therapy always pissed me off.

  Rage got me through each day. Without anger, I couldn't function. I'd be a gibbering mess on the floor covered in snot and tears. Wrath got shit done.

  Like killing monsters. And tracking down killers. Time to figure out who those gang guys were. If I asked around the gym, surely someone knew of Dem or had seen gang members in green or suits. For now, I blasted the holiday music in the car.

  Usually, Brad would show up in the passenger seat after work, or one of the sessions. He hadn't been around as often. I wondered if he was contemplating moving on. Finally being together with Sara.

  Chapter Eleven

  After working out at the gym, I went back to the apartment and took another shower. Sitting on my bed in a warm robe, my cell phone lit up with Whisper's name and her picture, cross-eyed and tongue sticking out. She'd taken it when I'd been in the restroom. She thought it was hilarious.

  I answered the call. "Whisper, what’s up?"

  "Dianna! You would not believe it! A man was in my cafe trying to peddle drugs!"

  "What? Are you okay?"

  "Yeah. The police came out. It was so unreal. The dealer left before the police showed up. He said this was the Serpent's tuff and then he said I better not cause trouble."

&n
bsp; I frowned. I gripped the wheel to tightly and heard a crack. "Do you need me there?"

  "No. Just it surprised me so much." Her voice was fast and higher pitched than normal. “The police are patrolling the area for the next few days.”

  "Serpents. Must be the new boys you mentioned."

  "I think so," she sighed. "It was scary. I've never had a visible dealer or any gang members here before."

  "What was he dealing?"

  "It looked like glitter. Like black and goldish glitter powder. I didn't catch the name." Her speech grew less hurried.

  "So new boys slinging a new product."

  "Yes."

  "I wonder who is supplying them," I mused aloud.

  “I have no idea.” Her voice changed, becoming hollow, "The neon dancers call to you."

  I waited. I bet Whisper’s eyes were all distant.

  "Dianna," she asked in her normal voice.

  "Yeah, got it. If you need me, I'll have my phone on. Don’t hesitate, just call me."

  "Thank you. Talking about it helped. It seems silly to get so worked up over people.” She snorted. “Life is strange. See you later. Night."

  "Night." I hit end call.

  Rubbing my face, I got up and grabbed a bottle of water and slices of deli meat in the fridge. I preferred sashimi, but this would do. The deli meat tasted decent for being a couple days past the expiration date and helped my stomach calm down. Those dates were guidelines anyway.

  My hands shook with the desire to pound on the man who dared to threaten Whisper. Pushing back the urge, I focused on what I could do to find this lovely individual.

  The glittery powder I found on the now deceased mugger was probably the same new drug the dealer had tried to sell at the cafe. So what was the deal with the feather and the music box?

  Both items were peculiar, low value, and made no sense.

  Maybe the music box held a clue to lead me to the gang.

  Searching the web for similar music boxes revealed what I had suspected. It was a common item made in the nineteen-seventies to the nineteen-eighties. A similar one in better condition on a trading website sold for only thirteen dollars including tax and shipping.

  "Music boxes," Brad asked over my shoulder.

  "Yeah. Trying to figure out why someone would bother robbing what looks to be worth maybe ten dollars."

  "A gift," Brad said.

  "Could be. Know of any neon dancers," I asked.

  "Oh yeah, that fancy place on the docks. Warehouse turned club." He struck a pose, "They have dancers painted in neon on the side of it."

  "I'm headed there. Did you want to tag along?"

  He shook his head, "No. I had enough trying to track you earlier. When you left the city."

  As I got ready, I asked, "What?"

  He leaned against the wall.

  I'd gotten used to seeing his semi-transparent form do a lot of things. But I still halfway expected him to fall through the walls.

  "I tried to find you. Normally, I can sense you and just head towards you. But I ended up in this maze of hedges." His eyes grew bright, "I could touch everything! I felt the plants, and they moved when I touched them."

  "So it was a ghost-maze?" I got ready while we talked.

  He said, "No. I think it was magic. When I went towards a house you were in, everything changed. It was suddenly this complex maze."

  "Hmm. I wonder if that is what warded means," I wondered while fluffing my hair.

  "Whatever it was, I'm lucky to not be stuck in there," said Brad. He went back to the couch, and I turned the set on for him. “The Saints are playing again," he said.

  I put it on a local channel carrying the game, which had started a half hour ago. Looking at Brad lounging on the couch, I wondered if Dominick or Alec would be able to see him.

  I searched the web for the club’s name and directions. It was called The Baltic and was listed as a local bar slash club. It had positive reviews by young party goers. The images displayed a mural that fit the description of neon dancers.

  If I had to hunt a monster, I couldn't get in wearing my usual jeans and hoodie. I chose a short, low-cut black dress, tall heels, full makeup with smoky eyes and natural lipstick, and long hair curled and loose. It was great for getting into clubs, even restricted areas, but not for fighting. Someone had once told me: no jacket would get a girl into most places.

  The wealthy college student's hangout might have a lead about the black powder. Odds were it was where any new drug would be peddled. Even a person like me, someone who'd never tried drugs, knew where to score in town. Perhaps there was a problem with the Big Three.

  Chapter Twelve

  The building the club was in had once been a warehouse for boats in the nineteen sixties. It was no longer on the docks used by shipping. So it was huge and detached from the possibility of complaining neighbors. Ideal for maxing out the number of people to peddle liquor and dark dreams.

  The old bricks had been repaired and filled and had been repainted a mix of large black and white patterns. A huge mural took up the back of the club's wall. The mural depicted neon colored silhouettes of people dancing. Large factory rectangular windows held restored square glass blocks.

  The club had a typical line of those eager to enter.

  It held a reputation as difficult to get into unless you had certain assets. Money, celebrity, or a nice rack. I fell into the latter category.

  I ignored the long line and put on my wide-eyed smile to the doorman. One bouncer was talking into a cell phone, but the other looked me up and down, and nodded, opening the door. While disregarding the catcalls and slurs coming from those in line, I entered the club giving the bouncer a wave.

  Inside the club was made up of two stories. The first story was where the non-famous, non-rich played. Its décor was mostly in white and black with splashes of neon colors. The tables and chairs were metal. The bar was lit up with various neon signs of dancing silhouettes. Lights were low as with most bars and clubs.

  A DJ blasted out popular tunes with flashing lights flickering against the dancers. Judging from the crowd, the lower level was mostly college students. Maybe half were legal to drink. I didn't see any non-humans.

  I decided to check out the VIP section. Most nights local bands played upstairs, so either you had to score tickets, or find someone to get you in. A slightly drunk man with curly brown hair came down the stairs.

  He saw me headed towards those same stairs. His suit was blue and looked like velvet.

  The bouncer blocking the stairs that led to double doors looked at me with suspicion.

  I turned my pearly whites to the man in the odd suit.

  "Hello gorgeous!" said the man coming down the stairs. He quickly hurried down the last steps, with a grace that belied his inebriated state.

  I could smell the bourbon when he was only halfway down the stairs. He wasted no time in putting an arm around my waist.

  "Let me take you to the real party."

  He winked at the bouncer and led me up the stairs. He smelled like someone had pickled him in expensive liquor. He leaned on me as we went upstairs.

  "Thank you."

  He squeezed my arm, "You're not my type. Wrong gender, but I know someone who'd kill to see you." His accent was upper-class English.

  I smiled, a bit befuddled. "What?"

  The bouncer below must have signaled someone, one the closed metal double doors at the top of the stairs opened inward as we approached.

  "You are in for a treat," he whispered in my ear.

  Entering through the doors led to a completely different club. The floor tile and the walls were done in a red, white, and black abstract pattern. It must have been soundproofed because you couldn't hear the racket from downstairs when the metal doors closed.

  Cement columns had been decorated with plaster transforming them into Grecian columns. Making the interior feel extravagant and not like a warehouse at all. Fancy sconces lined the walls. There was a bar which
was wooden and looked like something from an old movie during prohibition. Typical table and chairs, but slightly upgraded in quality.

  The dance floor held people dancing to the local band playing, which had a slight twang to their songs that sounded like southern rock.

  The man led me to an empty seat at the bar. He ordered us some shots, and said to me, "Do everything." We clinked the shot glasses, and then he slammed his shot as did I. It didn't seem to have much effect on him.

  "Tell Kian he owes me one now."

  As I started to ask who was he or Kian, he waved and wandered to the dance floor.

  I turned to the bartender, who was a young girl with multiple tattoos and long dreadlocks in shades going from blue to violet. Her face held a sweetness to it, with large eyes, and small cupids bow lips.

  "What's your poison, sweetheart?" Her voice sounded like it was from the south. It was inviting.

  I smiled, "Tequila, please."

  She brought it, poured a shot, and I paid for the bottle and gave her a tip.

  Alcohol didn't work on me. I'd once downed fifteen bottles of cheap whiskey from a corner stop and rob just to see if I could get drunk anymore. All it did was make my stomach ache for a week. So, when I drank, I choose something tasty.

  I didn't see any monsters in people suits.

  I looked around, after the shot. As I turned my head to the left, a man stood close. His body was either tanned, or his natural skin tone was a tanned shade. It was hard to tell. It wasn't orange, so I was leaning towards natural coloring. He wore a dark burgundy button-down shirt and tight jeans. His red top was unbuttoned to the top of his six-pack, revealing his lean muscled chest.

  Blushing I looked up to his eyes. His dark long eyelashes framed his eyes. The dark blue-green eyes were slightly slanted, like a large cat. Dark turquoise irises, with flecks of light blue-green and gold in them, stared at me unblinking. His black hair was slightly longer than the businessman's usual cut; slightly wavy and longer than the usual look.

  His eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth revealed white teeth with sharp canines as he grinned. "So, do I meet with your approval?"