by D. V. Berkom
The abrupt change of subject surprised her.
“That's for the police to decide. I'm just here to help make sure everybody's safe.”
Billy folded his arms across his chest. “They know who killed her?”
“Not yet. The police are working a couple of leads. Hopefully they'll know more in the next twenty-four hours.” Leine didn't mention Gene told her they'd narrowed the suspects down to two main persons of interest and interviewed them both that morning.
Leine had been watching each of the bachelors on set and eliminated most of them in her own mind. Gene gave her copies of their personnel files, but none of them struck her as the violent, mutilating kind. One of the two men the cops singled out, Devon Winston, said he'd been having dinner with his mother at the time of the murder. Leine thought the alibi convenient, but figured his mother would break down under questioning if the story wasn't true.
That left Charles Graber, the main bachelor for the season and usually on set. According to the files he was the least violent of the two, but had a shitty alibi. Gene thought the cops found some evidence linking him to the murder. Still, Leine didn't feel one way or another about him.
Billy folded the script and returned it to his back pocket. “Tell me about being a bodyguard. You ever smoke anyone?”
“It wasn't like that. I mainly did low level bureaucrat types.”
Billy studied her for a moment. “Why don't I believe you?”
Leine smiled. He's bluffing, trying to punch up his idea of what kind of person I am. I'm not that transparent.
“You can believe what you want, Billy, but I haven't had to kill anyone.” Technically true. She could have turned down any of the targets, but that would have cost her the reputation she'd worked so hard to build.
Billy's lips curled up at the corners and his eyes danced.
“Whatever you say, Leine.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. “I need to run. Let's talk, soon.”
She shook his hand and he headed for the exit, a bounce in his step.
That's one odd duck, Leine thought. She'd forgotten what L.A. creative types were like. You never knew where you stood, primarily because most of them didn't know, either.
Tina had been hanging out, watching them from the other side of the set, and chose that moment to approach. Her face appeared frozen in time, like a statue. Leine wondered if the young woman used Botox. They certainly started early, she thought.
“You're the new security guard, right?”
Leine nodded. “And you're Tina?”
Tina smiled. Her cheeks barely moved. “That's right.” She slid onto the director's chair. Leine's eyes watered from the onslaught of her perfume.
“Do you think they'll catch the guy soon?”
“They seem to think they're close.”
“It's really hard on the other girls.”
“I can imagine. There's plenty of security on you guys, though. It'll be over soon.”
“It's not that. It's hard for us to not say anything to the press. They're everywhere, and offering a lot of money. A bunch of us have boyfriends and they're wondering why we aren't allowed to see them. Naomi's boyfriend already threatened to break it off with her. He thinks she's lying to him, seeing one of the bachelors on the side.”
“Well, it's pretty important to the case that they know where the contestants are at all times. I'm sure the boyfriend will come around once the killer is caught and she can explain it to him.”
Tina looked away and chewed on her lower lip. She turned back to Leine.
“One of us might have let something slip,” she said, her eyes cutting to the side.
“Oh? Like what?”
“Like telling someone about the-the missing body parts. I think they even paid for the information.”
Nice, Leine thought. Won't be long now before the press picks that up. “I'll have to let the detectives know. It's going to impact the case.”
Tina's kohl-lined eyes widened and she reached over and touched Leine's arm. “You didn't hear this from me. The rest of the girls would rip me apart if they found out.”
Heather and Tina were the top two contenders on the show. Leine figured the information was Tina's way of eliminating the competition. Leine didn't plan on naming anyone, except maybe Tina.
“How many people outside the show know?”
Tina hesitated a moment. “Not more than three, I think.”
“I'll be sure to let the police know.” Leine got up to leave.
Tina looked disappointed. “Aren't you going to ask me who they are?”
“If the police want more information, I'll tell them who told me.” Leine had a pretty good idea which contestants Tina would single out as leaks.
“Do you think the killer will try again?”
“They're doing all they can to prevent that.”
Almost to herself Tina said, “I wonder why he chose Mandy and not me?” She held up a well-toned arm for Leine to see. “I work out, too. She definitely wasn't the most cut, by far.”
Leine took a deep breath. Wow. “I'm sure he had his reasons.”
Tina nodded. Leine couldn't be sure, but it looked like a frown struggled to make its appearance.
“Great piece today, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“The confession Billy just shot. That was some good acting.”
Tina smiled, evidently flattered. “You think so? I've been taking classes.”
“It shows.”
CHAPTER 8
THE ARREST OF Charles Graber didn't go exactly as planned. Once word reached the Chief that the bloody towel had Graber's DNA on it, Putnam, Jensen and two uniformed backup units were given the go ahead and descended on his West Hollywood home. The Los Angeles Sheriff Department was all too happy to allow the LAPD to step in and make the arrest, even though it was their jurisdiction.
Putnam assigned Felix Ditterand and his partner to cover the rear of the small Craftsman-style home, in case anyone escaped. The suspect burst through the back door at full throttle and Ditterand pursued on foot. Graber cut down an alley, heading for Santa Monica Boulevard and the rookie fired off a round to try to stop him before reaching the crowded roadway. As a result, Graber landed in Cedars Sinai with a bullet to the groin and Ditterand was placed on administrative leave.
Somebody leaked the gruesome details of the murder to a reporter from Entertainment All the Time! and the news went viral. The press descended like a flock of tourists at an open bar. Chat rooms everywhere buzzed with conjecture and vitriol regarding Amanda Milton's grisly murder and what it meant for the future of television and reality shows. Twits tweeted, bloggers blogged and several news outlets ran in-depth interviews of the show's previous contestants and bachelors.
The senator called in Jack Shank for spin control and Jack Shank called Peter.
***
By the time Jensen walked into his office, Peter Bronkowski had polished off most of a bottle of vodka and was contemplating which method of suicide would be less painful. He'd narrowed it down to swilling a handful of Xanax or wearing a Humvee.
“I'm fucked. Fucked, fucked, fucked.” Peter sat slumped in his Italian leather chair, a small Baccarat crystal lamp the only illumination in the room.
“Did they at least buy you dinner first?” Jensen folded himself into the chair opposite him.
“This is it. I'm finished. Yesterday's news. Horseshit.” He looked up, tried to focus on Jensen. “What're you doing here?”
“Thought I should come by, let you know we picked up Graber, but it looks like you already know.”
“No shit.” He attempted to lift himself to a standing position, but fell forward into the desk. He held his hands out to steady himself, missed and staggered backward into the chair.
“He's the star. What the hell are we gonna do without the star of the fucking show? Oh, yeah.” He smiled to himself. “There won' be a show after tonight.” It annoyed him he couldn't stop the hysterical giggle be
fore it disintegrated into pitiless weeping. Not in front of the cop.
“I'm sure it's not that bad-”
“The fuck do you know?” Peter lurched forward and jabbed his finger in the air, then let his arm drop to his side. “Christ, I stroked this one so hard, sucked up to all those bastards. Now everybody's pulling their ads. No way I'm gonna survive this.” He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “What am I gonna do with Eddie?”
“Who's Eddie?”
Peter waved the question away, shook his head. “Nobody. Forget it.” He narrowed his eyes at his watch, trying to make out the numbers. “Should be getting the old pink slip any minute, now. Fuck. Me. They'll be out for blood.” He glanced blearily around his office, taking in the expensive Italian furnishings and modern art, his gaze settling on the new ninety-inch, Internet-ready 3-D television. Emotion welled up inside him and he choked back a sob.
Not only had he not saved any of the money he'd made, he was up to his balls in debt—the house in Malibu, the Ferrari, the villa in Croatia, Edward's new place. And oh, God, the cocaine. The weekly payment to his dealer, El Zorro, was way past most developed countries' GDP and the thought of losing unrestricted access made him shudder. He'd have to go back to smoking crack. He started to pull out the small stash of Peruvian Bliss in his desk drawer to have a reassuring snort and remembered Jensen's presence across from him in the nick of time. He eased the drawer shut with what he thought passed for nonchalance.
“If it makes you feel any better, things can get back to normal now.”
Peter let out a loud belch, tipped the bottle of vodka upside down and drained it. He set it back on the desk but misjudged the distance and watched it fall to the floor. “Doesn't.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The room started to spin. He pitched forward and threw up in the Murano glass wastebasket near his feet.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as the office door opened. Senator Runyon, Billy, Gene Dorfenberger and several of the show's crew filed in. The air around them practically crackled from the group's excitement. Probably here to witness the execution, Peter thought.
He pasted on a smile and stuck out his hand. “Senator, good to see you-”
The senator came around to Peter's side of the desk and pulled a bottle of Dom Perignon from behind his back. Peter gazed at the champagne, confused. He looked into the senator's face, searching for clarity. A cigar the size of a porn star's money maker protruded from Runyon's fat, smiling lips. The senator must be doing Ecstasy again, Peter thought. It was the only thing that made sense.
“Looks like you're way ahead of me, Pete, my boy. Isn't it fantastic? This has never happened in the history of reality television.” The senator's face possessed an ecstatic glow.
Peter felt as though he was a bit player in some sort of dream sequence in a movie and didn't know his lines. He continued to look uncomprehendingly at the senator and the rest of the crew now crowded into his office. The stench from the trash can reached his nostrils and he rolled his chair closer to the senator.
Runyon looked closely at Peter. “You haven't heard?”
Peter shook his head.
The senator glanced impatiently around the room. “Didn't someone at least text the poor schmuck?” His question was met with silence and shuffling feet.
Runyon turned back to Peter and, grinning, opened his arms wide, almost cold-cocking one of the set gophers with the champagne bottle.
“My boy, great news. We thought it couldn't get any better. The ratings are through the roof. It's unprecedented. Never before in television history has this happened.”
Peter sat in stunned silence, trying to suck air back into his lungs.
Senator Runyon handed the bottle of champagne to one of the crew members and told him to open it.
Then he leaned in close to Peter and whispered, “This calls for a trip to Bountiful. My treat.”
***
Jensen slipped out of the office before the senator cornered him. Nothing like an election year to make a politician willing to bond with law enforcement.
He walked through the front doors and headed for the parking lot. He'd learned to trust his gut through years of dealing with both the guilty and the innocent. His instincts were going into claxon horn mode this time. It didn't fit. During the second interview before the arrest went down, Graber had confessed to having consensual sex with the victim the day before and that they'd planned to leave L.A. together as soon as the show's season ended. That explained Graber's semen inside Amanda Milton and why there were no signs of forcible rape.
Graber had, in Jensen's opinion, exhibited the behavior of a man who had just heard the love of his life was murdered. He acted like he was in a daze, cooperated fully with the investigation and didn't immediately 'lawyer up,' even waived his rights. On top of that, the guy volunteered to take a polygraph test and passed it with flying colors. Putnam shrugged it off, arguing that Graber was a pathological liar with no conscience: lying didn't faze him, so wouldn't register on the test.
After the arrest, when they spoke to him before going into surgery, Putnam asked why he'd run, Graber answered, “Because I know how it looks and it looks like I killed her. I'm an ex-felon. My cum was inside her, my DNA's on the towel. The fucking press is screaming for an arrest. What were my chances of getting a fair trial—or convincing a jury I didn't do it?”
Putnam insisted Graber was merely a good actor. If he was acting, then Jensen figured he must be Academy Award material.
He drove out of the parking lot and took a left. The balmy evening air ruffled his hair, temporarily distracting him. He thought of Leine Basso and wondered if he should call her and see if she was up for dinner, get his mind off of Graber for a little while. The one good thing about the arrest was that now he could work on getting Ms. Basso into bed. The more he got to know her, the more he wanted.
He pulled out his phone, punched in her number, and got voicemail. He hung up and put the cell back in his pocket. Then he made himself go over the case one more time.
All the evidence pointed to Graber. His DNA was on the towel with the victim's blood. He had one of the victim's earrings in his possession, a perfect match with the one found on the victim's remaining ear. He could have been in the building at the time of Amanda's death—he had no alibi other than he'd been at home, asleep. He knew his way around power tools and was a gym rat. He'd worked in the food industry and wouldn't eat a chicken if it was the last piece of food on the planet, and had said as much in the interview. That fit perfectly with the rambling letter the killer wrote. Several of the contestants testified that Graber had hung out with Amanda, although none could corroborate their relationship.
Putnam floated the possibility Amanda rejected Graber and Graber killed her in a fit of anger. But why the letter? He didn't strike Jensen as the manifesto-writing type.
Jensen didn't feel it. Graber didn't have a violent record and he'd seemed genuinely devastated by her death. Yes, he had the means and the opportunity, but where was the motive? Hitting on her and getting rejected was too weak, in Jensen's opinion. If Graber was convicted, the DA would seek the death penalty. Jensen couldn't let a man die for a murder he didn't commit.
Not again.
There was also another small problem.
The lab never received the forensic evidence taken from the victim's apartment. The van was robbed while the driver was getting himself a sandwich and all evidence in the vehicle had been stolen. Jensen went back with a team to work the apartment again, but everything had been wiped clean. Why would Graber wipe down the vic's apartment after he confessed to having an intimate relationship with her? Two other detectives who watched the second interview through the one-way window at the station had sided with Putnam, indicating they thought Graber's guilt was a slam dunk.
Jensen couldn't shake the feeling they were wrong.
CHAPTER 9
“KANESHA QUIT.” GENE Dorfenberger shifted in his chair. He hated
bringing bad news. Peter looked up from the folder on his desk.
“What do you mean, she quit? She signed a contract.”
“Yeah, I know. She says her lawyer can get her out of it because the environment is what you'd call unsafe.”
“What's unsafe? We hired more security, the cops caught the guy who did Mandy. Everything's back to normal.” Peter tossed the folder aside. “Don't you have a niece working here?”
Gene's expression changed from apologetic to wary. “Yeah. Why?”
“She's pretty, right?”
Gene nodded.
“Put her in as a replacement.”
“Uh, I don't think she's ready for that. She's pretty young, you know?”
“What is she, eighteen? Nineteen?”
“Young, as in maturity-wise.”
Peter snorted. “She's gotta grow up sometime. Might as well be now.”
Gene's stomach did a somersault. Ella wasn't going to like this. She'd warned him to take care of her baby, or she'd make his life more miserable than it already was.
“Her mother—”
“Fuck her mother. She's an adult. She can decide.” Peter reached for the phone and pressed the intercom. “Paula? Get me Gene Dorfenberger's niece—” he glanced at Gene.
“Brenda Rawls.”
“Brenda Rawls. Have her come to my office as soon as you find her.” Peter leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face. Gene could swear he enjoyed making him squirm.
Bastard.
A few minutes later, Brenda walked in. Gene couldn't help but feel pride that someone from his family could produce such a classic beauty. And, she hadn't become what most of the female contestants were: narcissistic little harpies. Gene's mood plummeted. He wondered how long it would take before that changed.
“Hi Uncle Gene, Mr. Bronkowski. You wanted to see me?”
Peter offered her the chair next to Gene.
