by D. V. Berkom
Ella straightened to her full five-feet-four inches, shifted her handbag to her shoulder and nodded at Gene, still on the floor.
“Thank you.” Head held high, she walked out the door to the right, a tsunami of destruction behind her.
Gene picked himself up and brushed at the back of his slacks, a smile of relief forming at the corners of his mouth.
***
Leine sighed as she disconnected the call. It was her third attempt at trying to locate an old contact. The woman, Keira, had worked with Leine to find several targets by hacking into their phones and laptops. She'd resigned from her cover job in the communications industry a few years back and no one knew where she'd gone. Leine left instructions to call her if anyone heard from her. Knowing Eric, he'd probably kept track of her. She'd been a brilliant asset to the company. No one except Leine and a handful of other operatives knew her identity.
She was going to have to call Eric if she couldn’t find her own resources, and time was running out.
There were major problems associated with contacting him. The first being he'd be able to track her if she called. He'd assume she was interested in working again and would try to persuade her to come back. Leine didn't have the time to dick around regarding her old life. She was done. End of story.
The second problem was harder to overcome than the first: she hated Eric with a soul-eating passion.
Eric betrayed her, tricked her into killing Carlos, then ensured her complicity by threatening her only daughter. Leine vowed she would never again put herself in such a vulnerable position. The residual effects of killing someone you loved reverberated beyond what most people could endure. Recovery, if a person could call it that, took years. She knew the raw emotion elicited merely by thinking of Eric and what he put her through could morph into something she might not be able, or willing, to control. This alone stopped her from dialing his number.
As she wrestled with her emotions her phone erupted in the mafia movie's theme song. She glanced at the screen: Private Caller. Azazel.
A glance at her watch indicated it was exactly twenty-four hours since she'd spoken with him last. She picked up the phone.
“Leine speaking.”
“Hidey-ho, Madeleine, my dear. How are you, lovey?” When she didn't answer, he continued, apparently unfazed. “Good job on the gun, by the by. Did you have to kill anyone?”
His chipper voice grated on her nerves; the Happy Cannibal act was new.
“What do you want?” It was all she could do to keep her tone civil.
“Ooh, touchy. I think you're going to be very happy with the next one. It's worth twenty points.”
Twenty. He's setting me up to fail, she thought. If I do, I drop to zero and he kills April. If I succeed, I'm over twenty-five and will be able to speak to her anyway, if he keeps his part of the bargain.
Big if.
“I think you'll find it's right up your alley.” He paused. “Ready? I need you to kill someone.”
Leine had half-expected the request, but it still felt as though someone punched her in the solar plexus. Relax, Leine. He's testing you. Stay calm.
“Who's the target?”
Azazel chuckled. “I knew you'd come around, Madeleine. Like I said, we're birds of a feather, you and me.”
She recognized the tone. Frank used it when they first met, but lost it when they started experiencing problems. Carlos had it all the time. Azazel's voice held a caress meant only for her. A sketchy idea began to form where only anger and frustration at being played once resided.
He's lonely.
The thought was something she hadn't allowed herself to consider, but now a glimmer of sunlight broke through the clouds that previously obscured hope.
This fucked-up monster of a human being is lonely. Leine smiled to herself.
She'd found a weakness.
CHAPTER 22
THE TARGET ENDED up being at the second location Leine checked—Hollywood Boulevard. The woman's blonde hair looked as though it hadn't been washed in weeks and her mini skirt and too-small tank top left little to the imagination. Heavy makeup obscured what might have been a pretty face. Stilettos completed the outfit.
Leine gauged her to be in her early to mid-twenties. She watched as she and two other young ladies in similar attire worked the various men who cruised by in their cars and rolled down their windows.
One of her friends scored and left with a paunchy-looking middle aged guy. Maria's other friend discreetly snapped a picture of the license plate with her phone. Leine pulled alongside the two women. She needed to have a word with Maria before she succeeded in finding a client.
Her friend noticed her first and nudged Maria with her elbow. Maria turned and stared at Leine with suspicion.
Leine rolled the passenger window down.
“Can I speak with Maria for a moment?”
With a backward glance at her friend, Maria walked up to the car window. “Do I know you?”
“We have a mutual acquaintance. I need to talk with you alone. It's important.” Leine smiled. “No funny business. We can stay nearby.”
Maria said something to her friend who sized Leine up as she took out her phone and snapped a picture of her license plate. Maria opened the door and got into the car.
“Good idea, in case your friend there needs to describe the vehicle, right?”
Maria nodded. “Better safe than sorry.” Leine drove a few blocks and pulled to the curb outside a flower shop.
Maria turned to look at Leine. “So what do you have to tell me? Or is this your way of getting a date?”
Leine shook her head. “I wish it was that easy.” She reached inside her bag and produced an envelope filled with cash. She showed it to her and then returned it to her purse. Maria's gaze lingered on the envelope before she dragged her focus back to Leine.
“Now that I have your attention: You need to understand what you decide to do is going to determine whether you live or die.”
Maria's expression morphed from one of surprise at the amount of money Leine showed her to one of fear and suspicion. She reached for the door handle. Her carefully manicured nails clicked against the vinyl.
“I need to go.”
Leine nodded. “I know how this sounds. Hear me out, Maria. A man we both know wants you dead. I'm here to help you stay alive, but you have to listen to me.”
“Really? Who? I haven't done anything to piss anyone off that much. My customers always leave satisfied.” Maria lifted her chin, defiant.
Acting on a hunch, Leine answered, “You've seen his face. That's enough.”
“I've seen a lot of faces. Who are you talking about?”
“I can't tell you that. I can tell you he wanted to be sure you died by fire and to somehow include a bunch of pink gerbera daisies.”
Her eyes widened. She slumped against the car door and stared out the window, her face drained of color.
“Oh, man. Callie told me the dude was bad news.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “I only went with him once. He was way too creepy.”
“Why fire?”
“He paid me to talk about what scared me the most. I told him I thought being burned to death would be the worst. It got him off.”
“And the daisies?”
“He asked me what kind of flowers I liked. I'd just seen those big daisy things in a store window the day before, so I told him that.” She stared out the window at the flower shop.
Leine's heart beat faster. “Maria, can you describe him to me, to make sure we're talking about the same guy?”
“Yeah. Tall, wiry dude. Brown hair, dark, super intense eyes. I think he said he was Cherokee. And French.”
French. He's related. “Why would you know that?”
Maria shrugged. “Gotta make small talk, right?”
“Where'd you guys go? Did he take you back to his place?”
“No. I never do that. We went to a motel down the way.”
Leine hid
her disappointment as she reached into her purse to retrieve the envelope.
“The cash comes with one stipulation. You have to use it to leave town. I don't care how you do it, but do it. This guy isn't someone you want to mess with. You have to leave tonight. If you don't I guarantee you will be dead.”
Maria stared at the money for a minute, then nodded and held out her hand.
Leine handed her the cash. “You'll need to be discreet. Make sure no one follows you. I can take you to your apartment. He doesn't know this car.”
Maria didn't reply immediately. She looked out the window for a few minutes, considering, then back at Leine.
“Go up two blocks, turn right, and follow the road about a mile. My apartment building's on the left.”
“There's no way he knows where you live?”
She shook her head. “I don't usually sleep there.”
“Good. I'll make sure you get out of town safely. Call your friend to let her know you're okay.”
After Leine helped Maria pack up her things they drove to the bus station in downtown L.A. and bought a ticket to San Francisco, where a friend of Maria's lived. Leine waited until she saw her board and the bus pull out of the station before she continued with the rest of her plan.
***
Santiago Jensen parked a few lanes down from Leine's rental and slipped inside the bus station. It was risky to follow them, but he kept to the perimeter and she didn't see him. He watched as she bought the hooker a ticket and put her on a bus for San Francisco, then he trailed her to Good Samaritan. He decided to stay in his car for this one. He'd spent enough time in hospitals.
Probably going to see a sick friend, he thought. That would explain some of the odd behavior, but it wasn't enough. He had no idea why she'd buy a hooker a bus ticket, but he was confident it would all come together. He just needed to be patient.
Jensen turned his radio on and waited.
***
The scrubs were the easy part. Leine slipped into an empty room and found several pair, neatly folded on a gurney waiting to be put away. She pulled on a set and eased the door open, checking the hallway for people. Not seeing anyone, she walked purposefully down the corridor to a door marked “Employees Only.”
Her luck held. She only had to wait a couple of minutes before a man dressed in scrubs came out. She smiled and murmured some pleasantry as he held the door for her, then walked past him into a short hallway. A door stood on each side; one for men and one for women. Leine chose the door to the women's locker room and slipped inside.
Full-length lockers lined the walls with benches in the middle. Toilet stalls and sinks were in a separate room with several showers in an adjacent space. Leine scanned the lockers, but most had combination locks on them. She walked by the lounge area where a younger woman sat on a couch, reading a magazine. She didn't look up. Leine moved quickly into the shower area.
The sound of running water led her to the far stall. A towel, a pair of slacks and underwear hung from a hook next to the shower. A plastic ID card on a cord dangled from another hook nearby. Leine slipped it into her pocket and was out the door just as the water stopped.
She took the elevator to the basement and followed the floor plan from memory to the morgue. It was unmarked but easy to find, situated next to a loading dock in the back of the hospital. Leine followed the corridor past the morgue, until she came to a fire alarm, also indicated on the floor plan. She removed two foam ear plugs from her pocket and inserted them, then pulled the alarm.
She waited until the door to the morgue opened and several employees spilled into the hallway, headed toward the nearest exit. In the ensuing chaos, no one noticed as she swiped the ID card in the reader and stepped inside.
The lights blinked on and off in the efficient white room as the alarm blared. Cold stainless steel and bleach-clean linoleum greeted her as she walked quickly through the offices into the holding area. The far wall was made up completely of body drawers. She opened several, reading the information on the toe tags until she found a cadaver about the right age. After a quick hunt in the autopsy room, she spotted a stainless tray filled with the tools of the trade. She selected a gleaming stainless bone saw and returned to the open drawer.
Folding back a portion of the sheet covering the body she assessed the hand. The fingernails sported bright pink nail polish and the fingers looked similar in size and color to Maria's, with smooth knuckles like hers. Leine judged the length of the corpse to approximate her height. She had no idea how much detail Azazel remembered about the young woman, but she wasn't taking any chances.
Leine took a deep breath as she positioned the saw at the slender wrist and began to cut. Detaching the hand took more effort than Leine planned, her concentration off because of the blinking lights and incessant alarm. Glad for the sharp blade, it reminded her of cutting up a tough chicken, but with more cartilage. If she ever had to do this kind of thing again, she thought, she'd bring an electric saw.
Once she'd severed the tendons in the wrist, she pulled an opaque plastic bag from her pocket and placed the hand inside. With a quick glance at the door, she draped the cover back over the corpse and started to close the drawer but noticed something odd and stopped.
Her heart in her throat, she carefully drew back a larger section of the covering, exposing a feminine face with a five-o'clock shadow. Further down revealed an Adam's apple. Leine didn't need to look any further. Holding her breath, she checked the information on the toe tag again.
'T. Layton' M, 27yo.
How did she miss the 'M'? Her anxiety rising, Leine fished the severed hand from the bag and placed it next to the stump. She slid the door shut and returned to her search, refusing to think about what just happened.
Even with the ear plugs, the alarm was distracting. Leine knew she was running out of time and hurriedly scanned the names, checking only those indicating a female. The fifth drawer yielded a fairly decent specimen.
The second try at severing the hand took more effort. Leine assumed the saw blade had been dulled by the first attempt. With a silent apology to both bodies she detached the dead woman's hand at the wrist and shoved it in the bag. Then she shut the drawer, returned the saw and hurried to the door leading to the hall. No one was visible. She removed the scrubs, left them on a gurney in the hallway and slipped out a side door.
***
Heather Sinclair stretched out in her bikini on the chaise longue next to the pool. The contestants on Serial Date used the outdoor pool extensively, but today she had it all to herself. Everyone else was on set, prepping for next week's show. Peter had given Heather the afternoon off, since she already shot that week's promo. Besides, when Stacy took off with Devon, it allowed Heather the chance to move into the spotlight and share top billing with Tina; which meant she didn't have to work as hard to get camera time.
She took a sip of her mojito, adjusted her sunglasses and sighed contentedly. Life was good. Her career had finally taken off. A talent scout contacted her that morning, offering a sizable contract on another reality show as soon as Serial Date wrapped. Aware she could only count on a few good years in the industry before she'd be forced to accept supporting actress roles, Heather had hustled. Blackmailing the senator was icing on the cake.
She smiled to herself. Men were so easy. Especially old, vain ones. All a girl had to do was find their Achilles' heel as her mom referred to it, and the rest fell into place. Expensive gifts, cars, and a house in Malibu. What more could a girl want? She'd emailed a link of the private YouTube video of one of her wilder encounters with Runyon to her best friend, Letitia, and to her mom in Daytona Beach for safe keeping. Both women had instructions not to release the video unless Heather asked them to.
The clear blue water beckoned and Heather languidly rose from the chaise and walked to the pool's edge. Her designer sunglasses on, she climbed down the steps into the deep end.
Careful not to get her hair wet, she breast-stroked across the pool a couple of
times. Hugging the side, she turned her back to the wall and closed her eyes, letting her head fall back to soak in the sun.
A strong hand clamped down on her head and shoved her under water. Thinking it might be one of the other contestants joking with her, she tried to swim out from under their grasp. The grip on her head tightened.
This is so not funny, Heather thought, her annoyance growing. My hair will be a mess. Wait until I see who you are, bitch. Then you won't think it's so hilarious. She clawed at the hand but realized the glove they wore lessened the impact. Her strength was no match for theirs.
Panicked, Heather doubled her efforts, but only succeeded in being thrust deeper under water. Her ferocious kicking and clawing began to lose momentum as she inhaled the first wave of chlorinated water into her lungs.
The last thing Heather saw before she lost consciousness was the gyrating, intricate shadows painted on the pool floor by the brilliant Los Angeles sun.
CHAPTER 23
PETER TURNED UP the volume on his car radio as the announcer repeated the day's big story: Heather Sinclair, a popular contestant on Serial Date, had been found early that afternoon, floating face down in the swimming pool of the house where the contestants stayed, the victim of an apparent drowning. An outpouring of emotion from fans in the form of flowers, candles and notes to the family of the deceased littered the front of the gated mansion.
Peter hadn't experienced any remorse when Gene called him confirming Heather's death, although he'd made sure to act sufficiently devastated when informed by the LAPD. The contestants aren't the only ones with acting ability, he thought.
The lack of guilt didn't worry him much. It wasn't as if he'd killed her. He'd taken care of a problem. The ease with which the suggestion presented itself should have given him pause, but it didn't. Peter refused to delve any further into his own psyche; he didn't have time. He pulled into his spot, parked his car and walked to his office, humming the last song he heard on the radio.
