by D. V. Berkom
Jensen held her bag so she could see it. “Right here.”
He slipped the strap over her head, draped her arm around his shoulders and half-dragged half-carried her away from the Happy Mermaid under the curious stares of Cher and company.
CHAPTER 24
AZAZEL SHUDDERED AND slashed viciously at the cobwebs that had appeared in the stairwell since the day before. He stopped for a moment to collect himself. Where did he leave off? Oh yes. Eleven.
Sissy will pay for this. He resumed counting the stairs to the bottom. Not that she'd mind. The silly bitch did anything he told her to do. His specific orders had been that the stairwell was to remain spotless. The cobwebs needed to be confined to the lower level. He positioned his special respirator to make sure there was a tight seal before he unlocked the door to the basement.
Careful to quickly close and lock the door behind him so only a small amount the basement air could escape to the upper levels, he counted seventeen steps to another door with two dead bolts. He liked the way the mask made him sound like Darth Vader from Star Wars. Azazel had an inexplicable fear of breathing the hallway air in the basement. Once he entered any of the rooms, he was fine and would remove the mask. As with most things, Azazel wasn't one to examine his neuroses, preferring to accept himself the way he was.
The bluish light from a small, single pane window cast the dark space in an eerie hue. He rather liked the effect. Made it scarier for his guests. And really, wasn't it all about the experience? Azazel liked his visitors to get their money's worth.
He remembered his older brother taking him to one of those home grown haunted houses at Halloween when he was younger, and how disappointed he'd been when the bloodied zombies and Frankensteins turned out to be actors. Really? He paid good money for this? Later, after he'd come back, he always regretted not sticking around to see the expressions on the paying visitor's faces when they realized those actors weren't acting anymore.
Now that's your money's worth.
Azazel unlocked both dead bolts and slipped through the door. To his left stood a commercial grade walk-in freezer. A down jacket hung on a hook next to the door. He removed the mask, shrugged on the coat and pulled the stainless steel handle to open the door. A single bulb blinked on, illuminating the carcasses he'd hung from hooks attached to the freezer's ceiling.
As he picked up the cordless Sawzall from its place on the shelf and carved off a section of thigh from his latest acquisition, he reminisced about his father telling him how he'd never tasted anything so good as a barbequed veal, not yet sullied by pollution or age. Of course, his father had been speaking of beef, but Azazel figured it related to his favorite type of meat, as well.
He left the leg intact, planning to use the bones in soup later that week. The flavor married well with split peas and Cajun seasoning. He ripped a sheet of white butcher paper from a roll and wrapped the cut, securing it with a piece of tape, just like the butcher at home used to do. Then he set it on the bench, next to another bag near the door, reminding himself not to forget.
His father had been intrigued when he'd discovered Azazel's predilection for killing. In his line of work, a killer in the family cut down considerably on expenses. Dad put Azazel on the payroll and for the next several years he enjoyed high rank and good pay, his talents recognized and respected. He lost count of the number of occasions when his father's associates would come to him for advice.
And then, his father was murdered. The dark, sticky rage Azazel felt as a result of his death would only lessen in intensity when he killed. He'd decided that until he avenged his father, anyone was fair game. He reverted to his default hatred from when he was a kid: actors. That threw open a whole new creative narrative in the form of the basement of horrors. Actors were always looking for work.
Easy, peasy prey.
Azazel picked up the bag from the bench that didn't contain dinner, slipped the mask back over his face and stepped out of the freezer. He resumed counting steps as he walked past the metal chains attached to the bloodied wall, past the room with the gurney and autopsy tools. Unfortunately, the last actor he'd “hired” to play a patient had hung himself and Azazel hadn't replaced him yet.
So hard to find good help these days.
The next room was his favorite. The keys came out again and Azazel unlocked the door. Lesser minds could have their obviously inferior Chainsaw Massacre rip-off. Azazel preferred a more modern type of torture. Besides the medical instruments in the other room, he had acquired several implements from a home improvement store. He'd felt like the proverbial kid in a candy shop; pruning shears, log splitters, drills, routers. So many tools to choose from. His imagination ran wild as he gleefully paid for it all with his airline credit card, racking up miles in the process.
There was nothing quite like watching someone scream in pain as you snipped off their fingers with a pipe cutter. The best, the one he was saving for her, was the Maxi Grind Oscillating 8400 Multi-tool. Lighter than most rotary tools, it was sleek and elegant. He'd only used it once before when he thought he'd found his father's killer. Sadly, it had been a case of mistaken identity, but what a show!
He walked over to a large dog kennel at the far end of the room.
“How's my little bait fish today?” he crooned as he bent closer, smiling.
April's hand shot out of the small trap door at the top of the cage. Azazel ducked as the flash of metal arced across his cheek, barely missing his eye. He seized her fingers and squeezed until the rusty knife blade fell to the floor.
“Where'd you get this?” he demanded, feeling the dampness on his face where the blood oozed from a stinging cut. April remained silent, blazing hatred evident in her eyes.
He leaned over and picked up the piece of metal, thankful for his recent tetanus shot. A quick glance of her surroundings didn't tell him where she'd managed to find it. Gwen had only been feeding her smoothies, so no knife had been needed. April hugged her knees to her chest and scowled. Azazel cocked his head to one side, considering her. No, he would not let her ruin his day. Too much was going right. He took a deep breath and imagined his anger sinking down a grounding cord, deep into the earth. Like what his therapist told him to do. Right before he gutted her for breakfast.
“I see I'm going to have to watch you more closely.” He stepped back to gauge the distance of the cage in relation to other pieces within the room. Nothing looked close enough for her to reach. Pocketing the weapon, he made a mental note to have Gwen double check to make sure the small door on the kennel was always secure.
“Guess who you get to talk to tonight?” When April didn't answer, he continued with a grin, “Your mother. Aren't you excited?”
April glared at him. “I couldn't care less about my mother.” She practically spit the words.
“My, you are an ungrateful little girl, aren't you? Then I'm sure you'll be happy to stick around and watch when I show Mom the utmost in hospitality.” He glanced toward the tool table. “The cries of pain are delish,” he said, as a small shiver spiraled down his back.
In the beginning, he'd tried to frighten April, but the girl lacked fear. He wondered if it had something to do with being the daughter of a murderer. He would've liked to have gotten to know her better before he killed her, but having similar DNA as his father's executioner nipped that in the bud.
“You need to play nice, or my little plan won't happen the way I've envisioned. Do what I say and I won't make you suffer.” Much, anyway.
“Fuck you.”
Azazel shrugged and started to walk away, the bag still in his hand.
“Oh—I almost forgot.” He turned back and showed it to her. “You might be interested to know, your mother and I have a lot in common. She recently proved how closely she and I are linked. Why, we're practically soul mates.” He leaned closer to the cage, though not too close, and lowered his voice, “She's one of the chosen, you know. It's in the blood.”
He opened the sack and showed her the sev
ered hand. “Your mother killed. At my request.” Azazel closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the triumph. She'd been reticent, but eventually succumbed to his obvious cunning and superiority, as he knew she would.
Images of Leine flashed through his mind, interspersed with those of his mother and scenes from his childhood. His mother, singing off-tune in the bathtub. The day of her funeral, when his father gave him that look, as though he wasn't sure to believe him when he told him he didn't kill her. The time he was almost caught by a neighbor with the lifeless body of his first community theater actor—the one who called in that awful performance of Dr. Jekyll. Pictures of Leine; in her kitchen, her bathroom, standing on her porch and next to her garage.
The familiar rage began a slow boil in his stomach, clenching, curling, slicing its way up through his chest and into his head where the voices could only be silenced by taking life.
By God, he was hard.
He opened his eyes, the urge to snap April's neck overwhelming. He felt powerful, invincible. Not yet. You need her. Remember the plan.
Was that a flicker of fear on April's face? Sissy commented once on the intensity in his eyes whenever 'the force' surfaced. Good, he thought. She needed to be brought to heel.
CHAPTER 25
JENSEN PULLED INTO his parking spot in the garage and turned off the ignition. Leine sat with her head propped against the window, a gentle snore emanating from her open mouth. He sighed, wondering how he was going to get her up to his apartment. It was too far to carry her. He was going to have to wake her up.
She wasn't the most willing participant. He made the mistake of leaning her against the wall once they were in the elevator and she slid to the floor with a giggle. As he bent over and hauled her to her feet, he had to admit she was a charming drunk. She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a messy kiss on the cheek.
“Y'know, you're one sexy detective…” she purred. Her gaze appeared unfocused as she took a step back, concern evident on her face. Jensen prepared to move to the side in case she blew chunks. After a couple of tense moments, the spell evidently passed and her face relaxed as she leaned her head on his shoulder and sighed.
“Nice to see you, Santa.” The name brought another giggle. “I've got a little present for Mr. Santa man, yes I do.” She tried to wink, but it looked more like a squint. “Jus' gotta unwrap it…”
“Sounds terrific. Let's get you to bed first. We can talk about your wrapping later.” The elevator doors rolled open; Jensen pivoted and draped her arm across his shoulders. They made their way down the hallway to his apartment where he braced her against the doorjamb, hanging on to keep her from ending up on the floor. She fell against him, laughing.
He hauled her inside and deposited her on the couch, then locked the door behind them. Walking back to the couch he knelt in front of her and removed her sandals. Then he slid her purse off her arm and set it aside. Her head fell back onto the upper edge of the couch and her mouth went slack.
Did I say charming? Jensen leaned forward and patted her cheek, using a bit more force when she didn't respond. She lifted her head and opened one eye, giving him a sleepy grin.
“Must've dozed off.” She studied him for a moment, then looked down at his hands, resting on her thighs. “You're so warm,” she pulled him up from the floor so he was sitting next to her and snuggled under his arm. Jensen unfolded the blanket he kept on the back of the couch and wrapped it around her. She sighed contentedly and burrowed deeper into his arms.
“You remind me of Carlos,” she whispered.
He reached over and gently brushed aside a lock of hair that fell across her face. Her breathing became more even as she fell asleep.
“What's your story, Leine? Why can't you trust me?” And who's Carlos? The tenderness he felt as he held her surprised him. Great. Just what you need, Santa. Fall in love with someone you had sex with once and hardly know.
And someone who wasn't what she seemed.
His concern for her had only increased with his surveillance. She used a different car, leaving the other one in the parking lot of Serial Date. Why would she keep two? If she was bored with one, she could switch to another at the rental agency. This suggested she was attempting to deceive and/or evade someone, but who? He assumed it wasn't him. There'd be no point. She'd already told him in no uncertain terms she couldn't see him again.
He'd followed her to the corner where she met with the hooker. They stopped at what he assumed was the hooker's apartment before heading to the bus station. As soon as the bus left, Leine drove to the hospital. She didn't stay long, maybe twenty minutes, before returning to her car carrying a plastic bag. Then she left the hospital and drove to a strip mall on Wilshire where she entered a Mails Plus store with the bag. She returned to her car empty handed.
In his mind, Jensen argued it could all be a misunderstanding. Everything except the second car. Maybe she knew the hooker and she was helping her out. And maybe she was visiting a sick friend at the hospital, although she left through a side door well after the fire alarm had been activated. Hospital staff probably asked her to evacuate. What was in the package? Maybe she was helping her friend out, mailing something for them. But why have two cars? Nothing made sense, unless she was involved in something she shouldn't be.
The theme from The Godfather began to play from inside Leine's purse. Without disturbing her, he removed his arm from around her shoulders and lowered her carefully so her head rested on a pillow. Then he readjusted the blanket so it covered most of her body.
He picked up her bag and carried it into his dining room, placing it on the table. He opened it and checked the phone's screen. Private caller. Jensen turned down the volume before setting it on the table.
Rifling through the purse he discovered another phone; this one a cheap disposable. His cop radar started spinning. He checked recent call activity, recording the numbers in a small notebook he carried. The smartphone was password protected, so he left it alone.
Along with the usual wallet, car keys, tube of lipstick and address book, he found a full magazine for a nine millimeter. He let that go. Not too unusual for someone with her past.
Something shiny on the bottom caught his eye. A key chain with a key. He was in the process of putting it back when he noticed the fob on the chain itself. He held it up to the light to take a closer look.
Jensen leaned back in his chair and stared at nothing, his mind racing. It wasn't possible. He checked the fob again. The Asian symbol was still there, etched onto the side of a 40-caliber, hollow-point bullet. The same one he'd seen years before, during the investigation of the three unsolved murders.
She couldn't have known. He didn't describe the design. Unless...
The full import of the find slammed into him, taking his breath away. Either she knew the killer, or...he didn't want to think about the 'or'. Two cars, an untraceable phone, some kind of relationship with a hooker, and now this: key evidence in three unsolved murder cases. What the fuck are you doing, Santa? She'd gotten herself involved in something which, if he wasn't careful, could complicate things. That was one hell of an understatement.
The sound of Leine shifting position on the couch broke through his thoughts. Jensen stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a plastic baggie from a drawer, into which he placed the key chain before sliding the bag into his pocket. As drunk as she was, she'd probably think she lost it that evening. He then closed the latch on the purse, walked over to the couch and set her purse next to her on the floor.
He'd have to wait until morning before she'd be in any shape to talk.
***
Azazel ended the call. Where was she? His rage simmered beneath the surface. The affront offended him deeply. She knew I was going to call. He checked his computer screen. The tracking device he'd attached to her car indicated she was still at the television studio.
She usually doesn't work this late. He switched screens and pulled up her phone's GPS coordinates. He hadn't felt
the need to check them the last few days. Like most people in L.A., Leine drove everywhere.
There was no avatar blipping on the screen in front of him. She must have disabled the GPS on her phone. He slammed his hand on the desk in frustration. The software he'd installed worked with the phone's navigation application. If disabled, the program had no way to track her. The next tab showed him a list of phone numbers she'd called. The last one had been to her dry cleaners that afternoon. Normal activity. At least he could still listen in on her conversations, although he'd have to monitor her in real time.
He checked the history on his video feeds. Nothing out of the ordinary there. He verified she hadn't somehow installed her own loop to try to deceive him. Each day was different and matched the audio. He doubted she'd had time to make distinct feeds for every day he recorded her. The muscles in his neck relaxed. She didn't know about the video or audio. That much was obvious. If so, then she probably didn't suspect the bug in her phone.
The smell from the takeout made his mouth water. He slid the bag next to him and swiveled in his chair to turn on the T.V. Using the remote, he flipped through the directory to look for his saved programs. He selected the most recent Serial Date, relaxed back in his chair and pulled out the triple bacon cheeseburger and large fries. Unable to resist, he held the sandwich up to his nose and took a deep, appreciative sniff, then settled in to watch the show.
After fast-forwarding through the show's beginning blather, one of the bachelors, Javier, presented Tina with a single, long-stemmed red rose (thornless!) as he professed his undying love for her, next to an elaborately lit backyard setting. Both were dressed in over the top evening clothes: Tina in a long, sequined strapless number and Javier in an expensive tux. Azazel snorted. It always reminded him of the campy evening soap opera from the eighties, Dynasty, the reruns of which he watched religiously.
