by D. V. Berkom
“It's more complicated than that, April. I-”
“Don’t. Don't justify what you did. You're a monster.” April threw her glass against the tiled fireplace. Leine winced as it shattered on the hearth.
“My mother is a monster.” April's sobs followed her as she ran down the hallway to her room and slammed the door closed.
Numb, Leine didn't follow, didn't cry. She stood by the window, unsure what to do, unable to move. Sorrow engulfed her as memories of happier times with Carlos and April surged to the surface. On a playground with April in a swing, laughing. Carlos' dark good looks, dimples deepening as he smiled, pushing April in the swing but looking at Leine, an expression of later promise meant only for her.
The sound of the door opening surprised Leine. Now what?
April stomped down the hallway and brushed past Leine, headed for the front door. She had her backpack with her.
“April, please. Can't we get past this?”
April wrenched the door open and turned to glare at her mother. “Don't wait up.” The words fell with finality between them.
She followed her as April strode out the door. “I'll hide a key under the flower pot-” she called, but she was talking to empty space.
Leine shook her head as she wiped away a tear. The theme from The Godfather once again echoed from the counter where she'd left her purse. Grateful for a diversion, Leine walked into the kitchen to answer her phone.
“Leine Basso.” Her voice sounded knife-sharp.
“Sorry to interrupt. This is Detective Jensen. Do you have a minute?”
Leine cleared her throat. “Of course, detective. Has anything happened?”
“No, no. Graber's still in custody. Everything's fine, as far as I know. I was wondering-” There was a brief pause. “I realize this is out of the blue, but would you be open to having dinner with me some time?”
Relief flowed through Leine like heroin through a junkie's veins. She glanced at the empty space where April no longer stood, knowing her daughter wasn't coming back until much later, if she even came back at all.
“You know, detective, you have great timing. It happens I'm free tonight.”
***
Leine watched through the window as Jensen pulled up to the house. April hadn't come back or called since she'd stormed out of the house. Leine left fifty dollars and directions to a local grocery store on the counter. She'd placed the spare key under the flower pot on the porch. She chided herself for leaving the house after such a fight, but couldn't bring herself to back out of the date and open herself up to worrying about her angry, accusing daughter. Funny how she'd been good at hunting down targets and executing the kill, but when it came to April, she had no idea how to repair what was broken. Compartmentalizing problems she could do and she did it now.
Face it—you're just not mother material.
Leine took another peek out the window at Detective Santiago. His smooth good looks and the fact that he knew his way around a gun gave her a little thrill she'd thought long dormant. She'd actually primped and couldn't remember the last time she wore mascara and showed off her legs in a dress. She figured getting laid would help take her mind off of April. The way Jensen looked at her the last time they'd met, she was certain dinner would be the beginning of an eventful evening.
She closed and locked the front door, leaving her problems with April inside the house, and sauntered over to the black, 1969 Camaro SS. She leaned in the window to give him a nice cleavage shot. His eyes hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, she noticed an almost imperceptible dip of his head as he checked the girls out.
“Nice ride.” She straightened up and walked around the front, trailing her fingers along the clean lines of the muscle car. Jensen climbed out of the driver's side and met her at the passenger door, opening it for her with a hint of a smile.
“Glad you like it.”
Leine smiled back and slid into the front seat, letting her dress hike up enough to expose some serious thigh. He closed the door and she inched the material back down, but not before he let out a low whistle.
Yeah. So much better than what waited for her back in the house.
Bad mother.
Bad, bad, bad.
CHAPTER 11
THEY PULLED INTO the parking lot at Il Buon Alimento a few minutes before their reservation. Jensen worked it like Leine was the Queen of Sheba, opening doors, offering to let her use his jacket, aware of her every need. The maître'd showed them to a table on the patio overlooking the Pacific Ocean. For Jensen, hearing the gentle crash of the waves always took the edge off.
“This is beautiful, detective, thank you.” Leine sighed as she leaned back in her chair and took in the view. The sun had begun to set, the deep orange and red hues reflecting off the water like a kaleidoscope.
Jensen detected a pensive mood. He'd have to remedy that.
“It's one of my favorite places. Glad you approve.” Damn, she looked good. Real. The fading sunlight brought out a hint of red in her hair as it brushed past her shoulders, framing the classic lines and high cheekbones of her face. Santiago had gotten his fill of the tucked, plucked and Botoxed women so prevalent in Southern California. In the process, he'd learned to appreciate authenticity. Especially when it came to bodies. There was something alluring about a stock pair of breasts…
The waiter appeared with a basket of breadsticks. After checking with Leine, Jensen ordered a bottle of red wine. The waiter left and Leine reached across the table, placing her hand on his. The energy snapped between them.
“I really need to thank you, detective.”
“Call me Santiago.” Jensen smiled his most charming smile—the one that melted the ladies. This evening was definitely heading in the right direction.
“Your call came at a good time. My daughter's here for an unexpected visit and we're not exactly getting along at the moment.” Leine released his hand and took a sip from her water.
“Oh? I'm sorry to hear that.” Looked like they'd be going to his place later. Good thing he straightened up the living room. Even put new sheets on the bed. Twenty points. “So, is Dad still in the picture?”
Leine frowned and shook her head. “No. He died when she was two.”
“Sorry to bring it up.” Jensen shifted in his chair.
“Don't be. It was a long time ago.”
Time to change the subject. “I read in your file you worked security for the State Department before becoming an insurance investigator. How was that?”
Leine shrugged. “Kind of boring, actually. I worked with lower level diplomats. Not a lot of action, but a ton of travel. And waiting around.”
Jensen noticed a subtle difference in her demeanor when she spoke of her past. A studied casualness. Wariness, maybe, or closing up because experience taught her not to give anything away. He wondered what she wasn't telling him.
The waiter reappeared with the wine and two glasses. They both waited to continue the conversation until he'd left.
“How long have you been with the LAPD?” she asked, cradling her glass in both hands.
“Coming up on twenty years.” He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “I guess it's true what they say: the older you get, the faster time flies.”
“What made you want to be a cop?”
“Thought it'd get me laid.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Did it get you laid?” Leine's expression remained neutral.
Nice and direct. Jensen liked that. He smiled and took a drink of his wine. “Maybe.”
“The real question is, why stay?”
Jensen paused for a moment before answering. “Early in my career, I watched a guy get tapped for a murder charge and knew he wasn't guilty. I mean, he was no angel by any stretch, but he didn't kill the victim. Don't ask me how I knew. Call it a gut reaction. The job was too clean and there were other indicators it was probably a contract hit. In my estimation, this guy would never have b
een able to pull it off. I voiced my concerns, but it went nowhere. There was an eye witness and the jury ate it up. He got the death penalty. A few years later, evidence turned up that exonerated him. I never forgave myself for not following up on my hunches. That's when I decided to become a detective.”
“Were they able to catch the real murderer?”
Jensen grabbed a breadstick from the basket on the table and tore it in half. “Nope. Never did.”
“You say there were other indicators. Like what?”
“The killer left a calling card. An etching on the bullet. I've seen the same symbol used in two other instances: the murder I told you about, and two more a couple months later. Then, nothing.”
Leine leaned forward in her chair. “What kind of symbol?”
Jensen's smile slipped into place. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but that information is classified.” He searched her face. “You seem pretty interested in the subject.”
Leine smiled. “It's a hobby. Some of the guys on security detail would shoot the shit—I picked things up. Thought it was fascinating. From what I understand, contract killers take their job very seriously. I assume most would prefer to remain anonymous. I wonder why this one left such a distinctive mark?”
“Ego stroke, probably. I keep watching for a hit like the others but up to now, nothing. Evidently the shooter's working somewhere else, or he's dead. Either is fine by me.”
Leine took a sip of her wine. She seemed lost in thought and Jensen didn't interrupt. He looked behind him, searching for the waiter.
“We should probably order.”
The sensation of her bare foot sliding up his shin took him by surprise. It detoured to his inner thigh, then stopped as though waiting for permission. He looked up and their eyes met. There was no mistaking her intent.
“I have a better idea.”
***
The elevator doors to Jensen's building had barely closed when Leine felt his hands slide over her hips from behind. She flipped around to face him and pulled his head down for a deep, penetrating kiss. Not breaking the lip lock, he pushed her against the wall, leaning into her, his erection obvious. A groan escaped her lips. At this point Leine was beyond caring if they ever made it to his place. All the pent up frustration from her self-imposed celibacy welled up in one giant sweep of lust that surged through her body like lightning through a metal rod.
The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Bodies still connected, Jensen propelled her into the hallway and they staggered as one to his door. He fumbled for his keys, found them and unlocked the door, all the while nuzzling her neck and earlobes.
Ten points for multi-tasking, Leine thought. She slid her hand over his ass. Nice and firm. She couldn't wait to get him inside.
They stumbled through the door and Jensen kicked it closed, flipping the dead bolt. Leine didn't waste any time and started to unbutton his shirt with one hand, while the other tugged on his belt. He smiled and brought his hand around to her back, pulled her dress zipper down, grabbed the hem and lifted it over her head in one fluid motion.
He stepped back, letting out a low whistle.
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “You're beautiful, Leine. Really beautiful.”
Leine smiled and sent a silent thank you to Victoria's Secret and her mother's good genes. Without a word, she finished unbuttoning his shirt and unzipped his slacks, sliding them down to his ankles. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. When she moved to kick off her heels, he put his hand out.
“Don't.”
Smiling, Leine turned and walked slowly into the living room, lightly stroking each surface she passed, caressing a silk covered breast with her other hand, then letting it drop, bringing his focus to the part that needed his attention most.
Jensen growled and crossed the room in two strides. He took her in his arms, pressing the length of their bodies together. Leine pushed him onto the couch and, facing him, lowered herself onto his lap. He bent his head to kiss her breast and at the same time unhooked her bra.
Unable to wait any longer, she slipped out of the matching thong and their bodies melted together, all the hard and soft parts fitting just like they were meant to.
Holy Mother of God, why did I wait this long? was the last coherent thought in Leine's head.
CHAPTER 12
“WHAT ARE THEY doing, Peter?”
Peter's stomach twisted at the anguish in Edward's voice.
“It's for your safety, Edward,” Peter answered.
The locksmith Peter hired was packing up to go, having changed all the door locks to key-only entry and exit. Secure, locking shutters now graced every first floor window. A home security expert had installed perimeter cameras the day before.
Peter couldn't take a chance on Edward killing again. He waited until he'd paid the locksmith and watched him drive off, then sat Edward on the couch in the living room.
“Look, I told you if these kinds of things started to happen again, I'd have to do something drastic. You don't want to end up in a hospital, do you? It wouldn't be like the one mom was in.”
Edward looked down and shook his head. His breathing was like that of a child after a tantrum: fast and heavy, peppered with little explosions of air. Peter hated locking him in the house, but didn't know what else to do. He couldn't let Edward go to a hospital. Not now. Peter would figure out what to do later, when he had a minute to think.
“Please, Peter?” Tears streaked Edward's face. “I promise I'll be good. I-I promise I won't leave, ever.”
Peter sighed. Edward's promises were like air—plentiful and free. He couldn't put it off any longer- he had to look in the freezer. Had to get that last gruesome confirmation of his brother's continued psychosis and somehow destroy the evidence he knew was there. He got up and walked through the kitchen out to the big freezer in the garage, steeling himself for what he'd find.
He lifted the lid and glanced inside. Among frozen packages of hamburger, vanilla ice cream and lima beans, the freezer held a smattering of small plastic baggies, the contents of which were various shades of brown and black. He reached in and picked a baggie at random, this one with a small tan object, and opened it. Peter's shoulders sagged.
A frost covered, furry ear. He couldn't tell what kind of animal it was from, but did it really matter?
Edward stood at the doorway to the kitchen, attention riveted on him. Peter held the bag up for him to see.
“Where'd you get this?” He looked down at the rest. “And these?”
Edward raced over and snatched the bag from his hand.
“They're mine! They were the mean ones. You told me it was okay to punish the mean ones.” He clutched the baggie with both hands.
Peter leaned over the edge of the freezer and dug through the rest of the baggies, checking the few that appeared to have dissimilar contents. All contained animal parts.
He shook his head, unable to reconcile sweet, sensitive Edward with psycho-crazy Edward. “Where'd you hide the other…parts?”
Edward stared at the freezer, then Peter. “No other parts, Peter. I promise.”
He must have buried them in the back. Peter slammed the freezer door shut and swept past Edward, heading into the house to the backyard. On the way, he grabbed a shovel standing in the corner. Edward shuffled behind him, wiping at the snot running down his nose.
“Peter, don't be mad at me. I won't do it again, I promise.” Edward stopped at the door. More tears bubbled over, streaking a path down his face. “Please?”
Peter ignored him and walked down the concrete steps onto the patio. Waiting for his blood pressure to return to normal, he scanned the green lawn and well-kept flower beds. Better hire a service. Don't want the neighbors wondering what happened to Edward. Besides, it would only be for a little while, until Peter could figure out what to do with his brother.
Peter walked to a suspicious looking clump of grass and attacked it with the shovel. Edward's muffled sobs didn't slow him down.
He stopped when his efforts revealed nothing but dirt. Spotting a freshly turned mound of soil surrounding a new lavender plant in the flower bed he yanked out the seedling and dug beneath it, but again found nothing. He rested the shovel against his hip and wiped at the sweat forming on his forehead.
Nothing else in the yard looked disturbed. Peter headed for the garbage can alongside the detached garage, anxiety dogging his steps. He lifted the lid, breathing a sigh of relief when all he smelled and saw was normal, everyday garbage. After checking inside the garage, he walked back to where Edward was furiously replanting the lavender.
“Edward,” Peter said, keeping his voice even. “You have to tell me what you did with the other…pieces. I need to know so I can take care of them.”
Edward continued to firm the dirt around the plant, pretending not to hear him. He sniffled, wiping tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Edward, have you ever—” Peter cleared his throat, then took a deep breath. “Have you ever eaten any of the mean ones?”
Edward snapped his head around with a look of horror. “No!”
Peter was at a loss. He would have to make an appointment with Doctor Shapiro, find out if the blackouts could be controlled with new medication. Of course, he'd need to figure out a way to make sure Edward took it. Whenever the blackness won, Edward would have no memory of anything he did. Like when Peter found him standing over their stepfather. He adamantly denied having beaten him to death, even though his blood soaked clothes and the pieces of brain and bone on the bat in his hands told a different story.
As for the letter, Peter figured Edward wouldn't remember writing the disjointed, rambling manifesto. It didn't sound like him, but Doctor Shapiro suggested his personality had splintered from some childhood trauma. Shapiro didn't know the half of it.
At a loss, Peter leaned the shovel against the fence and held out his hand. Edward looked up, a hopeful smile on his face.
