Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (5 page)

Chapter 8

The arrest of
Charles Graber didn't go exactly as planned. Once word reached the Chief that the bloody towel had Graber's DNA on it, Putnam, Jensen and two uniformed backup units were given the go ahead and descended on his West Hollywood home. The Los Angeles Sheriff Department was all too happy to allow the LAPD to step in and make the arrest, even though it was their jurisdiction.

Putnam assigned Felix Ditterand and his partner to cover the rear of the small Craftsman-style home, in case anyone escaped. The suspect burst through the back door at full throttle and Ditterand pursued on foot. Graber cut down an alley, heading for Santa Monica Boulevard and the rookie fired off a round to try to stop him before reaching the crowded roadway. As a result, Graber landed in Cedars Sinai with a bullet to the groin and Ditterand was placed on administrative leave.

Somebody leaked the gruesome details of the murder to a reporter from Entertainment All the Time! and the news went viral. The press descended like a flock of tourists at an open bar. Chat rooms everywhere buzzed with conjecture and vitriol regarding Amanda Milton's grisly murder and what it meant for the future of television and reality shows. Twits tweeted, bloggers blogged and several news outlets ran in-depth interviews of the show's previous contestants and bachelors.

The senator called in Jack Shank for spin control and Jack Shank called Peter.

***

By the time Jensen walked into his office, Peter Bronkowski had polished off most of a bottle of vodka and was contemplating which method of suicide would be less painful. He'd narrowed it down to swilling a handful of Xanax or wearing a Humvee.

“I'm fucked. Fucked, fucked, fucked.” Peter sat slumped in his Italian leather chair, a small Baccarat crystal lamp the only illumination in the room.

“Did they at least buy you dinner first?” Jensen folded himself into the chair opposite him.

“This is it. I'm finished. Yesterday's news. Horseshit.” He looked up, tried to focus on Jensen. “What're you doing here?”

“Thought I should come by, let you know we picked up Graber, but it looks like you already know.”

“No shit.” He attempted to lift himself to a standing position, but fell forward into the desk. He held his hands out to steady himself, missed and staggered backward into the chair.

“He's the star. What the hell are we gonna do without the star of the fucking show? Oh, yeah.” He smiled to himself. “There won' be a show after tonight.” It annoyed him he couldn't stop the hysterical giggle before it disintegrated into pitiless weeping.  Not in front of the cop.

“I'm sure it's not that bad-”

“The fuck do you know?” Peter lurched forward and jabbed his finger in the air, then let his arm drop to his side. “Christ, I stroked this one so hard, sucked up to all those bastards. Now everybody's pulling their ads. No way I'm gonna survive this.” He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “What am I gonna do with Eddie?”

“Who's Eddie?”

Peter waved the question away, shook his head. “Nobody. Forget it.” He narrowed his eyes at his watch, trying to make out the numbers. “Should be getting the old pink slip any minute, now. Fuck. Me. They'll be out for blood.” He glanced blearily around his office, taking in the expensive Italian furnishings and modern art, his gaze settling on the new ninety-inch, Internet-ready 3-D television. Emotion welled up inside him and he choked back a sob.

Not only had he not saved any of the money he'd made, he was up to his balls in debt—the house in Malibu, the Ferrari, the villa in Croatia, Edward's new place. And oh, God, the cocaine. The weekly payment to his dealer, El Zorro, was way past most developed countries' GDP and the thought of losing unrestricted access made him shudder. He'd have to go back to smoking crack. He started to pull out the small stash of Peruvian Bliss in his desk drawer to have a reassuring snort and remembered Jensen's presence across from him in the nick of time. He eased the drawer shut with what he thought passed for nonchalance.

“If it makes you feel any better, things can get back to normal now.”

Peter let out a loud belch, tipped the bottle of vodka upside down and drained it. He set it back on the desk but misjudged the distance and watched it fall to the floor. “Doesn't.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The room started to spin. He pitched forward and threw up in the Murano glass wastebasket near his feet.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as the office door opened. Senator Runyon, Billy, Gene Dorfenberger and several of the show's crew filed in. The air around them practically crackled from the group's excitement. Probably here to witness the execution, Peter thought.

He pasted on a smile and stuck out his hand. “Senator, good to see you-”

The senator came around to Peter's side of the desk and pulled a bottle of Dom Perignon from behind his back. Peter gazed at the champagne, confused. He looked into the senator's face, searching for clarity. A cigar the size of a porn star's money maker protruded from Runyon's fat, smiling lips. The senator must be doing Ecstasy again, Peter thought. It was the only thing that made sense.

“Looks like you're way ahead of me, Pete, my boy. Isn't it fantastic? This has never happened in the history of reality television.” The senator's face possessed an ecstatic glow.

Peter felt as though he was a bit player in some sort of dream sequence in a movie and didn't know his lines. He continued to look uncomprehendingly at the senator and the rest of the crew now crowded into his office. The stench from the trash can reached his nostrils and he rolled his chair closer to the senator.

Runyon looked closely at Peter. “You haven't heard?”

Peter shook his head.

The senator glanced impatiently around the room. “Didn't someone at least text the poor schmuck?” His question was met with silence and shuffling feet.

Runyon turned back to Peter and, grinning, opened his arms wide, almost cold-cocking one of the set gophers with the champagne bottle.

“My boy, great news. We thought it couldn't get any better. The ratings are through the roof. It's unprecedented. Never before in television history has this happened.”

Peter sat in stunned silence, trying to suck air back into his lungs.

Senator Runyon handed the bottle of champagne to one of the crew members and told him to open it.

Then he leaned in close to Peter and whispered, “This calls for a trip to Bountiful. My treat.”

***

Jensen slipped out of the office before the senator cornered him. Nothing like an election year to make a politician willing to bond with law enforcement.

He walked through the front doors and headed for the parking lot. He'd learned to trust his gut through years of dealing with both the guilty and the innocent. His instincts were going into claxon horn mode this time. It didn't fit. During the second interview before the arrest went down, Graber had confessed to having consensual sex with the victim the day before and that they'd planned to leave L.A. together as soon as the show's season ended. That explained Graber's semen inside Amanda Milton and why there were no signs of forcible rape.

Graber had, in Jensen's opinion, exhibited the behavior of a man who had just heard the love of his life was murdered. He acted like he was in a daze, cooperated fully with the investigation and didn't immediately 'lawyer up,' even waived his rights. On top of that, the guy volunteered to take a polygraph test and passed it with flying colors. Putnam shrugged it off, arguing that Graber was a pathological liar with no conscience: lying didn't faze him, so wouldn't register on the test.

After the arrest, when they spoke to him before going into surgery, Putnam asked why he'd run, Graber answered, “Because I know how it looks and it looks like I killed her. I'm an ex-felon. My cum was inside her, my DNA's on the towel. The fucking press is screaming for an arrest. What were my chances of getting a fair trial—or convincing a jury I didn't do it?”

Putnam insisted Graber was merely a good actor. If he was acting, then Jensen figured he must be Academy Award material.

He drove out of the parking lot and took a left. The balmy evening air ruffled his hair, temporarily distracting him. He thought of Leine Basso and wondered if he should call her and see if she was up for dinner, get his mind off of Graber for a little while. The one good thing about the arrest was that now he could work on getting Ms. Basso into bed. The more he got to know her, the more he wanted.

He pulled out his phone, punched in her number, and got voicemail. He hung up and put the cell back in his pocket. Then he made himself go over the case one more time.

All the evidence pointed to Graber. His DNA was on the towel with the victim's blood. He had one of the victim's earrings in his possession, a perfect match with the one found on the victim's remaining ear. He could have been in the building at the time of Amanda's death—he had no alibi other than he'd been at home, asleep. He knew his way around power tools and was a gym rat. He'd worked in the food industry and wouldn't eat a chicken if it was the last piece of food on the planet, and had said as much in the interview. That fit perfectly with the rambling letter the killer wrote. Several of the contestants testified that Graber had hung out with Amanda, although none could corroborate their relationship.

Putnam floated the possibility Amanda rejected Graber and Graber killed her in a fit of anger. But why the letter? He didn't strike Jensen as the manifesto-writing type.

Jensen didn't feel it. Graber didn't have a violent record and he'd seemed genuinely devastated by her death. Yes, he had the means and the opportunity, but where was the motive? Hitting on her and getting rejected was too weak, in Jensen's opinion. If Graber was convicted, the DA would seek the death penalty. Jensen couldn't let a man die for a murder he didn't commit.

Not again.

There was also another small problem.

The lab never received the forensic evidence taken from the victim's apartment. The van was robbed while the driver was getting himself a sandwich and all evidence in the vehicle had been stolen. Jensen went back with a team to work the apartment again, but everything had been wiped clean. Why would Graber wipe down the vic's apartment after he confessed to having an intimate relationship with her? Two other detectives who watched the second interview through the one-way window at the station had sided with Putnam, indicating they thought Graber's guilt was a slam dunk.

Jensen couldn't shake the feeling they were wrong.

Chapter 9

“
Kanesha quit.” Gene
Dorfenberger shifted in his chair. He hated bringing bad news. Peter looked up from the folder on his desk.

“What do you mean, she quit? She signed a contract.”

“Yeah, I know. She says her lawyer can get her out of it because the environment is what you'd call unsafe.”

“What's unsafe? We hired more security, the cops caught the guy who did Mandy. Everything's back to normal.” Peter tossed the folder aside. “Don't you have a niece working here?”

Gene's expression changed from apologetic to wary. “Yeah. Why?”

“She's pretty, right?”

Gene nodded.

“Put her in as a replacement.”

“Uh, I don't think she's ready for that. She's pretty young, you know?”

“What is she, eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Young, as in maturity-wise.”

Peter snorted. “She's gotta grow up sometime. Might as well be now.”

Gene's stomach did a somersault. Ella wasn't going to like this. She'd warned him to take care of her baby, or she'd make his life more miserable than it already was.

“Her mother—”

“Fuck her mother. She's an adult. She can decide.” Peter reached for the phone and pressed the intercom. “Paula? Get me Gene Dorfenberger's niece—” he glanced at Gene.

“Brenda Rawls.”

“Brenda Rawls. Have her come to my office as soon as you find her.” Peter leaned back in his chair, a smile on his face. Gene could swear he enjoyed making him squirm.

Bastard.

A few minutes later, Brenda walked in. Gene couldn't help but feel pride that someone from his family could produce such a classic beauty. And, she hadn't become what most of the female contestants were: narcissistic little harpies. Gene's mood plummeted. He wondered how long it would take before that changed.

“Hi Uncle Gene, Mr. Bronkowski. You wanted to see me?”

Peter offered her the chair next to Gene.

“I did, Brenda. Gene's informed me that you might be interested in becoming a contestant on Serial Date.”

Brenda's eyes widened. “Are you kidding? A contestant?” She looked at Gene for confirmation. Gene glanced at the floor, trying to avoid eye contact. She nodded her head. “Yes—of course I would. But I thought this season's lineup was already filled.”

“A slot recently opened up and we need someone who's familiar with the show. There's going to be some fallout from the fans. Kaneesha was popular. Think you can handle that? They're going to compare you two, at first.”

“You bet, Mr. Bronkowski. I could care less what people say. It's all just made up stuff, anyway.”

Peter raised an eyebrow at Gene. “Exactly. Go and see Helena. She'll set you up with wardrobe, hair and makeup. Paula will help you with the paperwork.”

Brenda bounced out of her chair and threw her arms around Gene. “Thanks, Uncle Gene.” She extended her hand to Peter, who shook it. “And thank you, Mr. Bronkowski, sir. This is a fantastic opportunity.” She turned and bounded out the door. “Wait until Mom hears about this!”

Gene covered his face with his hands and groaned. He pushed himself out of his chair and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Peter asked.

“Change the locks on my apartment.”

***

Leine fired her last round at the beer can on top of the rock, hitting it dead center. She shoved the Glock back into her shoulder holster and walked over to the cans she'd used for target practice, throwing them into a grocery bag.

The theme from
The Godfather
played inside her rental car, interrupting the desert silence. Tossing the bag into the backseat, she leaned across the console and grabbed her phone.

“Leine Basso.”

“Hi.”

Leine stiffened at the sound of the caller's voice. “April?”

“Yeah.” Her daughter sniffled like she had a cold, or maybe allergies.

“Where are you? Are you all right?” She pulled her hair out of its ponytail holder and took out the two bobby pins she'd used to keep the rest of it back and put them in her pocket.

April sighed, her impatience magnified over the wireless connection.

“I'm fine.” There was a short pause, then, “I need a place to crash for a few days.”

“I'm not in Seattle.”

“Yeah. Del said you got a gig in L.A. Thought you said you'd never go back.”

“Things change. Look, I don't know how long I'm going to be in L.A., but...” Leine couldn't squelch the hopeful emotions that surged to the surface. Maybe April was willing to work things out, become a family again.

“It would only be for a couple days. Frank should be back by then and I can stay with him.”

Leine's heart sank into her stomach. Frank. April wouldn't have even called if Frank was in town.

“Where'd he go this time?” Leine found it hard to keep the bitterness from her voice. She really meant to ask who he'd gone with, but stifled the jealousy threatening to derail even the slightest chance to see her daughter again.

“Lake Como. He took Denyse.”

Denyse. That piece of work. Leine always thought of her as a sterling example of the three B's Frank had taken to dating: a blonde with big boobs that gave blowjobs—anywhere. Remember, Leine. You divorced him, not the other way around.

“So—is it okay?”

“Of course. Where are you? Do you need a ride?”

“Just an address.”

Leine gave her directions to the house she was renting and told her she'd be home in a couple of hours. April repeated it back to her and ended the call.

Butterflies flitted through Leine's stomach at the thought of seeing her daughter again. Maybe this time she could make her understand why she'd done what she did.

Maybe.