Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (17 page)

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.

Tina appeared disproportionately pleased with the offering and answered him with something equally nauseating. Azazel bit down savagely on his triple-bypass burger, cursing the writers' inane dialogue.

Good God. I would never be as lame as that. A single rose? You've got to make an impression, not be a dweeb. And, this Javier person is no serial killer, obviously. She'd be a lifeless cocoon by now, if he had any balls.

Azazel polished off the French fries and the other half of the hamburger and sucked down the sixty-four ounce cola as he watched the rest of the dreary farce, growing more incensed with every minute of show time. What they needed was a consultant. Someone who understood killers and could lend some credibility to the dialogue. Like they did with lawyers on legal dramas and law enforcement on cop shows. He'd offered his services, not even mentioning compensation, but Peter Bronkowski never even acknowledged his proposal.

Now Javier and Tina were in the pool, sipping tropical drinks with little orchid blossoms. A butler appeared, carrying a tray of canapés and assorted cheeses, with a nice little cheese slicer.

There, Azazel thought.
The perfect time to slit her throat.
The floating blood would have been absolutely ethereal in the existing pool light, not to mention easy to clean. Just drain the pool. A little bleach and you're done. Azazel punched his fists on the arms of his chair and yelled at the T.V. “Cut her throat you fucking idiot—” But Javier merely sliced off a morsel of camembert and
fed it to her
.

“Gag me.” Azazel made a retching sound, never taking his eyes off the screen.

Soon, he was screaming at the show, his blood pressure spiking with every word. The force began to build inside of him, making its presence known. His deep guilt over gorging on fast food didn't help matters. He couldn't stop himself from bingeing on the artery-clogging crap. It was Azazel's dirty little secret and it vexed him to no end. He took a deep breath and forced himself to turn off the T.V.

After a few moments he calmed down and could feel the force's power ebb. He swiveled back to his computer monitor and saw that none of her information had changed. Madeleine's car was still at the studio and he still didn't have a signal from her phone. She'd probably gone out somewhere with her co-workers.

Perhaps she inadvertently let the battery die? He hoped not. That would mean he was wrong about her abilities. A less worthy opponent. Careless.

No, she wouldn't have allowed it. Not when he'd assured her she'd be able to talk with her daughter once he'd verified the kill. Curious.

He would have to teach her a lesson in promptness. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he texted Gwen.

Chapter 26

The dark figures
reached for her, their long, sharp fingers resembling talons, closing in as she ran without destination. All around her swirling, misty shadows danced, impeding escape as though she were mired in quicksand. She glanced behind her and realized one of them had closed the distance. Her pursuer was familiar…yet she couldn't quite make out his face. Until he closed the gap another step.

The Frenchman, with a gaping wound across his neck. Blood flowed like a river down the front of his shirt.

She opened her mouth to scream.

Leine sat up, gasping. She shivered, remembering the dream. Confused, she scanned her surroundings. The dark room was unfamiliar at first and she tensed, wondering where the hell she was. She then became aware of the dull, throbbing ache behind her eyes.

Oh, yeah. My date with José
.

As the fog of a night of too much tequila began to clear, she realized she was in Jensen's apartment on his couch, though still wasn't sure how she got here.

She groaned as she pulled off the blanket and sat up. A feeling she was forgetting something important gnawed at the edge of her brain, but she gave up trying to remember when nothing came.

Bits and pieces of the night debuted in a jumbled, dissociative mess. Leine hung her head in her hands, pleading with the pain to stop. Her tongue felt like a carpet. She stood, intending to go to the kitchen for a glass of water, but instead put her hand out to steady herself as the blood rushed to her head and the floor pitched hard to the left. She leaned against the arm of the couch and sucked in a breath. After a few minutes the apartment stopped moving. She glanced toward Jensen's room but decided against waking him. He saw her drunk last night. He didn't need to see her hung over now.

She reached for the strap on her purse by the couch when she remembered what was so important.

Azazel. He was going to call her when he received the hand as confirmation. Alarm swept through her as she dug inside her purse for her phone. She entered her password and checked incoming calls. The last entry read Private Caller.

The memory of disabling the GPS on her phone while she sat at the bar drowning herself in booze floated to the surface. She started to pull up the application to turn it back on but decided to wait until she was well away from Jensen's apartment.

What if he overreacted and killed April? The dread oozed through the hammering in her head and she found it hard to breathe.
My God. What have I done?

Think, Leine. He's trying to lure you in.
His actions screamed classic cat and mouse. The only card available to him was her daughter. He wanted his revenge, of that she was sure. The only way he could manipulate her was by dangling April in front of her as a carrot. He's not going to kill her until he has you.

But first, she needed to get out of the apartment before Jensen woke up. She slid her shoes on and folded the blanket, laying it on the couch. Then she slipped out the door and closed it gently behind her.

***

She caught a cab to the Happy Mermaid to pick up her car. Little by little, the night's fog cleared as she drove, and she ran through events in her mind, trying to remember as much as possible. She cringed at the memory of her call to Eric. Shit. Now he'd know she was in the area.

Not only that, but she threatened him with the information Carlos compiled before he died. Stupid, Leine.
Why don't you just paint a bulls-eye on your back?
There were several ways for Eric to find out where she lived; she'd filed a W-4 with the IRS for her job as security on Serial Date, and she'd used her married name to rent both cars. A quick rummage in her purse located the burn phone. She removed the battery, rendering it untraceable. She'd be safe in the car, for a while.

She found her smartphone next and decided to activate the GPS once she'd switched cars, hoping Azazel would assume hardware failure. She comforted herself with the knowledge that he needed April alive. For now.

The dead tranny's Facebook page popped, unbidden, into her mind, crowding out more pressing concerns. She'd felt a twinge of guilt for having made the mistake of cutting off the hand, but told herself she needed to do it to save a life. Besides, Tanya, or Ted, hadn't felt a thing.

Rita had pinged her location while they were sitting at the bar, letting her friends know where she was. Could April have done something similar? Leine wasn't even sure she had a Facebook page, much less whether she was into social networking.

Leine stayed offline except for an email account with an alias. With her previous line of work, she didn't want or need an Internet presence. As a result, social networking wasn't the first avenue she thought to pursue in locating her daughter. She gripped the steering wheel. Her stomach churned with the frustration of not knowing April the way most mothers would know their daughters. She pushed the emotions aside and concentrated on this slender thread of a lead.

She pulled into the show's lot and parked next to her other car. Then she slid the tablet out of its sleeve, turned it on and surfed to the Facebook login page. There she entered April's name in the search bar. Two possibilities appeared, and April was one of them. Her page was only accessible to 'friends'. Leine racked her brain, trying to come up with the name of a friend or two of April's to search. The only person she remembered was the kid who lived next door to them when Carlos was still alive: Cory. April and he had been inseparable, playing pirates and making each other walk the plank off the diving board in the pool every chance they got.

Leine entered his name and got back several results. She scrolled down the list and checked each photograph, hoping to find someone who resembled him. Her heart beat faster when she recognized one of the pictures near the bottom of the list.

Years older, Cory still had an endearing nerdy look, all the way down to his thick black hipster glasses. Leine clicked on his picture and was taken to his page. Using an alias she set up a Facebook account and sent him a message referencing the pirate stuff and signing it 'April's mom, Leine'. Then she did a search for a phone number, but he wasn't listed.

She put the tablet aside with a sigh. There wasn't much else she could do now except drive home and wait for Azazel's call.

And hope Cory emailed her back.

***

Leine turned into her driveway, got out and locked the car. She walked to the front door but stopped short of inserting her key in the lock. The place felt different.

Puzzled, she searched in the dim light of early dawn for anything out of place, inching her way along the porch. Her empty flower pot hadn't moved, the cobwebs trailing off of it were still evident. Faint footprints were visible in the dust of the painted floor, but could've been hers or April's. When she reached the picture window, she glanced inside.

To the casual observer, the living room appeared normal; the couch and chairs were in their usual places, a magazine lay open on the coffee table, waiting for her return.

But there was one thing out of place: the couch cushions. Leine's habit was to face the zippers toward the back of the couch. The end of one of the zippers was visible on the center cushion.

Leine retraced her steps to the entry and carefully ran her hand along the upper section of the window. She did the same to the top and sides of the front door. Halfway up on the left-hand side of the door, she found what she was looking for.

She bent closer to get a better look. A small device, no larger than the tip of a pen, had been attached to the wood next to the door handle. A similar-sized piece was secured to the doorknob.

Leine had used the same wireless nano-trigger for a hit in Brussels several years ago. Interrupt the connection between the device and receptor by turning the handle, and kaboom. There wouldn't be enough left of her to identify.

Eric's been here.

Azazel wouldn't be able to secure that kind of technology. Leine doubted many outside of her old agency would have access to or even knowledge of its existence.

Didn't take him long to find me, she mused.
At least he didn't get the folder.

Leine backed away from the porch and got into her car.