Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (2 page)

Chapter 3

Detective Santiago Jensen
was having a bad day. Not only did he and his partner, Don Putnam, draw the Serial Date murder case along with the prospect of the media climbing up into their shit, but his ex-wife was making noises that he was going to have to fork over more money to keep her in the lifestyle she deluded herself she deserved. Jensen could have kicked himself for caving in to the breast implants. She was an actress. He thought the boob job would help her secure regular employment, get her off his back. Now she thought he was the never ending spigot of wealth.

He should've bought her acting lessons.

The forensic team headed for the men's dressing room. Jensen sighed. He didn't have the energy for this. These guys were hardened criminals; they weren't going to give their permission to search the lockers easily. Luckily, Putnam was always ready for a fight. Jensen was happy to give the part-time pugilist free rein in all matters testosterone. He preferred dealing with the opposite sex.

“I see you all have padlocks on your lockers. I applaud how security conscious you actors are, but here's how this works.” Putnam watched the small group of ex-cons gathered in the room with a belligerent expression. Jensen knew he was itching for a reason to cuff somebody.  “You can give us the keys or tell us the combos and then give us consent to search, or we all stay here until individual warrants come through.”

One of the cons, a big one named Reginald, propped his foot up on the bench that ran between Putnam and the rest of them. “Fuck that. Get your warrant. I got rights.” There were several murmurs of agreement among the men. Jensen leaned against a wall of lockers, enjoying the show. Putnam's expression morphed from belligerent into what Jensen referred to as his 'happy face' which was anything but.

“Then you're gonna be here a long time. Is that what you all want?” Putnam shrugged. “Make it easy, make it hard. It's no skin off my ass.”

One of the men, a blonde-haired guy built like a brick shithouse with matinee idol looks stepped forward and said, “I got nothing to hide. Go ahead and search.”

“Shut up, Graber,” a guy next to him hissed. Graber turned to him with a look that said,
don't mess with me
. The other guy backed down.

“Now, see? That's all we ask; a little cooperation from you fine, upstanding gentlemen.” Putnam eyed Graber, sizing him up, then turned his attention to the rest of the group. “Before you say no, let me just say we're not interested in anything that you smoke, snort or stick in your arm. Make us spin our wheels while we get the remaining five warrants and we will take a serious interest in your little contraband stashes. I will make it my sole mission in life to ruin each and every one of your days.”

All but Graber grumbled and got pissy, but in the end, Putnam had his way. By the time they made it to Graber's locker, they'd found the usual stash of cocaine, methamphetamines and ecstasy, along with several pornographic magazines, a crack pipe and anal prong. Putnam opened Graber's locker and stopped.

“Santa, come here.”

Jensen walked over next to Putnam to see what he'd found. He pointed to a single diamond stud earring, tucked into a piece of foam rubber glued to the locker door.

It matched the one on the victim's remaining ear.

Putnam and Jensen exchanged looks. Jensen stepped back from the locker while Putnam held up the earring for Graber to see. His expression hardened.

“This your idea of a sick joke? Huh? Some kind of messed up kill-trophy?” Putnam shook his head, disgust obvious on his face.

“No—” Graber's eyes widened. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Panicked, he looked from Putnam to Jensen to the offending piece of jewelry. “It's not like that. S-she gave it to me—”

“Gave it to you?” Putnam sneered. “You mean after you raped and killed her? Right.”

“No—I swear I didn't do it. I-I loved her,” he finished, quietly. There were a couple of snickers from the other men in the room.

“Twisted way to say I love you, don't you think?” Putnam glanced at Jensen as he handed the earring to one of the guys on the forensic team. “Looks like we'll get to interview you all one more time.” A chorus of groans erupted from the group. “Especially you.” He glared at Graber.

“Do what you gotta do. I didn't kill her, man. I would never do that.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” Putnam leaned in close, getting in Graber's face. “You'd best make yourself available anytime, day or night. Cause we're gonna be so far up your ass, you'll think a prostate exam is pleasant.”

Graber lifted his chin as Putnam brushed past him and walked out. Jensen watched him for a moment, noticed the weariness in his stance as he stared at his locker. Then he left to catch up to Putnam.

“What do you think?”

“Fucking dirt bag, that's what I think.” Putnam turned to look at Jensen. “What? You think he didn't do it?”

Jensen shrugged. “I don't know. The guy gave us consent to search. If it's a trophy, why let us find it so easy?”

“Because he knew we'd find it eventually whether he gave us consent to search or we got a warrant.”

“True. Still, an earring's not much. I watched him when you opened his locker. He was pretty code four when you went for it. He didn't react until you called it a 'kill trophy'.”

Putnam snorted. “Jesus, Santa, he's an actor. I got a reaction because I called it for what it was. He had to appear shocked.”

At that moment, Felix Ditterand, a rookie officer everyone gave the crappy jobs to, walked toward them wearing gloves, booties over his shoes and a paper suit. He looked like he'd been standing next to an exploding blender. Carrot and potato peelings dropped off of him with each step, littering the floor, and there were several unidentifiable stains that climbed up his pant leg. He carried a plastic evidence bag with what looked like a blood soaked rag inside.

“What you got there, Dits?” Putnam eyed the bag, wrinkling his nose at the rotten food smell emanating from Ditterand's attire.

Ditterand handed it to him and said, “Bloody towel. Kind you use at the gym. Found it in the dumpster two doors down behind the Thai place.”

“Good work. Anything else?”

Ditterand shook his head. “Not in that one, or the other two I searched.”

Putnam nodded, waving his hand in front of his face. “You're stinking the place up. Go get changed and when you book the towel, tell the lab we want a rush on processing. We got a good suspect.”

Ditterand grimaced and headed down the hallway toward the back door, muttering something about the glamor of law enforcement. Putnam turned to Jensen.

“At least now we're getting somewhere. I'll lay five to one it's the vic's blood. And,” Putnam's smile lacked levity, “we could get lucky and find us some killer DNA.”

Chapter 4

The exterior of
Serial Date's building teemed with law enforcement. Badges and yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed the attractively landscaped grounds.

Lukewarm sweat ran in rivulets down Leine's back, made worse from the short walk from her rental car, staining her cream colored blouse. She hated hot weather. It was the reason she moved to Seattle. No sweltering. And, no one from her past life could bother her. Well, except for Gene the bullshit machine. Being in L.A. also put her within spitting distance of Frank, but he rarely bothered her anymore. Apparently, he took to being a free agent a lot easier than Leine did.

It was annoying as hell.

And now, here she was back in La La Land. What was she thinking? She'd locked down her apartment in Belltown, gave the key to her neighbor, Del, and grabbed the first flight out of SeaTac to LAX. Oddly, it felt good, reminiscent of the old days when she'd get the call with the target's identity and the clock started ticking. Made her feel alive. But reality had set in as soon as she'd touched down and looked out the window of the 737 at all the brown crap Los Angeleños affectionately called “air.”

She left Seattle for this?

“Leine.” Gene hustled up to her on the sidewalk, dragging a tall, not-bad-looking-if-you-went-for-that-type-of-guy behind him.

“So, you've done this kind of work before?” the tall man asked. “You don’t look like you could fend off a chihuahua, much less keep things from hitting critical fucknuts around here.”

Leine felt a muscle in her eye spasm. Gene took a step forward, putting distance between them. “Leine, meet Peter Bronkowski. He's the brains behind Serial Date.”

More like the ass, she thought, but extended her hand.

Peter ignored her and raked his fingers through his streaked, California-blond hair.

“It's insane. Cops everywhere, the girls—I mean, contestants—are scared to death. Until they catch this guy, we're gonna be sucking air. Gene told you all the bachelors are ex-cons, right?” He paused for a breath. His lava red face looked like a stroke might be imminent. “I don't have a holy motherfucking idea what's going to happen when we air this week. Our ratings are gonna tank.”

“I think I can handle it,” Leine replied. This boy needed to calm down. He'd stress out the Dalai Lama. She turned to Gene. “Can we get him a Valium or something? He seems a tad overwrought.” Best to keep things on a professional level for as long as possible. There'd be plenty of time to piss off this idiot down the road.

Gene looked at Peter. “Yeah. You're right. C'mon, Peter, we need to get you away from here and into a drink.”

“No—it's all falling apart. I can't relax now.” Peter sank onto a bench next to them and stared at the sidewalk. The skin around his eyes sagged. Leine wondered what kinds of pharmaceuticals he indulged in. In her experience, most producers had some kind of an addiction, and it was usually the white, powdery kind. She did a quick inventory: no facial scarring, no broken veins, and his teeth were in good shape although, that wouldn't be too hard to fix. Not with his money. His hands twitched, but that could be due to the high stress situation.

Something about this guy didn't sit right, but she couldn't figure the reason. Hell, she didn't like much of anybody anymore. She should probably give him the benefit of the doubt.

At least for now.

“Mr. Bronkowski.” Leine's voice came out soft but carried weight. As though against his will, Peter's complete attention shifted to her, like a rat eyeing the mast of a sinking ship. Pretty good response for someone who was close to meltdown.

“You need to relax. You're freaking out everyone around you. Let the professionals handle this. I'm sure the ratings won't be as bad as you envision. You need to rest. Wait this thing out. Once the dust settles, the police will more than likely have caught the killer and everything will go back to normal.” As far as normal could be on this freak-fest of a show.

He nodded, rubbed his eyes. A uniformed officer was heading toward them. Gene turned his back to him and motioned for Peter to get up.

“C'mon, boss, time to go.” Gene pulled him to his feet and led him toward the parking lot. The cop watched them go and then turned his attention to Leine.

“You need to move along, ma'am.”

“I'm here to see the detective in charge.” Leine dug in her purse and handed him her driver's license. The officer checked it and relayed the information into his shoulder mic.

A disembodied voice advised them to wait. He returned her license and Leine had a seat on the bench. Minutes later the same voice came back on the radio, granting them clearance.

“Follow me, please.”

Leine followed him toward the front door of the building. What was she going to tell the detective? That she was an ex-insurance investigator who'd been hired to keep an eye on things along with Gene? And how was it that Gene wasn't a suspect? His priors read like a bad novel. No murder, but plenty of check kiting and forgeries. Leine thought she remembered something about grand theft back in the eighties, too.

She shifted her handbag to her other shoulder as they neared the perimeter tape. Every so often, one of the show's employees scurried past, identifiable by a Kelly green vest with the word Serial Date stitched in vibrant yellow across the upper left front. The excitement on their faces was unmistakable. It's not every day someone is dismembered at work.

They came to a stop just inside the tape. A man in a dark blue suit broke from a small group of uniformed officers and headed their way. Must be the detective, Leine thought.

The man was tall, over six feet, with dark hair and large hands. He flicked his gaze over her as he walked toward them.

Wow. Those are some gorgeous green eyes
. She felt a little trill of sexual interest run through her, but squashed it like a bug on a windshield. It had been a long time since her last fling. She could wait until someone more appropriate came around, say, a corporate raider or a mobster. Fucking a cop would be like going to confession, only without the added bonus of absolution.

She never forgave Frank for being legit. Everyone she knew had assumed he was Mafioso, including her. She didn't want or deserve an upstanding member of society. Not after what she'd done.

The detective stopped a few inches away, closer than she liked. She took a step back and hiked her handbag higher on her shoulder.

He eyed the cop standing next to Leine. “Go ahead and sweep the area for folks that don't need to be here.”

The officer nodded. “Sure thing.”

“And who have we here?” The detective's intense gaze bored into her. Leine squared off, tilted her head back and looked directly at him.

“Leine Basso. I've been hired on as additional security. Are you the detective in charge?”

His mouth twitched in apparent amusement. Leine found herself staring at his lips.

“Leine? That's an unusual name. Detective Santiago Jensen.” He held out his hand.

She shook it and replied, “It's short for Madeleine, which I despise. Yours is interesting. The height and eye color says Jensen, but the dark hair and olive skin tone screams Santiago.”

He laughed. “Yeah, the product of a Norwegian father and Mexican mother. I'm partial to Lute Fiske and tortillas.”

“Together? That's a pretty gruesome fish taco.”

He laughed again. His teeth were white and straight. She liked that in a man.

“So what do you need from me? Name, rank and serial number?”

“Nah. Bronkowski gave us your information earlier. You're about as clean as they come.”

Nice to know that Eric, the bastard, had kept his word. He'd promised to scrub her past, leave her clearances intact, hoping to make good. The rest she wasn't willing to forgive. Not now. Not ever.

Leine shrugged. “What can I say? I live right.”

A slight frown flitted across Detective Jensen's features, quickly replaced by his hundred-watt smile. Leine wondered briefly if he'd run across anything that might make him want to delve further into her past. Doubtful. Probably his cop-radar kicking in. What could she say? Years in the profession left its mark. Not everybody noticed. Just the ones who bought the ticket and took the ride.

“So, detective, how can I help the investigation?”

He smiled, his eyes half-closed in a way that had Leine rethinking her decision to skip happy-sack with the detective.  She felt like a small planet being drawn into his orbit. Maybe she could be persuaded.

“Well, ma'am I can think of several—” His attention shifted, over Leine's shoulder. “I'll have to get back to you on that.” He slipped past her like a wave and was gone. Leine checked herself from drifting along behind him. She turned to see what made his demeanor change.

The shouting hit her eardrums as though breaking through the surface from underwater. At the end of the walkway on the other side of the perimeter tape, a red-faced, barrel-chested man stood toe-to-toe with one of the cops, his face raw with emotion. Rage, as far as Leine could tell, mixed with despair so deep, it made her catch her breath. Jensen intercepted the man before his imminent detonation and moved him off to one side, talking to him in soothing yet authoritative tones.

Further down the walkway, a tan, slight woman with white blond hair and glowing white teeth gripped one of the show's young employees by their green vest, tears streaming down her face. The woman, probably family, most likely the mother, choked, sobbed her grief onto the kid's vest, staining it like sweat. The kid gripped her shoulders and pushed her to arm's length. The poor guy looked panicked as he scanned the area, searching for someone to help him. One of the cops standing nearby started for the two.

Calming the woman down was going to take something other than a police officer and a kid. Leine walked toward them and caught the cop's eye. He lifted his chin in acknowledgement and stepped back. The kid's eyes met hers and she gave him a slight nod. Relief flooded his face. He bowed his head and said something to the sobbing woman. Her unfocused gaze skated first to him, then to Leine, the moist confusion in her eyes a match to her mascara-streaked face.

“She was only nineteen. Nineteen! This was her first real break-” The woman looked ready to collapse.

“Is there somewhere I can take her?” Leine asked the kid. He nodded and motioned toward a secluded courtyard a few steps down to their right.

She placed her arm around the woman's shoulders and guided her toward the courtyard. The woman cried softly, her face buried in Leine's armpit, using her thin shirt as a de-facto tissue. She led her to a bench near a fragrant honeysuckle bush and gently peeled her arms from around her neck, lowering her to the seat with great care.

The woman's cries replaced now by occasional ripples of emotion, Leine dug inside her purse for a small pack of tissues and placed them beside her on the bench. The woman shook her head as fresh sobs bubbled over.

“Why? Why Mandy? She was so vibrant, so full of life. S-she was going to be an actress, you know.” The woman grabbed a tissue and blew, her head bowed as though she couldn't bear to see the world.  She glanced at Leine briefly, before her eyes lost focus again.

“They told me she died sometime last night. Stan and I were home in bed when she was…” She rocked back and forth. “I can't help her. I have no way to help her. She won't know where she is. She'll wonder where her momma is…” The tears fell, attempting to wash away a mother's guilt for not being there to protect her child.

Leine looked away. The sting of tears pricked at her eyelids. What could she say? This grief had no match in Leine's world. Her daughter was still alive. Where, she had no idea, but reports from friends assured her. The last sighting was a few months back, in Amsterdam. Leine's grief grew from another vine, entirely.

Knowing your child didn't want you in her life.

Ever.