Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (15 page)

The last thing Heather saw before she lost consciousness was the gyrating, intricate shadows painted on the pool floor by the brilliant Los Angeles sun.

Chapter 23

Peter turned up
the volume on his car radio as the announcer repeated the day's big story: Heather Sinclair, a popular contestant on Serial Date, had been found early that afternoon, floating face down in the swimming pool of the house where the contestants stayed, the victim of an apparent drowning. An outpouring of emotion from fans in the form of flowers, candles and notes to the family of the deceased littered the front of the gated mansion.

Peter hadn't experienced any remorse when Gene called him confirming Heather's death, although he'd made sure to act sufficiently devastated when informed by the LAPD. The contestants aren't the only ones with acting ability, he thought.

The lack of guilt didn't worry him much. It wasn't as if he'd killed her. He'd taken care of a problem. The ease with which the suggestion presented itself should have given him pause, but it didn't. Peter refused to delve any further into his own psyche; he didn't have time. He pulled into his spot, parked his car and walked to his office, humming the last song he heard on the radio.

Tina ran up to him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh God, Peter—have you heard? It's awful.”

Peter arranged his face in what he hoped assimilated shock and wrapped his arm around her. “I know. It's so tragic.”

Tina sniffed and wiped her eyes. The tears cleared quickly. She's getting her money's worth from those acting lessons, Peter thought.

“Julian and I came home from Francois' Nail Shoppe and saw her in the pool, so I went out to see how she was doing. At first I thought she was joking, you know, like playing me so I'd be scared, but when she didn't move, I screamed for Julian.”

Julian was the live-in security guard. Peter hired him for his preference in dating single men in the eighteen to twenty-five year range. He enjoyed taking care of the contestants and cooked for them most evenings. They loved Julian and shared their deepest secrets with him. All for the pleasure of the audience, of course.

Tina leaned against Peter, her tears starting afresh. “Sh-she knew how to swim. I talked to her this morning and now…she's gone. It's so real.”

Peter let her cry a bit and then gently extricated her. Tina dabbed at her eyes with the back of her index finger, trying not to smear her mascara. She shook back her mane of shocking white hair and took a deep breath, her smile wavering just enough to give the impression she was doing her best to be brave in the face of adversity.

“With Heather and Brenda gone, that leaves only me and LaToya as the top two. I think it's obvious who the winner should be.” With a shaky smile, she ran her elaborately decorated fingernail along his chin.

Peter turned his head so she wouldn't see him roll his eyes before he replied, “Now, Tina you know we have to let the audience have the ultimate say in the finale. I'm sure you'll come out on top, but we can't take away that crucial pleasure for the fans. You understand, right?”

Tina's lower lip protruded in her signature pout and she stamped her foot on the tile. Peter wondered if she was aware how much of a spoiled snot she'd become.

As soon as he'd talked Tina into going to rehearse for that week's show, he slipped into his office and locked the door. Then he took out his cell phone and called the senator's private number.

***

Leine made circles with her half empty margarita on the heavily scuffed bar.
What was this, her third?
She couldn't remember. In the old days she'd come to the Happy Mermaid to get a drink and not be bothered by anyone. She glanced around the dark room at the red velvet semi-circular banquettes hosting various versions of Marilyn, Cher and Joan. A pretty good imitation of Jackie Onassis sat in a corner booth, talking to someone dressed as Marlon Brando from On the Waterfront.

It was always festive in the Happy Mermaid. Everyone here had a story that could fill a novel. Plus, you could lose yourself in the fantasy of old Hollywood; Clark Gable, Myrna Loy, Gregory Peck and Lana Turner were usually here, along with Lady Gaga and other, more contemporary American royalty.

Leine drained her drink and ordered a shot of tequila. The Mermaid's usual magic wasn't working. Tonight she couldn’t run from herself. Thoughts of April and Maria and the Russians, the morgue and what she'd done wouldn't leave her alone. Usually, a few drinks would relax her enough so she could forget. No amount of tequila or well-dressed transvestites could obliterate the fact that she was no closer to finding her daughter.

Add all of that to her undeniable attraction to Detective Santiago Jensen, and she was screwed.

Come on, Leine. You used to be a fucking assassin, for chissakes. This kind of thing never got to you before. Time to buck up.

She was getting soft. First she broke down, an emotional wreck in front of her daughter. Then she fell for the one person she should never allow herself to fall for.
Really, Leine? A detective? Couldn't you have chosen someone more suitable? Say, the head of the NSA, perhaps?

And last, she'd actually broken into the morgue of a hospital and severed two—not one, but two- hands at the wrist in order to make Azazel think she'd gone through with his twisted instructions.

What the hell had she become? She was known for her grace under pressure. When the job became dangerous and hung by a thread, that's when she'd shine.

And those deaths were warranted. She'd done a service, brutal as it may seem. They were all scumbags. Most had killed or been responsible for the deaths of many, many people, some innocent, some not.

Except for Carlos.

Leine threw back the tequila, eschewing the salt and lime wedge and ordered another, shoving deep all thoughts of Carlos.
Maybe I should call Eric. Time is running out. I just don't have it anymore.
Leine dabbed a napkin at the perspiration on her forehead. The ceiling fans weren't cutting it tonight. Someone needed to turn on the air. She peeled off the shirt she wore over her tank top and laid it on the bar all the while eyeing her phone. The demons warred within her, telling her why she shouldn't call, and why she should.

The tequila won. She punched in Eric's number from memory. The ring changed as it transferred to voicemail. Leine almost hung up but reconsidered, the tequila easing her hate, softening her.

His smooth, confident voice advised her to leave a message.

“Eric, this is Leine. Call me.” She left her number. At least it was disposable.

“You look like you could use a friend.”

Startled, Leine turned toward the sultry voice.

Long, auburn hair floated past bare shoulders, artfully arranged to make the most of the cream colored, satin strapless with matching wrap. She had that whole siren thing down; with her flawless makeup and sparkling jewels, she could've stepped out of a classic movie from the forties. You'd never know she started out as a he, Leine thought.

She offered a beautifully manicured hand. “I'm Rita.”

Leine shook it and replied, “Leine. Rita Hayworth?”

“The one and only.” Rita smiled as she crossed her legs and ran her fingers through her hair, appraising the room. “At least tonight,” she said, with a conspiratorial wink.

The bartender swept by and they both ordered refills. Rita picked a peanut from the bowl on the bar, cracked the shell and started to nibble. “I really shouldn't eat these. They're awfully fattening.” She gave Leine a sideways look. “So, man-trouble?”

The bartender came back with their drinks. Leine toyed with her glass, deciding what to tell her, if anything.

“You could say that.”

“Well, honey, I'm here to tell you, there's life after loss. Permanent loss. Yesterday, as a matter of fact.” Rita stared into space a moment, then snapped back to the present with a smile.

“I'm sorry,” Leine said. Rita nodded and wiped at a tear.

“Thanks. It's just so damn final, you know? One day they're here, the next—poof.” She snapped her fingers. “No more dancing around the apartment naked, singing Green Day tunes.” Another tear slid down her cheek. Leine patted her hand.

“That's quite a visual.”

Rita laughed and took a tissue from her clutch, self-consciously patting beneath her eyes.

“Sorry. I'm supposed to be the one cheering you up. What's your story?”

Leine hesitated for a moment, trying to sum up her thoughts. “I thought I'd hit bottom, but I was wrong.”

“And?”

Leine gazed into her glass.
Damned tequila
. She hadn't meant to say anything.

Rita considered Leine for a moment. “You don't want to talk about it.” She shrugged. “No problem. Mind if I do? It always feels better talking to someone you just met. Kind of freeing.”

“Talk away. Me and Jose will keep you company.” Leine raised her drink in a toast and threw it back in one swallow, setting the empty glass back on the bar. Better check my sobriety level, she thought. She shifted her focus to an older gentleman in a Greek fisherman's cap sitting across from her on the other side of the four-sided bar. Even with squinting he resembled an impressionist painting.
Perfect.
She signaled the bartender.

Rita took a sip of her champagne cocktail and began to tear her napkin into tiny pieces, turning it into a pile of confetti.

“Tanya was twenty-seven years old. Her parents wouldn't let me see her before…” The tears fell freely, now. Leine peeled a napkin off a stack on the bar and handed it to her. She accepted with a shaky smile.

“I'm going to the damned funeral, I don't care what they say. They can't stop me. It's a free country.” Rita blew her nose in the napkin. Once she'd composed herself, she looked at the ceiling, as though her lover floated somewhere above them. “She was going to do it, go the whole nine yards and get the operation, but it's too late now.” She drained her drink and waved at the bartender.

“How'd she die?” Leine asked. Her tongue felt thick.

“Overdose. Said she wasn't using anymore, but you know junkies. They'll tell you whatever you want to hear.”

Leine shook her head in sympathy. “Man, that's tough. Losing somebody is hard as hell.”

“You know it, sister.”

They drank in silence a while, letting the story rest. The burn phone erupted in its snappy tune from the interior of Leine's purse. She dug it out and glanced at the screen. Unknown number.

“Basso.” Her tone held a hard edge.

“Well, that's a fine hello. You called me, remember?”

Eric's oily voice floated through the earpiece. Leine's fingers automatically inched toward her purse before she caught herself. She'd left her gun in the car.

“Eric.” She hesitated for a couple of seconds as she tried to collect herself. With an apologetic look at Rita, she slid off her stool and walked over to the hallway next to the restrooms.

“Thanks for getting back to me so soon. I've got a problem.”

“And you need my help. Ironic, isn't it?”

She ignored him and continued. “I need to track someone. I tried Keira, but she's no longer at Stearnes.”

“Hmm. That is a problem. I guess I could give you her new contact information. Would that work?”

That was too easy. “What's the catch?”

“No catch, other than I'd need to put you back on the books. The information is for employees only. You know the drill.”

Leine took a deep breath. “Yeah, I know the drill. It's the same drill you used on me last time. I'm not coming back. You owe me, Eric.”

“Tell you what. I'll give you access to the database and you do a little job for me. We'll call you a temp.”

“You don't want me back, believe me. I'm not the same person.”
If I get a clear shot, asshole, I'll shoot your motherfucking head off.

“You're much too modest. I'm certain with a little motivation you'll be in top form in no time. We need you back here, Leine. I need you.”

“The number, Eric.”

“Sorry. Not without a contract. You know I can't compromise support staff. What's the hurry? Tell me. Maybe we can work something out we can both live with.”

Leine imagined reaching through the phone and wrapping her hands around his throat. The visual calmed her.

“You don't need to know.”
Why the hell am I negotiating with him? Fuck this
.

“Carlos—you remember him, right, Eric? One of your best. Yes? Well, Carlos left some interesting information behind.” His silence told her she'd gotten his attention. “Information regarding several targets that I suspect weren't recorded in the agency's books. I believe the correct term is 'rogue op'? Why yes, I think that's it.” She paused. “Where did all that money go, Eric?”

“I have no idea what you're talking about. Carlos was no longer a trusted associate. I sent the best person to take him out. Didn't matter you two had a 'thing'. It was business. That's all. What he left behind sprang from his twisted, conspiracy-filled imagination.”

“You tricked me into killing him—provided all the necessary information and made sure I didn't get to him before he was in full scuba gear and in the water, alone. Hell, Eric, you even told me the color of the logo on his wetsuit so I wouldn't make a mistake. I didn't find out until the next day it was him.” Leine's temper flared. “You're a cold hearted bastard. I'm not sure why the hell I thought you'd help me. Tell me, if a manila folder with the name “Razorback” printed on it found its way to Henderson's desk, you wouldn't have a problem with that, would you? I mean, everything's on the up and up, right?”