by D. V. Berkom
She left Seattle for this?
“Leine.” Gene hustled up to her on the sidewalk, dragging a tall, not-bad-looking-if-you-went-for-that-type-of-guy behind him.
“So, you've done this kind of work before?” the tall man asked. “You don’t look like you could fend off a chihuahua, much less keep things from hitting critical fucknuts around here.”
Leine felt a muscle in her eye spasm. Gene took a step forward, putting distance between them. “Leine, meet Peter Bronkowski. He's the brains behind Serial Date.”
More like the ass, she thought, but extended her hand.
Peter ignored her and raked his fingers through his streaked, California-blond hair.
“It's insane. Cops everywhere, the girls—I mean, contestants—are scared to death. Until they catch this guy, we're gonna be sucking air. Gene told you all the bachelors are ex-cons, right?” He paused for a breath. His lava red face looked like a stroke might be imminent. “I don't have a holy motherfucking idea what's going to happen when we air this week. Our ratings are gonna tank.”
“I think I can handle it,” Leine replied. This boy needed to calm down. He'd stress out the Dalai Lama. She turned to Gene. “Can we get him a Valium or something? He seems a tad overwrought.” Best to keep things on a professional level for as long as possible. There'd be plenty of time to piss off this idiot down the road.
Gene looked at Peter. “Yeah. You're right. C'mon, Peter, we need to get you away from here and into a drink.”
“No—it's all falling apart. I can't relax now.” Peter sank onto a bench next to them and stared at the sidewalk. The skin around his eyes sagged. Leine wondered what kinds of pharmaceuticals he indulged in. In her experience, most producers had some kind of an addiction, and it was usually the white, powdery kind. She did a quick inventory: no facial scarring, no broken veins, and his teeth were in good shape although, that wouldn't be too hard to fix. Not with his money. His hands twitched, but that could be due to the high stress situation.
Something about this guy didn't sit right, but she couldn't figure the reason. Hell, she didn't like much of anybody anymore. She should probably give him the benefit of the doubt.
At least for now.
“Mr. Bronkowski.” Leine's voice came out soft but carried weight. As though against his will, Peter's complete attention shifted to her, like a rat eyeing the mast of a sinking ship. Pretty good response for someone who was close to meltdown.
“You need to relax. You're freaking out everyone around you. Let the professionals handle this. I'm sure the ratings won't be as bad as you envision. You need to rest. Wait this thing out. Once the dust settles, the police will more than likely have caught the killer and everything will go back to normal.” As far as normal could be on this freak-fest of a show.
He nodded, rubbed his eyes. A uniformed officer was heading toward them. Gene turned his back to him and motioned for Peter to get up.
“C'mon, boss, time to go.” Gene pulled him to his feet and led him toward the parking lot. The cop watched them go and then turned his attention to Leine.
“You need to move along, ma'am.”
“I'm here to see the detective in charge.” Leine dug in her purse and handed him her driver's license. The officer checked it and relayed the information into his shoulder mic.
A disembodied voice advised them to wait. He returned her license and Leine had a seat on the bench. Minutes later the same voice came back on the radio, granting them clearance.
“Follow me, please.”
Leine followed him toward the front door of the building. What was she going to tell the detective? That she was an ex-insurance investigator who'd been hired to keep an eye on things along with Gene? And how was it that Gene wasn't a suspect? His priors read like a bad novel. No murder, but plenty of check kiting and forgeries. Leine thought she remembered something about grand theft back in the eighties, too.
She shifted her handbag to her other shoulder as they neared the perimeter tape. Every so often, one of the show's employees scurried past, identifiable by a Kelly green vest with the word Serial Date stitched in vibrant yellow across the upper left front. The excitement on their faces was unmistakable. It's not every day someone is dismembered at work.
They came to a stop just inside the tape. A man in a dark blue suit broke from a small group of uniformed officers and headed their way. Must be the detective, Leine thought.
The man was tall, over six feet, with dark hair and large hands. He flicked his gaze over her as he walked toward them.
Wow. Those are some gorgeous green eyes. She felt a little trill of sexual interest run through her, but squashed it like a bug on a windshield. It had been a long time since her last fling. She could wait until someone more appropriate came around, say, a corporate raider or a mobster. Fucking a cop would be like going to confession, only without the added bonus of absolution.
She never forgave Frank for being legit. Everyone she knew had assumed he was Mafioso, including her. She didn't want or deserve an upstanding member of society. Not after what she'd done.
The detective stopped a few inches away, closer than she liked. She took a step back and hiked her handbag higher on her shoulder.
He eyed the cop standing next to Leine. “Go ahead and sweep the area for folks that don't need to be here.”
The officer nodded. “Sure thing.”
“And who have we here?” The detective's intense gaze bored into her. Leine squared off, tilted her head back and looked directly at him.
“Leine Basso. I've been hired on as additional security. Are you the detective in charge?”
His mouth twitched in apparent amusement. Leine found herself staring at his lips.
“Leine? That's an unusual name. Detective Santiago Jensen.” He held out his hand.
She shook it and replied, “It's short for Madeleine, which I despise. Yours is interesting. The height and eye color says Jensen, but the dark hair and olive skin tone screams Santiago.”
He laughed. “Yeah, the product of a Norwegian father and Mexican mother. I'm partial to Lute Fiske and tortillas.”
“Together? That's a pretty gruesome fish taco.”
He laughed again. His teeth were white and straight. She liked that in a man.
“So what do you need from me? Name, rank and serial number?”
“Nah. Bronkowski gave us your information earlier. You're about as clean as they come.”
Nice to know that Eric, the bastard, had kept his word. He'd promised to scrub her past, leave her clearances intact, hoping to make good. The rest she wasn't willing to forgive. Not now. Not ever.
Leine shrugged. “What can I say? I live right.”
A slight frown flitted across Detective Jensen's features, quickly replaced by his hundred-watt smile. Leine wondered briefly if he'd run across anything that might make him want to delve further into her past. Doubtful. Probably his cop-radar kicking in. What could she say? Years in the profession left its mark. Not everybody noticed. Just the ones who bought the ticket and took the ride.
“So, detective, how can I help the investigation?”
He smiled, his eyes half-closed in a way that had Leine rethinking her decision to skip happy-sack with the detective. She felt like a small planet being drawn into his orbit. Maybe she could be persuaded.
“Well, ma'am I can think of several—” His attention shifted, over Leine's shoulder. “I'll have to get back to you on that.” He slipped past her like a wave and was gone. Leine checked herself from drifting along behind him. She turned to see what made his demeanor change.
The shouting hit her eardrums as though breaking through the surface from underwater. At the end of the walkway on the other side of the perimeter tape, a red-faced, barrel-chested man stood toe-to-toe with one of the cops, his face raw with emotion. Rage, as far as Leine could tell, mixed with despair so deep, it made her catch her breath. Jensen intercepted the man before his imminent detonation and moved him off to one sid
e, talking to him in soothing yet authoritative tones.
Further down the walkway, a tan, slight woman with white blond hair and glowing white teeth gripped one of the show's young employees by their green vest, tears streaming down her face. The woman, probably family, most likely the mother, choked, sobbed her grief onto the kid's vest, staining it like sweat. The kid gripped her shoulders and pushed her to arm's length. The poor guy looked panicked as he scanned the area, searching for someone to help him. One of the cops standing nearby started for the two.
Calming the woman down was going to take something other than a police officer and a kid. Leine walked toward them and caught the cop's eye. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement and stepped back. The kid's eyes met hers and she gave him a slight nod. Relief flooded his face. He bowed his head and said something to the sobbing woman. Her unfocused gaze skated first to him, then to Leine, the moist confusion in her eyes a match to her mascara-streaked face.
“She was only nineteen. Nineteen! This was her first real break-” The woman looked ready to collapse.
“Is there somewhere I can take her?” Leine asked the kid. He nodded and motioned toward a secluded courtyard a few steps down to their right.
She placed her arm around the woman's shoulders and guided her toward the courtyard. The woman cried softly, her face buried in Leine's armpit, using her thin shirt as a de-facto tissue. She led her to a bench near a fragrant honeysuckle bush and gently peeled her arms from around her neck, lowering her to the seat with great care.
The woman's cries replaced now by occasional ripples of emotion, Leine dug inside her purse for a small pack of tissues and placed them beside her on the bench. The woman shook her head as fresh sobs bubbled over.
“Why? Why Mandy? She was so vibrant, so full of life. S-she was going to be an actress, you know.” The woman grabbed a tissue and blew, her head bowed as though she couldn't bear to see the world. She glanced at Leine briefly, before her eyes lost focus again.
“They told me she died sometime last night. Stan and I were home in bed when she was…” She rocked back and forth. “I can't help her. I have no way to help her. She won't know where she is. She'll wonder where her momma is…” The tears fell, attempting to wash away a mother's guilt for not being there to protect her child.
Leine looked away. The sting of tears pricked at her eyelids. What could she say? This grief had no match in Leine's world. Her daughter was still alive. Where, she had no idea, but reports from friends assured her. The last sighting was a few months back, in Amsterdam. Leine's grief grew from another vine, entirely.
Knowing your child didn't want you in her life.
Ever.
CHAPTER 5
PETER WALKED PAST the couple sitting at the front table, a plate of linguine and clam sauce between them, and headed for the back room. Several people stood at the crowded bar, singing along to Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London. The pretty, model-thin bartender kept pace with the drink orders shouted at her, a smile never leaving her face.
The further back in Bonanno's Peter got, the smaller the crowd, until he came to an open doorway flanked by two large men in pony tails wearing identical black tee shirts, cargo pants and combat boots. They checked his I.D. and parted to let him pass.
Buzz Runyon sat in the far corner, his back against the wall. The senator showed vestiges of his former athleticism, but time and power had done their best to obscure most, if not all of his youthful vigor. His double chin and expanding waistline mocked his tanned features and expensive haircut, giving him the appearance of someone who came late to the party of the L.A. fitness-obsessed. On the other hand, he kept pace quite well with many of the über powerful in regard to their unusual proclivities.
Peter knew from past experience that when the senator needed to get his freak on, nothing was sacred. This included forays to a little-known organic farm outside of L.A. that raised free-range livestock. The senator referred to his little expeditions to the farm as a 'trip to bountiful'. The memory of the senator's favorite pastime would forever be seared onto Peter's retinas. He figured the recurring nightmares were the price he had to pay for access.
“Sit down.” The senator nodded at the chair next to him. Peter took the seat across from him and ordered a shot of Grey Goose from the waitress who appeared at his side.
The senator waited until the waitress left, then leaned forward, anxiety spiraling off him in waves.
“What the hell happened, Pete? I'm in a closed meeting all damn day and I come out and my aide tells me a contestant's been murdered on the set? I thought you said you had security handled.”
“I did. I do. It happened last night, after everybody left. No one was supposed to be near the set. They found the body this morning in the prop closet after they finished filming a promo. Apparently, the rent-a-cop out front fell asleep on the job. It was his first late shift. He doesn't remember hearing or seeing anything unusual.” Peter had wondered how the guy could miss the sound of a power saw being used to dismember a body, not to mention Mandy's screams, but realized he wouldn't have heard a thing from a soundproof set.
Senator Runyon stuffed some pasta in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of red wine. Peter glanced at the huge plate of fettuccine swimming in butter and his stomach churned. Ordinarily he wouldn't give the artery-clogging meal a second thought. Not tonight.
“I can't let this bury me, Pete.”
Peter took a deep breath, steeling himself to manage the impending meltdown. “Senator, I realize this means-”
The senator cut him off. “What this means, Bronkowski, is we might have had a problem before, but this compounds the original reason I called this meeting.”
“And that would be—”
“I'm a shoo-in for the L.A. County Make a Difference Award, but that slime ball Lopez is getting press for the shit he did for all those inner city kids last year, so I'm running a distant second for the Los ANGELenos Award. Being connected to the show's gonna sink me, unless you can find some way to spin it.”
Peter leaned back. As usual, it was all about the senator. The Los ANGELenos Award was on par with the Congressional Medal of Honor as far as a southern California politician was concerned. The last three Governors and several senators and representatives had won the award, and it was rumored to be the magic bullet when it came to winning over the hearts and minds of multiple constituencies.
Runyon jabbed at the pasta in front of him. “Losing is not an option. Word is, that cocksucker Lopez is gunning for my seat and if he gets the award, it raises his profile to an unacceptable level.” He wiped the grease off his lips and took another sip of wine. “I was gonna have you ramp up a media blitz on the ex-con rehab project. Obviously, that's no longer an option.”
The waitress returned with Peter's drink. He drained the glass before she could leave and ordered another.
“So, who was it? Tina?” The senator dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, looking at him expectantly.
“No, it wasn't Tina.” Peter couldn't decide whether to inform the senator and risk meltdown status and possibly another trip to the farm, or wait and let the media do it. A trickle of sweat slid down the back of his neck. If he waited and didn't get into the particulars, he risked alienating his most powerful ally. On the other hand, the police seemed confident they'd crack the identity of the killer in no time and Peter didn't want to alarm the senator unnecessarily. He opted for a combination of the two.
Peter pivoted toward Runyon, keeping his voice down. The senator leaned forward, his garlic-and-cigar breath enough to make Peter gag.
“There's more to it than what the media reported.”
The senator's expression shifted to one of anxiety. Peter rushed to put him at ease.
“The LAPD's confident they'll be able to make an arrest, so there's no reason to be alarmed.” Not exactly what they said, but if it avoided a breakdown, it was worth the small white lie.
“What happened?” It was
the senator's turn to sweat.
“Nothing to be worried about. If it gets to the point where things don't develop as planned, then you'll be the first to know, I promise. Right now, the less you know the better.”
The senator's face flushed deep red. Uh-oh, Peter thought. He's going to lose it.
“I'll be the judge of that, Pete. What the fuck is going on?”
Peter sighed. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
“The killer dismembered the victim.”
“Dismembered? As in, cut off body parts?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Amanda Milton.”
Senator Runyon collapsed back in his chair with a stunned expression. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a linen napkin. The color in his face had faded to a pasty shade of gray. Alarmed, Peter wondered if he should call 9-1-1.
“This isn't good, Pete. This is very bad, in fact. You said Amanda Milton?”
“Do you know her?”
“Know her? Christ, I've been banging her every Tuesday, for God's sake.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. “Fuck me. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm dead.”
Peter couldn't believe it. Amanda and the senator? Thinking about the two of them together made him want to vomit. Mandy with her young, nubile body and perky tits, and the flaccid old senator, who had a hard time getting it up without a farm animal nearby. This definitely complicated things.
“How long?” Peter asked, his morbid fascination growing.
“A couple of months, tops.” The senator's gaze locked on his as though he alone could hold back the tide. “You have to make this someone else's problem, Pete. If this gets out, I'm finished. There's not a media consultant alive who can spin me out of this one.”
Yeah, Peter thought. That, and the Hereford incident and I could totally bring you down, motherfucker. He kept his expression impassive.
The senator's eyes widened. “Aw, Jesus. What if I'm a suspect? My finger prints are all over her apartment.” He blinked, once. “Janet will finally get proof of what she's been bitching about all these years. There'll be no reason for her to stay, not if I'm finished.” He closed his eyes. “Knopf has been on her for years to write a book. Offered her seven figures.”
