Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (13 page)

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 Miss 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

“
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.”

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.