Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (12 page)

Chapter 18

Jensen hit speed
dial on his cell phone. After several rings, Leine's voicemail picked up. For the third time, he left a message asking her to call him.

Why isn't she picking up?
She wouldn't avoid him. Not after the night they'd had together.
Maybe she's dealing with her daughter, butthead. Leave her alone. Give her some space.

This was an entirely new experience for Santiago Jensen, babe-magnet detective, as Putnam liked to call him. Usually it was Jensen avoiding the phone calls.

All day, he'd been unable to concentrate for any length of time before she would invade his thoughts and it was pissing him off. His problem reminded him of what the junkies always said. The dearth of the drug in their system induced a need so deep, the only thing to turn it off was more of whatever they didn't have.

He knew how they felt.

His phone hit the wall with a thud. Putnam was walking back from the john and leaned against the desk, a wide grin on his face.

“Thinkin' 'bout the broad again, eh, Jensen?” When Jensen didn't respond, Putnam crossed his arms, a frown on his face and took a good, long look at his partner.

“Something else bothering you?”

“It's nothing,” Jensen replied. “Worried about the case, is all.” He'd hear no end of it if he admitted his obsession to Putnam.

“Bullshit. Some homeless babe got picked up by a couple of freaks and she escaped. End of story.”

“Yeah, and a contestant on the first season of Serial Date. Doesn't that mean something to you?”

Putnam waved his hand dismissively. “We already followed up on that. Besides, Graber's still locked up. So no, it doesn't mean anything to me.”

Jensen stared at the phone on his desk, willing it to ring. Pathetic.

“I know you, Santa, and this ain't worry about a case we're working. Your sorry face tells me it's about a broad. And I'm thinking it's the same one who rocked your world the other night. What, she's not calling and falling?”

The look on Jensen's face must have given him away. Putnam's cackle of laughter erupted as he leaned over and slapped him on the shoulder. “Buddy, you gotta get a hold of yourself. Either that, or go out and drag her back to your man cave. You're off the clock. Why don't you just go?” Putnam walked away, laughing. “Ha. The swinging dick's in deep, now.”

Putnam had a point. Jensen wasn't the type of man to wait around for a phone call. He knew where she lived.

Probably find out it's nothing, he thought. He grabbed his keys and phone off the desk and left.

***

No lights were visible through the windows at Leine's place and her car was nowhere to be found. Jensen shifted into neutral and idled for a moment as he watched the house, trying to decide what to do. He tried to talk himself out of staying, but it didn't work.  He eased the car into first gear and turned off the engine.

Jensen wasn't about to admit to himself he wanted to see if she'd been out with another man.

He made himself comfortable and turned the radio on low. The classic rock station he always listened to was airing a Rolling Stones retrospective. He settled in to pass the time, accompanied by the familiar strains of
Gimme Shelter
.

He didn't have long to wait. Her green sedan pulled to the curb fifteen minutes later. He watched as she opened the door and climbed out, then shut and locked the car behind her. When she reached the walkway leading to the front door of the house, Jensen got out of his car and crossed the street.

“Leine.”

She stopped but didn't turn.

“You need to go.” Her voice rippled through the still evening air.

He covered the distance between them and placed his hand on her arm. She turned and he could see by the light of the street lamp she'd been crying. Surprised, he let go.

She turned and walked the rest of the way to her door, fumbling in her purse. Jensen followed slowly, not wanting to spook her.

“Listen, Leine. If there's something wrong, I can help. Just tell me.” All of his senses were heightened, being so close to her. He could feel her body heat and smell her hair, her perfume. Something by Chanel, she'd told him the other morning.

“No. You have to leave. Don't ask me to explain.” She found her key and slid it into the lock, but didn't open the door.

Jensen edged closer and placed his hand on the small of her back. She didn't move. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent and encircled her waist with his other hand, bringing her closer to him. The feel of her body against his left him unhinged and he bent his head to devour her neck, acting like a man who'd found water after days without. Her breath caught; she offered no resistance.

Her body began to relax into him and a soft moan escaped her. He continued to nuzzle her earlobe and neck, his heartbeat matching his excitement. All sense of time and space vanished. Nothing mattered except Leine.

Without warning she stiffened and pushed him away. Confused, he drew back.

“I can't see you anymore,” she said, as she unlocked the door. Before he could protest, she slipped inside and closed it, sliding the deadbolt into place.

What the fuck?
Jensen took a second to recover before knocking. He peered through the door's stained glass, her outline barely visible as she moved through the living room.

“Leine. What's wrong?” he said through the door. “Talk to me. I can help you, whatever happened. Trust me.”

She paused for a moment, then disappeared from view.

Jensen stepped back, staring at the door. His inherent belief in himself and his abilities rose to the surface to smash any self-doubt the encounter may have summoned. He'd never had a woman turn him down. The only acceptable explanation was she'd gotten in deep and didn't want to involve him.

He returned to his car determined to find out what kind of trouble had found her.

***

Leine sank against her bedroom door, fighting the urge to go after Jensen. There was work to do and she couldn't risk involving him. She glanced at the detection equipment stored in a case on her bed, ready to go. Purchased that afternoon from an old contact downtown, the guy gave her the agency discount after she told him she was freelancing.

She'd swept her car and smart phone earlier. Both were live, along with her watch. An inexpensive Timex and second rental car soon followed.

Keeping the lights off in case Azazel installed video, Leine made a sweep of the house, noting where the signal indicated a possible plant. It didn't surprise her he'd employed both audio and video feeds. What did surprise her was the sophistication of the hardware. Most amateurs wouldn't have a clue how to position the minute cameras and microphones for optimal observation. Except for her detached, one-car garage, her entire house was one giant surveillance system.

That's how he knew about April. And about my former life.
She slid the kit onto the upper shelf in her closet and parked herself on the bed to think. If she disabled the bugs, Azazel would know and Leine didn't understand him enough yet to predict his reaction. Her daughter's life was on the line. She couldn't risk it. Besides, if she played it right she might be able to work the feeds to her advantage.

She walked out to the detached garage and turned on the new tablet she'd purchased that morning. First, she memorized the directions for Nadja Imports, then went to Google Earth to map her exit strategy. Another site from her old life gave her the building's floor plan from a recent remodel permit. Then she searched “trade guns” to get a better idea of what she was looking for, and ran a quick search for news articles regarding known Russian gang activity in L.A. Several identified incidents in the area. Her experience with the tattooed Russian was going to come in handy.

Last, she typed in the word 'Azazel'. The name came back with references to the devil and the Day of Atonement. Great name choice, Leine thought.
Day of Atonement?

Before heading back into the house, Leine stepped behind an old lawn mower and slid a keychain with one key from her pocket, unlocking the door to a small room. A single bulb illuminated several weapons stored in the small, cramped space.

Leine chose a forty-five semi-automatic with two full mags, a night vision monocle, two smaller electronic devices and a switchblade, which she strapped to her calf.

Armed with the weapons and information, Leine closed and locked the door to the room and walked back toward the house, slipping the gun and electronics under her shirt. No sense letting Azazel know where she kept the firearms.

***

The import store was dark except for a couple of burglary-deterrent spots in the front showroom. Leine watched the entrance for activity before she drove down a block and parked. She made her way up the alley to the back of the building, avoiding the pools of light cast by the intermittent street lamps. Dressed in black, she all but disappeared in the shadows.

A security camera stood watch above the well-lit back door. Leine scanned the surrounding area for additional security. Not seeing any, she edged closer to the building. A loading bay door stood next to a separate man door, which appeared to be made of solid metal and had an electronic keypad mounted near the handle.

She aimed one of the electronic devices she'd brought toward the camera, jamming the feed. The

camera's security light blinked twice and she closed the distance to the door. Keeping the device pointed at the video equipment with one hand, she slid the second device into a slot on the keypad with the other. Then she pulled out her phone and entered a pre-programmed sequence of numbers. Its amber light blinked once as electronic impulses scrambled the code. A pause of a few seconds was followed by a click. The red light on the keypad blinked off.

Leine retrieved the electronic lock pick and inched the door open. The immediate area was clear. She stepped into the dark interior and slid the small night vision monocle over one eye. Shipments on wood pallets covered in shrink-wrap littered the cavernous room's concrete floor. Deep shelves filled with various decorative items lined two of the walls. The flashlight's beam illuminated a hallway to her left.

She passed a pair of bathrooms and a utility closet before she found the office. The light under the door stopped her cold. As Leine took stock of the situation, a cold, hard gun barrel pressed against her temple.

Chapter 19

“
Who are you
and why shouldn't I kill you?”

Leine pegged the accent as Ukrainian. She answered him back in his language.

“Would you have the blood of a friend on your hands?”

The gun eased off a few inches. The man stepped beside her and peered into her face.

“I know you?”

His breath stank of garlic and onions and bad gums. He was blonde, medium height and had massive shoulders with no neck. 'Roid boy, she thought. Leine matched his stare.

“We know some of the same people.” Leine searched her memory for the news articles she'd seen earlier. “Zaretsky was my cousin.” She felt secure invoking his name; his entire contingent had been wiped out in a brutal takedown by a rival faction the previous May.

'Roid boy wasn't all the way convinced, but the gun dropped an inch.

“You knew Gregor?” He turned to look down the hallway, toward the loading bay. “How did you get in? The door was locked. I make sure—”

As he turned back toward her, Leine wrenched the gun from his hand, twisted his arm up between his shoulder blades and shoved the barrel against his neck, under his chin. Thankfully, his over achievement in the physical arena hadn't been matched in the mental.

“We're going to go into the office, now. How many?”

When he didn't answer right away, she yanked his arm higher, pressing the gun hard enough to make him swallow. He grunted in pain.

“Two.”

She shoved him the few steps to the door marked Private.

“You first,” she said. “Make one move I don't like and I'll kill you.”

He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. A fair-haired man with long legs sat in a club chair on the left. Another man, more compact with a darker complexion, sat at a desk. Both were laughing at something one of them just said. They looked toward the door in unison. Leine knew the exact moment they realized their friend was a hostage; their smiles faded and they both reached for their guns.

“Do it and he's dead.”

The fair-haired one glanced at the man seated behind the desk, who eased his hand off the semi-automatic lying front of him. He leaned back, a calculating look in his eyes. The fair-haired man mirrored him.

The room was a typical office; a desk flanked by two club chairs, filing cabinets along one wall, with a copier and a safe along another. On the wall to Leine's right hung a gold-leafed crèche, spanning well over three feet. Another wall showcased a painting of several wolves in a snow-laden forest, blood dripping from their mouths, staring at the viewer from a recent kill. Leine was only interested in the object displayed behind the desk; a long barreled gun, similar to the pictures she'd seen earlier.

“What can we do for you?” The dark haired man's accent was definitely Russian, probably near Moscow. He remained still, his eyes riveted on Leine and his gunman.

“Toss your weapons over here. Now.”

They glanced at each other. The Russian shrugged, leaned over and slid his gun across the floor. The other man followed suit. Leine kicked them both out of the reach of the Ukrainian.

Leine nodded at the wall behind the desk. “I want the gun.”

The Russian swiveled in his chair to look at the piece. When he turned back, a smile played at the edges of his mouth.

“Now why would you want an old, rusted gun when we have a warehouse filled with many more valuable things?” He shook his head in disbelief and added, “It doesn't even fire.”

“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.