by D. V. Berkom
“I did, Brenda. Gene's informed me that you might be interested in becoming a contestant on Serial Date.”
Brenda's eyes widened. “Are you kidding? A contestant?” She looked at Gene for confirmation. Gene glanced at the floor, trying to avoid eye contact. She nodded her head. “Yes—of course I would. But I thought this season's lineup was already filled.”
“A slot recently opened up and we need someone who's familiar with the show. There's going to be some fallout from the fans. Kaneesha was popular. Think you can handle that? They're going to compare you two, at first.”
“You bet, Mr. Bronkowski. I could care less what people say. It's all just made up stuff, anyway.”
Peter raised an eyebrow at Gene. “Exactly. Go and see Helena. She'll set you up with wardrobe, hair and makeup. Paula will help you with the paperwork.”
Brenda bounced out of her chair and threw her arms around Gene. “Thanks, Uncle Gene.” She extended her hand to Peter, who shook it. “And thank you, Mr. Bronkowski, sir. This is a fantastic opportunity.” She turned and bounded out the door. “Wait until Mom hears about this!”
Gene covered his face with his hands and groaned. He pushed himself out of his chair and started for the door.
“Where are you going?” Peter asked.
“Change the locks on my apartment.”
***
Leine fired her last round at the beer can on top of the rock, hitting it dead center. She shoved the Glock back into her shoulder holster and walked over to the cans she'd used for target practice, throwing them into a grocery bag.
The theme from The Godfather played inside her rental car, interrupting the desert silence. Tossing the bag into the backseat, she leaned across the console and grabbed her phone.
“Leine Basso.”
“Hi.”
Leine stiffened at the sound of the caller's voice. “April?”
“Yeah.” Her daughter sniffled like she had a cold, or maybe allergies.
“Where are you? Are you all right?” She pulled her hair out of its ponytail holder and took out the two bobby pins she'd used to keep the rest of it back and put them in her pocket.
April sighed, her impatience magnified over the wireless connection.
“I'm fine.” There was a short pause, then, “I need a place to crash for a few days.”
“I'm not in Seattle.”
“Yeah. Del said you got a gig in L.A. Thought you said you'd never go back.”
“Things change. Look, I don't know how long I'm going to be in L.A., but...” Leine couldn't squelch the hopeful emotions that surged to the surface. Maybe April was willing to work things out, become a family again.
“It would only be for a couple days. Frank should be back by then and I can stay with him.”
Leine's heart sank into her stomach. Frank. April wouldn't have even called if Frank was in town.
“Where'd he go this time?” Leine found it hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. She really meant to ask who he'd gone with, but stifled the jealousy threatening to derail even the slightest chance to see her daughter again.
“Lake Como. He took Denyse.”
Denyse. That piece of work. Leine always thought of her as a sterling example of the three B's Frank had taken to dating: a blonde with big boobs that gave blowjobs—anywhere. Remember, Leine. You divorced him, not the other way around.
“So—is it okay?”
“Of course. Where are you? Do you need a ride?”
“Just an address.”
Leine gave her directions to the house she was renting and told her she'd be home in a couple of hours. April repeated it back to her and ended the call.
Butterflies flitted through Leine's stomach at the thought of seeing her daughter again. Maybe this time she could make her understand why she'd done what she did.
Maybe.
CHAPTER 10
GENE DORFENBERGER WALKED along the hallway that ran past the Serial Date studios and checked office doors, making sure everything was secured for the evening. He liked this time of day, when no one else was around. No one except for Peter, who tended to work late depending on how much blow he'd done.
Not many knew it, but Gene was a solitary man. Given the option, he'd choose playing solitaire or reading over parties and titty bars any day. Of course, being an introvert wouldn't get him anywhere in L.A., so he played along, acting like he enjoyed the crowds, the booze, the women. No one had a clue his gruff exterior housed a supremely sensitive man.
Albeit with a penchant for criminal behavior.
Gene noticed the break room door was ajar and walked over to close it. He glanced inside to make sure the lights were turned off, but hesitated when something caught his eye.
He pushed the door wide and stopped, his intake of breath cut short by the dawning realization of what he was seeing. He drew closer, convinced it was some sort of morbid practical joke set up by one of the prop guys.
Illuminated by the stark light of a vending machine, a bloody head perched on the counter next to the sink, face forward, eyes staring at nothing. Blood glazed a trail down the front of the cupboard, pooling on the floor. Next to the head lay a hand, severed at the wrist, a piece of paper pinned beneath. Gene noticed the delicate French manicured tips.
Right before he vomited into a nearby trashcan.
***
Peter's stomach lurched sideways, the bile rising in his throat at the sight of Stacy's head. He glanced at Gene and then stared again at the severed hand, his mouth gaping in disbelief.
“My God.” He took in the scene, trying to make sense of the gory sight. Both ears were missing, giving the head a gruesome, alien-like appearance. Conflicting thoughts raced through his mind like horses barreling through the gate at the Preakness.
This can't be. Graber's locked up. Peter shook his head, bewildered. They won't let the show continue, not after this. No fucking way.
It has to be Edward. Gotta think. He squeezed his eyes shut. So far, there are only three people who know-me, Gene and Eddie.
Opening his eyes, he checked the hallway to make sure no one was lurking nearby and closed the door behind them.
“This is not good, Gene.”
“I know, boss.”
“We gotta make it go away, for both our sakes, not to mention all the people who depend on this show.”
Gene remained silent, hands clasped in front of him. Peter stared at Stacy's gray, lifeless face as the beginnings of a plan started to formulate in his mind.
“First thing, we get rid of the…Stacy. Then we clean this room like it's never been cleaned.”
Gene nodded, once.
“Any suggestions where we can take her?”
Gene cleared his throat, took a step back.
“Mojave?”
Peter nodded. “Yeah. That could work.” What if someone found out? Whose car would they take? DNA testing had gotten extremely precise and he wasn't about to use any of his vehicles. Not to transport body parts. They'd have to use Gene's. And a heavy duty trash bag.
“What do you want to do about the letter?” Gene asked. The piece of paper under Stacy's hand contained a cryptic note detailing what idiots the killer thought the show's contestants were and how the murders would continue until he made his point. There was no indication of what his point might actually be.
“Burn it.” Distracted, Peter's mind whirled, searching his memory for a place to dump the body parts. Then an idea popped into his head.
He knew the perfect spot.
***
Leine slowed her pace as she neared her house. April reclined on the front porch of the California bungalow in the old-fashioned swing Leine hadn't yet used, reading a tattered paperback. She didn't notice her at first and Leine took that moment to drink in the sight of her daughter.
She was thinner than Leine remembered and still had the persistent cowlick she'd demanded be pin curled flat every night as a child. Delicate wrists poked through the sleeves of her bla
ck lace blouse, in sharp contrast to the faded and ripped cargo pants she wore. Her rope sandals were frayed around the edges.
Conflicting emotions of happiness, fear, love and dread vied for dominance inside Leine. Seeking safety from too much raw emotion, the thought she finally gave into wondered what the hell her daughter had been thinking when she got a tattoo of a snake on her neck.
April glanced up from her book, her face open and relaxed. As soon as she saw her mother standing on the sidewalk her expression changed, as if she knew what Leine was thinking.
“Been waiting long?” Leine walked up the steps, digging in her purse for her keys.
April closed her book and stood. “Not really.” She placed the novel in her worn backpack. “You said a couple of hours. I took that to mean a couple of hours.”
Leine sensed the old, familiar insolence. Something Leine couldn't break down, didn't know how to, but instinctively understood it was the first obstacle that needed to be overcome before the relationship could be healed. She turned to April and gave her an awkward hug. April stiffened against the overture.
Well, hell. I tried.
Embarrassed, Leine backed away, keys in hand and unlocked the door, kicking it open for her. April walked inside and Leine paused, realizing she'd left her phone on the console of her rental.
“Be right back. Forgot something,” she mumbled and walked back to her car.
She found the phone where she'd left it and shut and locked the door. Taking deep breaths, she worked to compose herself.
You had no choice, Leine. You were a single mom. How else were you going to earn a living? You did what you were good at. You can't fucking type and pole dancing was out of the question. So you farmed her out to friends, but she was always safe. She never would have known if it wasn't for Eric. If he hadn't forced your hand.
She headed back to the house, thinking about what she wanted to say to April. How she could begin the conversation. As she reached the walkway, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Leine kept walking, senses alert. She turned at the top of the steps and scanned the neighborhood. The old, shaggy palm trees stood silent vigil along the boulevard, their small splotches of early evening shade peppering the sidewalk. A cat dozed on the porch across the street. A lawn mower hummed in the distance.
Tranquil.
Leine shook it off and went inside the house, sure it was simply a case of nerves strung tight from the unexpected visit.
April stood in the middle of the living room, backpack over her shoulder. Leine motioned to the hallway behind her.
“The spare room's back there. Make yourself at home.”
Without a word, April disappeared down the hall to the bedroom. So many questions hung in the air between them. Did this indicate a détente? How much was April prepared to forgive in order to set things right? Leine fought the need to interrogate her, find out where she'd been, who she'd spent time with. April would close down if she did that.
Leine only had a couple days, at most, to get this right. As the fear of blowing this one chance with her daughter swelled in intensity, she busied herself cleaning the already clean counters in the kitchen.
April appeared in the doorway. “Mind if I shower?”
“Of course not, no. Mi casa es su casa.” The smile on Leine's face felt forced, awkward. April gave her a nod and disappeared again.
Leine opened the refrigerator door to empty shelves. Well, except for a bottle of dark beer and some really rude looking cheese.
Why didn't I pick up something on the way home?
Because you're out of practice. Hasn't been much call for a hostess lately.
The word made her cringe. A hostess is what Frank had wanted. Someone to run his little soirees and dinner parties, make sure things went according to plan. Leine had tried, she really had, but realized early on that party planning was not her forte. This became abundantly clear the evening she got drunk and told all of Frank's rich, powerful and spoiled guests to go to hell.
Her inability to approach Frank's parties like everything else she did surprised her. She'd planned all her jobs meticulously, often down to the last second, but it was difficult to put her heart into something that bored the hell out of her. She never forgave Frank for expecting her to play Barbie. And for not being who he should've been.
The shower stopped and a few minutes later Leine heard the bathroom door open.
“There's not much to eat here. Maybe we should go out?” she called, rounding the corner into the hallway.
“Sure. I'm not very hungry, though.” April stood in the hall next to the bedroom wearing a towel, her hair still wet.
“Holy shit.” Leine stopped short at the sight of her daughter's tattoo in all its glory. The large, colorful snake began somewhere below the top of the towel and wrapped itself around her upper arm, dipped past her elbow, then cruised along her shoulder and up her neck, its forked tongue and head ending slightly below her jawline. Leine realized her mouth was hanging open and clamped it shut.
What happened to my beautiful daughter?
April's expression grew puzzled as she searched behind her for whatever had caused Leine to react so strongly.
“What's wrong?”
“Your tattoo. It's—” Leine searched for the right word, but failed. “It's interesting,” was all she could manage.
April smiled for the first time since Leine had seen her on the porch. “You like? It took a long time, but it was worth it. It starts here—” April lowered the towel so Leine could see the snake's coiled section along her lower back. “I had a guy in Amsterdam do it. He came highly recommended.”
Leine hated tattoos. One of her earlier hits had been a Russian mobster who'd done prison time. The distinctive symbols etched onto his torso were the last things Leine saw before he aimed an Uzi at her and pulled the trigger. Acting from pure adrenaline, she'd made the kill but barely escaped with her life.
Then there was the Frenchman.
Leine took a deep breath and slowly let it out. I will not criticize my daughter's tattoo. I will not criticize my daughter's tattoo. Don't do it, Leine.
“Seriously? A huge snake? Are you insane? You're marked for life. When you're an old, saggy woman with crepe-paper skin and boobs you can wrap around your ankles that snake isn't going to seem so great then, I'll guarantee it.” Leine slapped her hand over her mouth before she blurted out anything else.
The hurt in April's eyes was quickly replaced with a smoldering anger that made Leine wince from the sheer force of it.
“Go fuck yourself, Mother.” She stalked into the bedroom and slammed the door closed.
Good going, Leine. Yeah, just great. Now she's never going to open up to you. Not that she would have, anyway.
She started down the hallway, intending to apologize, when the theme from The Godfather echoed through the house from the other room. Ignoring it, she knocked on the guest room door.
“April? I'm sorry.” Leine waited a beat before continuing. “I didn't mean it. Can you please come out here so we can talk?”
Silence.
“April? Please?”
She heard movement on the other side of the door. Moments later, it inched open.
“Well?” April's voice was wary. She stood with her arms crossed, now wearing a pair of faded jeans and a gray t-shirt with a black skull imprint.
Leine paused a beat, wondering what she could say to make peace between them.
“I'm sorry I freaked about your tattoos. I have…let's just say I've got issues.”
April snorted, moving past her, headed toward the kitchen.
“I'll say.”
Leine bit back a retort. She doesn't know what happened, that Eric tricked you. She followed her daughter into the kitchen, taking deep breaths with each step.
“Where are your glasses?”
Leine pointed at a cupboard. April chose a glass and filled it with water from the tap. I'd better keep to neutral topics for now. Ease into thi
s.
“When'd you get back? Did you enjoy Europe?”
“It was okay. I really liked Amsterdam. The people were cool.”
“I remember.” Leine hadn't been back for several years, but liked to use Amsterdam as a jumping off point for European jobs. Schiphol airport was a relaxed, friendly port of entry. The people were generally laid back and happy to see you. She also knew a good weapons supplier in the city.
April walked into the living room and gazed out the front window. Leine joined her.
“Do you regret what you did?” April asked, still looking out the window.
“All the time,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. Leine didn't tell her about the running dreams. In them, she ran from the people she'd killed, sometimes more than one. She would wake up drenched in sweat, heart pounding, right before they closed in.
“How could you…do what you did? Didn't it affect you?”
Leine sighed. “Look, I did what I was good at. Yes, it affected me. Yes, I regret some of it. Most of the targets were low-life scum who deserved a worse death than what I gave them. With me, it was over before they knew what happened. Problem is, I can't take it back. I have to live with myself every day. With all of them.”
“I was talking about Carlos.” April's voice held a brittle edge that echoed against the empty walls of the living room.
“Especially Carlos.”
April whirled to face Leine, her face a mask of rage.
“You killed him.” Her voice broke as she clenched her fists. “He trusted you. How could you?”
Leine closed her eyes against the accusation. Yes, she killed Carlos. But she'd been tricked into it. She'd tried telling her daughter that, but after Eric's campaign of deception April wouldn't believe her. She opened her eyes, saw her daughter's anguish and knew she'd never be forgiven. April adored Carlos. She never understood how Leine could work as an assassin in the first place. She swore to April that Eric misdirected her, leading to her mistakenly kill Carlos, but her efforts were futile. Eric played April like a violin. She was twelve years old at the time and highly receptive to adult male authority. He'd convinced her Leine was lying about the incident to escape responsibility and guilt.
