Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (16 page)

“Look, I don't know what you're trying to do, but it won't work. Don't forget, I still have the details of all of your jobs. Might get a little dicey with the fibbies, don't you think? If one were to, say, give them a suspect in a couple of cold cases?” Eric sighed. “When are you going to admit it? You're one of us. It's in your damn blood. Carlos was collateral damage. He threatened to put the entire operation in danger. I couldn't have that. Too many operatives would have been compromised. You have two choices: either you come back and I give you everything you need, or you're on your own. And Leine, it's damned cold out there.”

“Not as cold as it was working for you.” Leine disconnected. What the hell did she expect? Eric didn't show loyalty to anyone except Eric. His inclusion of her in his little nest of vipers stung. Things were different. She was different. She walked back to the bar and slipped the phone into her purse.

“Sorry.”

“That's okay. Was it your man?”

Leine almost laughed. “Not exactly. More like an old business associate.”

“Oh,” Rita replied. She'd ordered another round, as evidenced by the full shot and cocktail sitting on the bar. Her head in her hand, the earlier animation had evaporated. Rita Hayworth on depressants. Not a pretty sight, Leine thought.

“Where were we?” Leine tossed back the tequila and took her place on the stool. The booze must have finally found its way into her bloodstream—she had to grip the bar rail to maintain her balance.
Might want to slow down the drinking there, Leine.

“We were talking about Tanya.” Fresh tears sliced a path down Rita's face through the heavy foundation. Leine grabbed another napkin off the bar and handed it to her.

“Tell me about her. They say it helps to talk about it, right?”

“I suppose.” Rita lifted her head and took a sip of her cocktail. “Wanna see her picture?”

“Sure.” Leine didn't know if she'd be able to see much of anything at the moment, but she'd sure as hell give it a try.

Rita opened her clutch and pulled out her phone. “Technology amazes me. You can carry your whole life in this one little box.” She waited until the screen came to life, then typed something into the phone. “I just pinged my location,” she explained.

Leine leaned closer and squinted at the screen. A small flag with Rita's face displayed on a map near the Happy Mermaid's location.

“It's easier than calling. This way, people know where I am and can come and party if they want to.” She tapped on the screen again and turned the phone toward Leine.

“Her Facebook page.”

The name under the picture read Tanya (Ted) Layton, R.I.P.. Leine sat back, dumbfounded. The screen may have been small, but the face staring at her was unmistakable.
No. This can't be right.
She leaned forward to check the picture again.

“You don't look so good. Need a glass of water or something?” Rita waved at the bartender. Leine grabbed her arm.

“No. It's…fine. I think I need air…” Leine clutched her purse as she lurched to her feet and walked unsteadily to the door.

How's that for a freaking coincidence? she thought. A one in a million shot, that's what that was. The same feminine face that stared, unseeing, at her in the hospital morgue, the body with the first hand she'd severed, was the same face looking out at her from Facebook.

She stumbled through the door onto the sidewalk and latched onto the light pole to keep the world from spinning. Clark Gable and Cher and someone Leine couldn't place watched her as they leaned against the building, enjoying a smoke. Unable to take a deep breath she leaned forward and put her hands on her knees.

Someone stepped in close behind her. Without thinking, she pivoted, grabbed his arm and yanked, and at the same time torqued her body, dropped her shoulder and vaulted him to the ground.

He hit the pavement with a grunt. Leine's vision cleared as she resumed her original position with her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths to stop the sidewalk from shifting. She attempted to focus on the idiot who made the mistake of approaching her from behind. The man rolled onto an elbow and squinted at her in the yellow glow of the street lamp.

“Santa?”

***

Jensen coughed and rolled onto his side.

“Jesus, Leine. What'd you do that for?” He climbed to his feet and brushed off his jeans. Good move, he thought, grudgingly.

“Don't…ever sneak up behind me.”

She'd leaned over again, with her hands on her knees, her body swaying, looking like she was about to puke.

“Don't worry. I won't make the same mistake twice.” He watched her for a minute, trying to gauge his next move. “Looks like you've maybe had enough to drink. I'll drive you home.”

She shook her head. “No. I'm fine.” Leine tried to stand upright, but staggered back a step and placed her hand on the light pole to steady herself.

Jensen took his time moving in. With a soothing voice he said, “Listen. You're in no shape to drive. Let me at least call you a cab.”

Leine squinted at him, trying to focus. “I'm good.” She started for the entrance to the bar, head high, correcting just before she walked into the side of the building. It was the threshold that got her. Jensen saw it coming and grabbed her around the waist before she fell.

“Oh, shit.” Leine fell into him with a watery smile and slid part way to the ground. He kept a tight hold under her arms. “You know, I think I might be drunk.”

“I think you might be right. I'm taking you home. Have you eaten anything lately? He established a better grip and hoisted her up. “Anything in there you need before we go?”

Leine turned and looked toward the bar, a frown of concentration on her face. “Jus' my purse,” she said.

Jensen held her bag so she could see it. “Right here.”

He slipped the strap over her head, draped her arm around his shoulders and half-dragged half-carried her away from the Happy Mermaid under the curious stares of Cher and company.

Chapter 24

Azazel shuddered and
slashed viciously at the cobwebs that had appeared in the stairwell since the day before. He stopped for a moment to collect himself. Where did he leave off?
Oh yes. Eleven
.

Sissy will pay for this.
He resumed counting the stairs to the bottom. Not that she'd mind. The silly bitch did anything he told her to do. His specific orders had been that the stairwell was to remain spotless. The cobwebs needed to be confined to the lower level. He positioned his special respirator to make sure there was a tight seal before he unlocked the door to the basement.

Careful to quickly close and lock the door behind him so only a small amount the basement air could escape to the upper levels, he counted seventeen steps to another door with two dead bolts. He liked the way the mask made him sound like Darth Vader from Star Wars. Azazel had an inexplicable fear of breathing the hallway air in the basement. Once he entered any of the rooms, he was fine and would remove the mask. As with most things, Azazel wasn't one to examine his neuroses, preferring to accept himself the way he was.

The bluish light from a small, single pane window cast the dark space in an eerie hue. He rather liked the effect. Made it scarier for his guests. And really, wasn't it all about the experience? Azazel liked his visitors to get their money's worth.

He remembered his older brother taking him to one of those home grown haunted houses at Halloween when he was younger, and how disappointed he'd been when the bloodied zombies and Frankensteins turned out to be actors. Really? He paid good money for this? Later, after he'd come back, he always regretted not sticking around to see the expressions on the paying visitor's faces when they realized those actors weren't acting anymore.

Now that's your money's worth.

Azazel unlocked both dead bolts and slipped through the door. To his left stood a commercial grade walk-in freezer. A down jacket hung on a hook next to the door. He removed the mask, shrugged on the coat and pulled the stainless steel handle to open the door. A single bulb blinked on, illuminating the carcasses he'd hung from hooks attached to the freezer's ceiling.

As he picked up the cordless Sawzall from its place on the shelf and carved off a section of thigh from his latest acquisition, he reminisced about his father telling him how he'd never tasted anything so good as a barbequed veal, not yet sullied by pollution or age. Of course, his father had been speaking of beef, but Azazel figured it related to his favorite type of meat, as well.

He left the leg intact, planning to use the bones in soup later that week. The flavor married well with split peas and Cajun seasoning. He ripped a sheet of white butcher paper from a roll and wrapped the cut, securing it with a piece of tape, just like the butcher at home used to do. Then he set it on the bench, next to another bag near the door, reminding himself not to forget.

His father had been intrigued when he'd discovered Azazel's predilection for killing. In his line of work, a killer in the family cut down considerably on expenses. Dad put Azazel on the payroll and for the next several years he enjoyed high rank and good pay, his talents recognized and respected. He lost count of the number of occasions when his father's associates would come to him for advice.

And then, his father was murdered. The dark, sticky rage Azazel felt as a result of his death would only lessen in intensity when he killed. He'd decided that until he avenged his father, anyone was fair game. He reverted to his default hatred from when he was a kid: actors. That threw open a whole new creative narrative in the form of the basement of horrors. Actors were always looking for work.

Easy, peasy prey
.

Azazel picked up the bag from the bench that didn't contain dinner, slipped the mask back over his face and stepped out of the freezer. He resumed counting steps as he walked past the metal chains attached to the bloodied wall, past the room with the gurney and autopsy tools. Unfortunately, the last actor he'd “hired” to play a patient had hung himself and Azazel hadn't replaced him yet.

So hard to find good help these days
.

The next room was his favorite. The keys came out again and Azazel unlocked the door. Lesser minds could have their obviously inferior Chainsaw Massacre rip-off. Azazel preferred a more modern type of torture. Besides the medical instruments in the other room, he had acquired several implements from a home improvement store. He'd felt like the proverbial kid in a candy shop; pruning shears, log splitters, drills, routers. So many tools to choose from. His imagination ran wild as he gleefully paid for it all with his airline credit card, racking up miles in the process.

There was nothing quite like watching someone scream in pain as you snipped off their fingers with a pipe cutter. The best, the one he was saving for her, was the Maxi Grind Oscillating 8400 Multi-tool. Lighter than most rotary tools, it was sleek and elegant. He'd only used it once before when he thought he'd found his father's killer. Sadly, it had been a case of mistaken identity, but what a show!

He walked over to a large dog kennel at the far end of the room.

“How's my little bait fish today?” he crooned as he bent closer, smiling.

April's hand shot out of the small trap door at the top of the cage. Azazel ducked as the flash of metal arced across his cheek, barely missing his eye. He seized her fingers and squeezed until the rusty knife blade fell to the floor.

“Where'd you get this?” he demanded, feeling the dampness on his face where the blood oozed from a stinging cut. April remained silent, blazing hatred evident in her eyes.

He leaned over and picked up the piece of metal, thankful for his recent tetanus shot. A quick glance of her surroundings didn't tell him where she'd managed to find it. Gwen had only been feeding her smoothies, so no knife had been needed. April hugged her knees to her chest and scowled. Azazel cocked his head to one side, considering her. No, he would not let her ruin his day. Too much was going right. He took a deep breath and imagined his anger sinking down a grounding cord, deep into the earth. Like what his therapist told him to do. Right before he gutted her for breakfast.

“I see I'm going to have to watch you more closely.” He stepped back to gauge the distance of the cage in relation to other pieces within the room. Nothing looked close enough for her to reach. Pocketing the weapon, he made a mental note to have Gwen double check to make sure the small door on the kennel was always secure.

“Guess who you get to talk to tonight?” When April didn't answer, he continued with a grin, “Your mother. Aren't you excited?”

April glared at him. “I couldn't care less about my mother.” She practically spit the words.

“My, you are an ungrateful little girl, aren't you? Then I'm sure you'll be happy to stick around and watch when I show Mom the utmost in hospitality.” He glanced toward the tool table. “The cries of pain are delish,” he said, as a small shiver spiraled down his back.

In the beginning, he'd tried to frighten April, but the girl lacked fear. He wondered if it had something to do with being the daughter of a murderer. He would've liked to have gotten to know her better before he killed her, but having similar DNA as his father's executioner nipped that in the bud.

“You need to play nice, or my little plan won't happen the way I've envisioned. Do what I say and I won't make you suffer.”
Much, anyway.

“Fuck you.”

Azazel shrugged and started to walk away, the bag still in his hand.

“Oh—I almost forgot.” He turned back and showed it to her. “You might be interested to know, your mother and I have a lot in common. She recently proved how closely she and I are linked. Why, we're practically soul mates.” He leaned closer to the cage, though not too close, and lowered his voice, “She's one of the chosen, you know. It's in the blood.”

He opened the sack and showed her the severed hand. “Your mother killed. At my request.” Azazel closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, enjoying the triumph. She'd been reticent, but eventually succumbed to his obvious cunning and superiority, as he knew she would.

Images of Leine flashed through his mind, interspersed with those of his mother and scenes from his childhood. His mother, singing off-tune in the bathtub. The day of her funeral, when his father gave him that look, as though he wasn't sure to believe him when he told him he didn't kill her. The time he was almost caught by a neighbor with the lifeless body of his first community theater actor—the one who called in that awful performance of Dr. Jekyll. Pictures of Leine; in her kitchen, her bathroom, standing on her porch and next to her garage.

The familiar rage began a slow boil in his stomach, clenching, curling, slicing its way up through his chest and into his head where the voices could only be silenced by taking life.

By God, he was hard.

He opened his eyes, the urge to snap April's neck overwhelming. He felt powerful, invincible.
Not yet. You need her. Remember the plan.

Was that a flicker of fear on April's face? Sissy commented once on the intensity in his eyes whenever 'the force' surfaced. Good, he thought. She needed to be brought to heel.