by D. V. Berkom
Sissy opened a can of soup and poured the contents into a bowl she picked out from the cupboard, which then went into the microwave. She set it at two minutes and returned to the fridge, selecting a stalk of celery, one carrot and a clean head of iceberg lettuce.
“Wait a minute.” Gwen shoved Sissy out of the way and began to slice the vegetables, putting them into another bowl. “It's my turn to take him lunch.”
“I don't think so.” Sissy held the chef's knife aloft, angling the blade toward the top of Gwen's head. Gwen gave her a dark look, but moved out of the way. Sissy wasn't about to let her talk to him first. Not after their latest debacle with that homeless ho from the first season.
“Good idea, switching plates on the car. Think she memorized the old ones?”
Sissy smiled to herself. Gwen was shifting tactics. She's such a suck up. Sissy didn't mind letting her have the leftovers. Not if it meant she could manipulate her into doing the jobs she didn't like.
“If she did, they'll come up with a sedan belonging to an old man who's been missing for six weeks. No way they'll be able to track it here.”
“What do you think he did with him?” Gwen whispered.
Sissy shrugged. It was none of her business what he did with the 'offerings' as they called them. She was pretty sure it wasn't catch-and-release. As long as he let her stay she didn’t care.
Sissy finished making the salad and removed the now-hot bowl of soup from the microwave, setting them both on a tray with spotless silverware, a single rose (thorns removed) and the current Men's Health magazine. She added a linen napkin and a bottle of pre-squeezed barley juice she'd picked up at Whole Foods before taking everything through the living room and up the stairs.
As she neared the top of the stairway her hands began to shake. The bowls on the tray rattled against each other. She stopped and took a deep breath, willing herself to be still. When she was sure her hands wouldn't betray her excitement she continued down the hall to the closed door. Transferring the tray to one hand, she rapped on the door with the other.
“Come in.”
Still holding the food in one hand, Sissy turned the door handle and entered the dark room. He used the extra bedroom as an office of sorts. At least, that's what he'd told Gwen. Sissy knew it was really his trophy-slash-gaming room. Only she was allowed to go inside.
He sat at his computer console, playing a video game. The screams emanating from the screen told her it was his favorite, Sluts and Guns. One wall was covered in black and white photographs of young women, most of them no older than twenty. Their poses fascinated her—each was nude and looked as though asleep. He'd taken the photos from differing angles in order to capture every limb, every back, every buttock in minute detail. Sissy had no idea if or how each woman died although he'd told her he had no interest in them sexually. That's what Sissy and Gwen were for, he assured her.
Sissy was still trying to figure a way to take Gwen out of the picture. She had to admit, the bitch did come in handy when one of their catches got a little too rambunctious, but most of the time she was more work than she was worth. It was a tough job trying to keep her in second position. Besides, Sissy had access to a hypodermic needle filled with anesthetic to quiet the active ones.
This latest problem with the woman who'd escaped was going to take some finessing on Sissy's part. She walked over to the filing cabinet next to him and set the tray on top, waiting for his acknowledgment. He was wearing one of her favorite shirts, a dark blue button down. Her tongue darted between her lips. She could almost taste him.
“I'll eat later.”
The sound of his voice reverberated through her. The tingle from the adrenaline rush of standing so close to someone who wielded such power cascaded down her body in waves. Only she and Gwen could slake his desire. More often than not he called on Sissy. She couldn't begin to describe how much it turned her on he needed her that way.
If she'd have stopped to think about it, she'd probably have to admit the sex wasn't great. It was more the idea that was so exciting; the idea he chose her, Sissy Nelson, as his partner above all others. Gwen was an at-bat as far as she was concerned.
He hit the pause button on his console.
“You have something to tell me?”
Sissy averted her eyes, unsure how to spin it so she came out better than Gwen.
“We found the woman you told us about. The homeless one from last season?”
He remained silent, his attention on her. Sissy would've killed for this kind of focus from him and here he was, listening to her every word.
“There was a slight problem—” The words came out in a whisper. She cleared her throat.
He rose from the chair. Sissy backed up until her legs hit the filing cabinet, her palms wet. He placed his arm around her shoulder, dipping his head in order to hear her better.
“What do you mean, a slight problem?”
“I-I mean we don't have her.”
“You don't? Why?” He gripped her shoulder, hurting her.
“It was Gwen's fault. It was her idea to put her in the trunk. The little bitch figured out how to trip the release.”
He let go of Sissy and stepped back, his dark eyes smoldering with anger. Sissy stared at the floor, her shoulders tense, inching their way up toward her ears.
“She escaped?” His tone was measured, but Sissy recognized intensity behind the words. “Why did you feel the need to put her in the trunk? We've talked about this at length. You're not to arouse their suspicions. You can do anything else you deem necessary, but I reserve the right to witness their fear. It's my reward since I'm letting you two find them for me.”
“I know, I know. I'm sorry. I have no idea what got into Gwen, but she started hinting at what was going to happen. The woman was no dummy. She figured it out and got scared. We had to restrain her, but Gwen didn't put the ties back in the car from the last time, so we stuffed her in the trunk.” It was actually Sissy's responsibility to make sure the car was stocked, but he didn't have to know that.
“Did it not occur to you that there are built-in safety features in cars? Especially the trunk?” His rigid posture and clenched fists belied his soft, calm tone. Sissy wasn't sure if she should stay and take the brunt of his anger in the hopes that he'd be aroused, or if she should go downstairs and find Gwen.
She didn't have to make the choice.
“Get Gwen up here, now. There's a way for you both to make amends.”
***
Leine stepped through the doors of the Serial Date offices, intent on finding Peter. The tracking device hadn't worked. Either Azazel figured out that the blender was wired and removed it, or the tracker was a defective piece of shit. If he knew about it, he hadn't let on.
Frustrated, she'd tried to figure out another way to track Azazel and her daughter while working but didn't see how she could. Gaining access to April's phone would be the best, but she needed to find someone with that kind of knowledge. She knew a thousand ways to kill someone and nothing about how to hack someone's phone or email. The agency used a whole contingent of hackers and communications experts. She'd never needed to learn.
She had to have time to plan. Azazel's next victim would not be her daughter, not if she could help it. She hoped her story of needing to take care of a sick relative would work and Peter would give her a couple of days off. Not that she had any illusions they'd be paid for.
Paula, the receptionist, stopped her in the hall on her way to Peter's office.
“A package came for you this morning. I left it on the desk where you usually put your purse.”
“Thanks, Paula. Is Peter in his office?”
“I'm not sure. He's around, though.”
Leine walked down the hall to the door with the brass name plate and knocked.
“Come in.”
The door clicked and swung open, revealing Peter sitting at his desk, the lone Baccarat lamp the only source of light in an otherwise dark room. Leine walked over to
one of the drape-covered windows and pulled it open, allowing bright morning sun to stream into the office.
“What the hell'd you do that for?” Peter shielded his eyes with his hand.
“How can you stand working in such a dark place? It'd drive me crazy.”
“I like it dark. No distractions.” He squinted at her. “To what do I owe this visit? Anything wrong?”
“No, everything's fine on set. I wanted to ask you for a couple of days leave to care for my sick aunt in San Diego. She recently had hip surgery and needs my help.”
“Isn't there someone else? I can't really spare you right now.”
“Why not? It's not like a murderer's hanging around, right?” Leine watched Peter closely. No reaction. “Besides, the cons and contestants appear to be settled and working well together.”
“Still, I hate to not have you on set. Gene doesn't have your experience. Everyone feels better when you're around. The cons are on their best behavior when they know you're here.”
“Gee, thanks for that. But wasn't Gene good enough until Mandy was murdered? He knows his way around a Taser and pepper spray. I'm only talking about a couple of days here, max. It's important, Peter.”
She could tell he was trying to think of a way to refuse. In the end he must have weighed the option of losing her entirely.
“All right. But only for a couple of days. I need you back by the time we tape. As it is, you're going to miss rehearsals.”
Yeah, and that would break my heart, Leine thought.
“Thanks, Peter. Will do.”
She remembered the package as she was walking out the front door. Backtracking to the administration offices she spotted the small cardboard box sitting on the desk where Paula said she'd left it.
It was addressed to Madeleine Basso, Serial Date Security but there was no return address, no postage. Must have been hand delivered, Leine thought. Wariness from the old days kicked in, but she shook it off. No one from her past knew where she was, or even that she was still alive, except for Gene. Curious, she held up the box and shook it. Too light to be anything serious except maybe ricin or anthrax, and that was a stretch. She hunted through Paula's desk drawer for something sharp and grabbed a pair of green handled scissors. She sliced
through the packing tape on the top of the box and pulled the flaps open.
Inside the box, nestled between several cotton balls, was a slender finger, severed at the joint, wearing a delicate silver and lapis ring.
CHAPTER 17
LEINE FOLDED THE cardboard flaps back into place with care, surprised her hands didn't shake. She closed her eyes as rage overwhelmed her. Every nerve screamed, adding to the cacophony that coursed through her mind, rising to demand action, then collapsing in impotence and frustration.
Think, Leine. This is not April's finger. He's toying with you. Testing you. Get it to a lab. Have the box tested for fingerprints. You can think about this later, if it's a match.
But whose finger was it, if not her daughter's? Leine had to believe it wasn't April's. It was her ring, yes, but that would be easy to swap with another woman's hand.
Leine carefully slid the box into her purse and walked through the office to the hallway. She turned left and willed her legs to take her out to the parking lot and her car, glad for the psychological manifestations of shock. The numbness was the only thing that enabled her to keep moving.
As she neared the entrance, Frank exploded through the front doors, his face a dark mixture of anger and worry.
“Why the hell don't you answer your goddamned phone?”
Leine seized his arm and spun him around, shoving him through the entry to the sidewalk outside.
“Keep your voice down, Frank.” Her voice held a feral warning even he couldn't ignore.
He turned to face her, arms crossed, his fury surrounding him like a force field.
“Where is she?”
“Calm down. Your anger doesn't help.”
“Don't tell me to calm down, Leine. Where the fuck is April?”
Take it easy, Leine. He's scared. Like you are. “I haven't located her yet.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes. I'm sure they'll contact you shortly to get a statement. I gave them your number. In the meantime, I'm doing whatever I can.”
“Who's the detective in charge? I want to speak to him.”
“And they want to speak with you. Just remember, you're not her father. They won't give you any information. You'll have to get that through me.” Leine only had one chance to get him off her ass. She'd apologize for the lies later. “They've expressed an interest in where you were when she disappeared.”
His eyes widened in surprise. “And you told them what?”
“I told them you would never have anything to do with this, but they need to follow up. A huge percentage of abductions involve people known to the victim. They did the same to me.” Lying left a bitter taste in Leine's mouth, but she couldn't think of a better way to get Frank out of her way. She understood his need to act, to help, but couldn't risk his involvement. He'd be like a raging bull in a china shop. Finesse was not a word anyone would use to describe Frank.
“Fine. My phone's on. What do you need me to do in the meantime?”
“Do you have a recent photograph of her? Something more current than this?” Leine reached in her purse, avoiding the box and slid out her wallet. The picture she produced showed an eleven-year old April grinning with arms outstretched, about to catch a whole salmon being thrown her way at one of the fish stalls at Pike Place Market in Seattle. Carlos stood in the background, laughing. It was their last trip together.
“Yeah, I've got several she emailed while she was in Europe.”
Leine's heart twisted at the thought her daughter hadn't bothered to contact her in three years, but was in direct communication with Frank. Her resolve to find April hardened. She'd set things right. She had to.
“Great. Can you make copies and start circulating them around the city? Start in my neighborhood and spread out. Homes, businesses, restaurants, gyms, whatever. The detectives will want more recent photos, too. You can email them to me.” Hopefully, Frank would stay occupied for a couple of days, give her time to find April and Azazel so she could obliterate his sorry ass from the face of the earth. The sooner, the better. Leine was under no illusions when it came to how much time she had. “Can you get me a list of her friend's names? Anyone she may have mentioned?”
“She's always been pretty tight lipped about her private life. Can't blame her, though. She doesn't want anyone telling her how to live.”
A glimmer of satisfaction raced through her. So she didn't trust him completely.
Frank's gaze met Leine's. “Have you thought about calling Eric?”
“The conversation is over.” Leine slipped the older photograph of April back into her purse, turned and walked away, leaving Frank standing on the sidewalk.
The idea of calling Eric had occurred to her, but she'd be damned if she'd ask for help from that low-life, even though he owed her.
She reached her car and was about to get in when she spotted Paula walking toward her.
“Did you find the box?” Paula asked.
“Yes. Thanks. Who delivered it? There wasn't a return address.”
“A thin woman with strawberry-blonde hair and really white skin. When I asked who she was, she didn't answer. She acted kind of weird.” Paula gave Leine a shy smile. “I hope you don't mind me saying so. I mean, if she's a friend—”
“Not a problem. Doesn't sound like someone I know. I'm going to be gone for a couple of days, taking care of my aunt in San Diego. If you get any more of these kinds of deliveries, could you give me a call?”
“Sure. I hope your aunt's okay.”
“She'll be fine—she needs help planning things, is all. Thanks for asking.”
Leine waited until Paula had walked into the building before she stepped behind an oak tree and vomited into a r
osemary bush.
***
Leine showed her ID to the woman sitting at the front counter at DNAsty Lab who directed her to Zephyr Cornell's office. The guitar solo from Santana's Smooth filled the hallway and flowed past her as she neared his open door.
He stood at his window with his back to the door, pumping and gyrating through an air guitar rendition of Carlos Santana's hit song. Zephyr had always reminded Leine of an irrepressible mad scientist with his black, curly hair, round John Lennon specs and white lab coat.
She waited quietly in the doorway while he finished.
The song ended and he reached over to turn down the stereo, noticing Leine for the first time.
“Leine. It really is you.” Arms wide open, he bounded over to where she stood and enveloped her in a deep hug. “I had my doubts. They told me you were dead.”
Leine hugged him back. “They told everyone that.”
“So how've you been? You look like shit.”
“Thanks. I've been better. The woman at the front told me you're the majority owner now.”
Zephyr grinned. “Yeah. Those early stock options came in handy.” His expression grew serious as he glanced at the plastic bag in her hands. The box was at a private forensics lab she'd used in the past. “Is that what you called about?”
Leine nodded and handed it to him. He set it on his desk.
“I won't ask you what happened.” The concern in his eyes was obvious. “I'm doing this for you and for Carlos. God, I miss him.”
“Yeah.” Leine cleared her throat and took a small step back.
Zephyr sighed and pushed a form across the desk.
“Fill this out and take it with you to the back. Have Trudi get a sample. I'll do the test myself and call you as soon as I can.”
“I really appreciate this, Zephyr.”
Zephyr's soft brown eyes met hers. “It's no problem, Leine. Anything I can do to help.”
She gave him her new disposable phone number and then left to find Trudi. Back in her car fifteen minutes later, her other phone rang. Private caller.
