Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller

by D. V. Berkom

  “Take the gun off the wall and slide it across the floor to me. If you don't, I'll use the Ukrainian as a shield and kill you both. I've done it before. It's your choice. Either I get the gun and you live, or I get the gun and you die.”

  The Russian watched Leine for a moment. “First, you must answer a question.” He braced his elbows on the desk. “Who sent you? I don't believe it is you who wants this gun. Tell me this and the gun is yours.”

  “He goes by the name Azazel. That's all I know.”

  The guy in the club chair moved as if to rush them. Leine pivoted the Ukrainian toward him, tightening her grip on the gun.

  “Don't even try, asshole.”

  The Russian shook his head. The long-legged man slumped back in the chair with a scowl.

  “This Azazel is not a good man, asking you to enter a nest of scorpions for an old gun with no value. Only someone with ties to this piece of shit would ask for such a thing.” He looked directly at Leine. “I think this Azazel has something to do with the previous owner, yes? Someone we knew as the Frenchman.”

  Leine stiffened. The Russian cocked his head to one side.

  “You know of this despicable son of a goat?” He narrowed his eyes. “It was rumored he found death by a woman's hand, although there were no witnesses.”

  “Slide the rifle to me, now, or I kill the three of you and take it. I don't have time for your shit.” Leine renewed her grip on the Ukrainian's arm and shoved the gun into his temple.

  “Calm yourself. If you are the woman who did such a valuable thing, you are entitled to anything I possess.” He rose from his chair, palms raised. Leine tracked him, keeping a tight grip on the Ukrainian.

  He took down the trade gun and laid it across the desk.

  “This calls for a drink. May I?” He reached toward a drawer, his eyebrows raised.

  “Just give me the fucking gun and we're done.” Russians. Anything's an excuse to celebrate. She was having a hard enough time corralling the thoughts racing through her brain from what he'd said. The Frenchman?

  The Russian sighed. He bent over as though to pick up the gun, then reached behind him and pulled out a mini-Uzi hidden in a side pocket of his chair. A spray of bullets erupted from the barrel of the gun, covering one end of the room to the other. Leine shoved the Ukrainian into the line of fire and rolled to the side. She shot out the ceiling light, plunging the room into darkness.

  She had a clean shot at the Russian through the night vision goggle but she hesitated and he dropped behind the desk. The Ukrainian lay on the floor near the door and wasn't moving. The long legged one had ducked behind his chair, but part of his body was visible. She drew the knife strapped to her calf and waited until he peered around the chair, then let it fly. There was a muffled thwack as it buried itself in his eye socket. He screamed in pain as he pitched forward and hit the floor with a thud.

  Leine turned her attention back to the Russian. He poked his head up over the edge of the desk and looked toward where the other guy had fallen. Leine aimed the Ukrainian's 9mm at him and squeezed off a shot. The bullet missed, embedding itself in the wall. The Russian disappeared behind the desk.

  “Take the gun. It is my gift to you,” he called. His voice held a hint of bravado.

  His hand appeared and groped for the flintlock. Successful, he grasped the gun and shoved it across the desk. It landed on the floor a few feet from the Ukrainian. With a watchful eye, Leine crawled across the linoleum and picked up the rifle. Without a word, she backed out of the room.

  She ran through the hallway into the warehouse and walked out the door, making sure to jam the camera as she left. She didn't want her face all over the Internet for every Tom, Dick and Yakov to see. Becoming a target of the Russian underworld would not be a good life choice. She cleared the alleyway and jogged back to her car, at the same time wiping the Ukrainian's nine clean, then tossing it over the fence.

  The memory of what the Russian said kept coming back to her. How was Azazel connected to the Frenchman?

  When she reached her car, she popped the trunk and placed the rifle inside, covering it with a blanket she'd brought. He said he'd heard a woman killed him. Azazel had to be connected, somehow. But why have her get the gun, other than to keep from getting killed? And, to continue his cat-and-mouse game.

  She drove past darkened alleys and storefronts, trying to work it out in her mind. By the time she'd reached the drop point, she was no closer to an answer. She pulled into a space next to her other rental.

  Butch, one of the part-time interns on Serial Date leaned against the car, waiting for her. Leine handed him the keys and a hundred dollars.

  “Take it straight to my place and park in front. Lock it and leave the keys under the porch, behind the steps. No joy riding, okay? I checked the mileage.”

  Butch smiled. “Joy riding? In a Buick? No worries, Leine.”

  “Pop the trunk, will you?” she asked. He got in and hit the release.

  She took the wrapped gun out of the trunk and walked into the YMCA. To prove his point Butch attempted to lay rubber with the sedan. He got a chirp out of it, she'd give him that.

  There weren't many people working out at that hour, which was just as well. The women's locker room was to her right. Two different sized lockers lined the walls. Leine chose the full length one with the number sixty-two on it and placed the gun inside. An open combination lock rested on the shelf, which she removed and placed on the locker after closing the door as instructed.

  Leine grabbed a towel off a clothes hook and wrapped her hair, turban-style. Then she walked to the other side of the locker room and sat down to wait with her back to number sixty-two. The mirror in front of her reflected the section of the locker room behind her. She checked her watch. Butch should be well away by now.

  Ten minutes later, a thin woman with translucent skin and strawberry blonde hair walked in, gave a cursory glance around the room and headed straight for the locker. Leine slipped behind an open door and pretended to change clothes.

  She fit Paula's description of the woman who delivered the finger in the box.

  The woman opened the locker, pulled out the gun and, with a furtive look, walked out. As soon as the woman left, Leine tossed the towel on a bench and followed her at a discreet distance.

  The woman climbed into a compact red Honda and drove out of the parking lot. Leine followed a few car lengths behind.

  At first she was easy to follow. Not much traffic on the side streets. Leine stayed back, changing lanes a couple of times. The Honda headed for the onramp to the Hollywood Freeway toward San Fernando Valley and hit the gas. Leine followed.

  Heavy traffic dogged them both. Leine sped up and slid into place two car lengths behind her. Even if the woman suspected a tail, she wouldn't know which of the cars to watch in the confusion of headlights behind her. They drove several miles before the Honda changed lanes. Leine checked her mirrors, waiting for an opening.

  None of the bastards would let her in. Finally, a break opened up and she moved right. The Honda was several cars ahead of her, one lane over. Leine tensed, ready to slide right, waiting for the car's next move.

  A tandem trailer big rig rumbled next to her, temporarily obscuring her view of the Honda. Pissed, Leine stomped on the accelerator in an attempt to get around the front of the mammoth truck, but the asshole matched her speed. Leine immediately took her foot off the gas and let the rig pass. As soon as he'd cleared her front bumper, Leine hooked into the far right lane, ignoring the chorus of honks behind her. Realization dawned on her as she searched traffic for the familiar taillights.

  The red Honda had disappeared.

  CHAPTER 20

  “ALMOST. THERE. ALMOST—ahhh.”

  Peter stepped away from Tina's naked backside and pulled several tissues from a box on his desk. As he cleaned himself, Tina turned around, a pout on her heavily made-up face.

  “Excuse me, Wonder Boy, but you didn't get anywhere near taking care of Mi
ss Tina.” She slid backward onto the desk and spread her legs with a wicked grin, pointing at her pubis. With a sigh, Peter finished buckling his trousers, grabbed his chair and rolled it in front of her.

  If she wasn't so accommodating, he'd probably opt for paying a call girl. He didn't have time for this reciprocal shit.

  He took a swig of water from a glass on his desk and sat in the chair, positioning himself for maximum air flow. A few seconds into what he figured was the best tongue action this side of the Mississippi, someone knocked at the door.

  “No—don't answer!” Tina whispered as she grabbed the back of his head.

  Happy for a distraction, he pushed her hand away and looked up. “Who is it?” he called.

  “It's Gene, boss. The senator's here to see you.”

  “No problem, Gene. Hold on a sec—”

  Tina shoved him away and jumped off the table with a scowl, repositioning her mini skirt so it covered the essential parts. Peter hit the hidden button under the edge of his desk and the door swung open to reveal Gene and the senator. Tina picked up her purse and walked toward them, giving the senator a provocative once-over before she sashayed out the door.

  “Tina,” the senator said, with a nod. He smiled as he watched her leave, then turned to Peter.

  “Thanks, Gene,” he called over his shoulder as he shut the door in his face.

  Peter leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “To what do I owe the surprise visit, senator?”

  Runyon chose one of the chairs across from Peter's desk and sat down, anxiety having replaced the affable senator façade.

  “I'm being blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  “One of your goddamned contestants, Heather.”

  “You're tapping Heather? Really? I'd have pegged you as more of a tit man, myself.”

  “This is no laughing matter, Pete. If my wife finds out, she'll destroy me.” He leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “I think she's been talking to a publisher in New York.”

  Peter had to stifle a laugh at the senator's expression. He pasted a look of concern on his face, trying to act sympathetic.

  “What's she asking for?”

  “A house on the beach in Malibu and a Mercedes SL, for starters.” The senator threw his hands up. “Christ, Pete, she's not even that good in the sack. Not like Mandy…” His voice trailed off. He looked at Peter expectantly.

  Well, dick wad, if you thought twice before dipping your wick into any old pussy, you might avoid this kind of unpleasant scenario. A bad taste had formed in Peter's mouth and it wasn't from Tina.

  “Can't you pay her off? Give her a chunk of change and have her sign a confidentiality agreement?”

  Runyon shook his head. “Tried that. Shank suggested it. She's not budging. Says it's the car and the beach house or she goes to the press.”

  “Okay, say she goes to the press. So what? It's a ripple in a big pond. There's no evidence, right?”

  Runyon's face told him otherwise.

  “What's she got on you?”

  The senator took a deep breath. “Video.”

  Peter nodded, fascinated by the senator's stupidity. “Yeah, that'd be tough to shoot down.”

  “That's not all, Pete. Not by a long shot.”

  “Really? What else?” Could Runyon have shared his bizarre proclivities with another person other than Peter? If true, he deserved whatever he got. Peter half-expected to see his name listed in the Darwin awards.

  “She enjoyed, shall we say, unusual pastimes. I thought I'd found my sexual soul mate, I truly did.” He buried his head in his hands. “I never thought she'd betray me. Not when we were so well matched.”

  No fucking way. Heather was not that much of a freak. Peter sighed and closed his eyes. She was one of the favorites on the show. If he got rid of her, ratings would go down, although he couldn't be sure how far. He'd be able to fire her for breach of contract, since it stated contestants were not to participate in outside romantic relationships during the show's season, but it would leave the senator vulnerable and Peter couldn't afford to do that—yet.

  He could add to the offer from the senator, but it might leave them both with their dicks in the dirt, as well as open the show up for further liability.

  A surprising idea occurred to Peter, but he brushed it aside.

  The idea came back.

  “Let me think about this, Senator. I'm sure there's something we can do. Give me a little time to work it out.”

  Runyon rose from his chair. “Don't take too long, Pete. She wants an answer by next week.”

  “No problem. Leave it to me.”

  ***

  Gene Dorfenberger swallowed the Xanax dry. His sister, Ella, had been pressuring him to talk Brenda out of acting on the show since it appeared she held no sway over her daughter, at least on this issue. When Gene protested, Ella demanded he do something or she threatened to beat his ass into next Tuesday.

  He had no doubt she'd make good on her threat, but didn't have the heart to disappoint his niece. She'd been so radiant the first few days on set, he couldn't bring himself to give her Ella's ultimatum. Besides, Brenda was a grown woman. She needed her independence. That's what he told himself, although the real reason ran much deeper. He'd tried to assuage Ella's fears by telling her he kept an eagle eye on her, but she laughed and told him it was funny he thought of himself as a protector, after his good-for-nothing life.

  Ella was essentially a good woman, but overbearing to a fault. She was certain Serial Date harbored a den of iniquity and God only knew she couldn't have her daughter participating in the Devil's work.

  Gene remembered when they were kids she would paddle him hard after he did some horrible thing young boys tended to do. Their parents had only to invoke the words, “Your sister will be home soon—” and he'd stop whatever the offending action was and be as good as he could until caught the next time. Ella enjoyed her role as enforcer. More often than not Gene ended up as the bad guy.

  Still do, he thought.

  There was also the specter of the second dead contestant. They may have buried Stacy's body parts, but Gene was still waiting for the other leg to drop, so to speak. The killer wasn't finished and it scared the shit out of him. His unpredictability contributed the most to Gene's sleepless nights. He lived in abject fear Brenda would be next on the list. The letter he'd found under Stacy's hand disappeared with the body parts, but Gene had committed the words to heart.

  Gene was musing about how he could get out from under Ella's thumb on his way to listen to a read-through of the script when Paula stopped him in the hallway.

  “A package came for you this morning.” She smiled. “It's like one Leine got yesterday with no return address, but a different woman delivered it to the set. I left it on your desk.”

  “Thanks, Paula. You say Leine got one, too?”

  Paula nodded. “Yeah. She told me to call if any more came for her.”

  Without a word, Gene did an about-face and headed to his office.

  The plain cardboard box perched on top of his desk. He took a pen from his pocket and sliced through the packing tape. Lifting the flaps he glanced inside, at first thinking someone had sent him some kind of seafood. Soon, the realization dawned on him and he stepped back, appalled.

  A piece of paper had been taped to the underside of one of the flaps. Gene peeled it off, fighting a panic attack.

  Gene, you moron. I know you told her. Let this be fair warning. Your niece is no longer off-limits. If I don't get what I want, she will be next.

  P.S. I saved you the best part

  Gene wiped the perspiration off his forehead as fear scuttled down his back. Steeling himself, he summoned the courage to glance inside the box once more, to be sure of what he'd seen.

  About the size of a fist and artfully positioned on a bright green bed of bok choy with a few cherry tomatoes strewn around it, lay a glistening, red human heart.

  CHAPTER 21<
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  “WHERE THE HELL is my daughter?”

  Gene's head snapped up from the L.A. Times as Ella's imposing bulk headed straight toward him. On his feet in record time he backed up, papers sliding to the floor as he knocked over several lunchroom chairs in his attempt to get out of her way.

  It didn't work.

  Ella hoisted her huge Coach handbag and took a fierce swing at his head. She missed, but delivered a glancing blow to his forearm.

  “Christ, Ella—take it easy, will you?” Gene tried to grab hold of the lethal accessory, but only latched onto a bulky corner, slowing its upward trajectory as she launched it toward his privates.

  “I will not take it easy, Gene. Brenda is coming home with me, now. I don't care if she signed a damned contract. My baby does not work for Satan. No sir!”

  A sight to behold, Ella towered over him, breathing heavily with hands on hips, legs apart in a fighter's stance and a murderous look in her dark eyes. Gene backed up as far as the break room wall would let him.

  “What're you talking about? It's a reality show, for chissakes. She's not doing anything wrong…”

  “Oh, HELL to the no.”

  It was as though someone let a wild animal loose after hours of taunting. With an unearthly growl, Ella raised her bag, spun her considerable girth a half-turn on her left foot and whirled back toward Gene with the full fury of a thousand outraged mothers.

  His knees buckled from the pain and he went down like a lead weight. Gene rolled onto his back and shook his head to clear his vision, eyeing her warily from the floor where he decided he'd best remain until reason had once again visited his sister.

  Evidently satisfied she'd taken care of the first order of things she blocked his exit, fists curled, anger radiating off her in waves.

  “Where the fuck is my daughter, Gene?”

  With a heavy sigh, Gene pointed toward the door leading to the hallway.

  “Out the door to the right, third hallway on your left. She's in the dressing room getting fitted for next week's show.”