Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller

Serial Date

D.V. Berkom

Serial Date

Copyright © 2012 D.V. Berkom

Published by

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, event or occurrence, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.

For more works by D.V. Berkom, please visit:
http://www.dvberkom.com

Cover by Deranged Doctor Designs

All rights reserved.

A retired assassin. A serial killer with a social agenda.

Determined to leave her old life behind, retired assassin Leine Basso accepts a job working security at one of television's most popular reality shows, Serial Date. When a contestant is found dead in the prop closet, it appears the killer is one of the 'bachelors' on the show—an ex-con billed as a serial killer—but the detective in charge of the case isn't so sure.

When Leine's estranged daughter is abducted by a man claiming to be the real killer, she's forced to rely on old skills to find her, and must come to terms with who she really is. She soon realizes the murderer may be a grisly remnant from her past and she'll need to use all of her cunning to stop him...

…and rescue her daughter.

For Mark

CHAPTER 1

Peter Bronkowski
peeled
himself away from the prop closet. He needed air. The onlookers parted to give him space.

Oh my God, oh my God, they're going to shut us down. When this gets out the motherfuckers are going to crucify me.
All the hard work, the hustling, the endless lunches listening to that blowhard Senator Runyon, all of it would be for nothing. Peter shook his head to clear it. His breath came out in fast gasps, threatening to hyperventilate.

At first, Peter thought it was a grotesque looking mannequin with fake blood stains down the front and side of its torso. The moment reality clicked, a jolt of shock split him, pooled behind his eyes and slid to his gut. With dawning comprehension, Peter realized the blood was real. And it was no mannequin.

It was Mandy.

Peter turned back to the prop closet. Everyone stared at him, as if he had the slightest idea what to do now. Fuck. He couldn't see a way out of this. Too many people had seen the body. He thought of his brother, Edward, but brushed the idea away.

Mandy was dead. Murdered. Sweet, small-town-sexy Mandy.
Who would want to kill her?
Now Tina, yeah, he could sort of see that, she could be quite the bitch. But Mandy? And which one of the cons did it? No getting around it, he'd have to call LAPD. They'd be swarming all over the place. Better find another home for Edward. He wasn't going to like that one bit. Edward didn't do well with change.

Gene Dorfenberger walked toward him, pushing people out of his way.

“Give him some room! The man can't think with you crowding him like that.” Reluctantly, the small crowd began to disperse, a few stealing one last look at the gruesome sight.

Gene glanced at Mandy's body and shook his head. “Now why would somebody go and cut off her arm?” He edged closer, squatting to take a better look. “And an ear? What kind of sick fuck would do that?”

Peter froze. “Her ear's missing?”

“Yeah.”

Peter shook his head to clear it.
It can't be
. He took a deep breath to try to stop the dizziness. Everything was spiraling out of control.

Originally slated as low-cost filler for summer, Serial Date had turned into the most watched reality show on television. Less than a year and a half ago he couldn’t get the mailroom clerks to return his calls much less the now regular invitations to private parties and dinners with the network brass. They all wanted a piece and Peter had happily parlayed the lust for the extraordinary profits generated by the show into extra bargaining power.

This is it. It's over. We'll never recover.

“It's going to be rough. You're going to have to do some major damage control.” Gene's sharp gaze traveled from the massive amount of blood soaked into the costumes scattered around Mandy back to Peter.

Peter nodded, his expression grim. “We've got to get somebody legit in here so the cops'll think we're taking steps to keep the contestants safe.”

If Gene took offense at the comment, he didn't show it. “I think I know just the person. It'll take some doing, but I hear she's strapped for cash.”

Peter looked at Gene with disbelief. “She? Gene, we need somebody who'll keep the fucking cops at bay, not another broad on the set.”

Gene shook his head. “Oh, this one ain't just another broad, believe me.”

Chapter 2

Leine Basso dropped
her purse on the floor, kicked off her shoes and stalked across her apartment to the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a beer. The old appliance clanked in protest.

Holding the cool bottle to her forehead, she walked over to the couch and dropped onto it, sighing with relief. Three down, two to go. God, she hated looking for a job. Especially when it seemed like everyone and their brother was out there doing the same thing.

Leine set the bottle on the thrift-store maple coffee table, leaned back and hiked up her skirt, struggling to peel off her pantyhose. It wasn't easy. The oppressive heat and the high humidity was fairly unusual for Seattle, even if it was the middle of August. Didn't matter if she took a shower or not; once she stepped outside, she was as damp as if she had.

Why didn't I just stay at the last job?
Leine paused for a moment in her battle for freedom from the polyester and nylon blend.
Oh yeah. Because you didn't like the creep masquerading as your boss and he ended up on the floor with a broken collar bone when he tried to grope you
. A real player. Not only that, but he was a few heads shorter than Leine's five-foot-ten inches and she knew from experience that the guy would continue to be on her ass, one way or another, in order to prove himself the alpha dog. A lot of short guys had a chip on their shoulder. Except her husband, Frank.

Correction: her ex-husband.

The marriage hadn't exactly worked out. She made it four years.

Giving up on her stockings for the moment, she crab-walked back into the kitchen, opened the freezer and stuck her head in. Too bad her whole body didn't fit. Between the sound of her breathing and the death rattle of the fridge, she barely heard her cell phone go off.

She backed out and shut the freezer door, stuck her hand in her purse and grabbed her phone.

“Leine Basso.”

“Leine? It's Gene Dorfenberger.”

That was a blast from the past.
Why would Gene be calling her?

“Hey, Gene. It's been a while.”

“Yeah. Hey I got a line on a sweet job that you'd be perfect for. The only thing is, it starts right away and it's in L.A. You available?”

L.A. Not her first choice. Too many memories and they weren't happy.

“Depends on the job, Gene. I'm not freelancing anymore.”

“No, no, nothing like that. See, I work for this guy named Peter Bronkowski. He's got a small problem and I was thinking you could fix it for him. He needs some special protection for his TV show. Ever heard of Serial Date?”

“I never watch television.” Leine walked back to the freezer and stuck her head inside again.

Crappy airless one bedroom apartment.

“Oh. Well, it's this gigantic hit reality show that uses ex-cons as dates for really hot looking women, only the guys are billed as serial killers.”

“This is a hit show?” Last time she had a TV, she emptied her gun into it after watching a sitcom. Apparently, she hadn't missed much.

“Yeah, the biggest. Anyway, one of the contestants was killed and …”

Leine brought her head up, barely missing the edge of the old Hotpoint. “How do you know she was killed?”

“Pretty obvious. I don't know of anybody who'd cut off their own arm and ear before killing themselves. Van Gogh she ain't.”

“Any ideas who might've done it? I mean, you've got how many ex-cons on the set? Did you check their records to see which ones did time for violent crimes?” Had the world gone crazy while she wasn't looking? Employing ex-cons wasn't usually a big deal, but putting them in close proximity to a bunch of beautiful women and having them act like serial killers made no sense at all.

“Not yet. Peter's delaying the call to the police until I talk to you. What do you think? Interesting?”

Interesting wasn't the word.

“Why me? Why not some off-duty cop or something?”

“Because I trust you. I don't trust anybody else when it comes to family.”

“What do you mean?”

“You remember my sister, Ella?”

Leine remembered that Gene was holy-shit-scared of Ella, with good cause. A fierce lady, she didn't take kindly to Gene's bullshit. He had the scars to prove it.

“Ella's kid's working on set as a gopher and I can't keep an eye on her all the time. I figured with the two of us we'd be able to make sure she stayed safe.”

“So you think the killer's still hanging out on the set?”

“I don't know. Nobody has a clue, but obviously there are a lot of suspects. I'd feel better if you were here to back me up.”

“How much and how long?”

“Peter said to offer you two large a week if you could start right away.  It runs until they find who did it, maybe longer.”

Two-thousand a week was a hell of a lot better than what she made now, which was nothing. And it's not like it would be a tough gig. She could probably get used to L.A. again. Mainly, she didn't like the people and she knew how to avoid people.

“I'll take it.”