The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller (4 page)

E
lise opened her
eyes and stared into the dark room. She tried to lick her lips but her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with dryer lint. Her shoulder throbbed and she closed her eyes in concentration as she tried to remember what had happened to her.

All she could think of was Josh. And blood.

So much blood.

She’d seen him crumple at the gunman’s feet. Shortly afterward, the man who had dragged her out of the car threw her into the caged cargo area of the SUV.

What had happened to the driver and the dog? And where was she now?

The room was cool and damp, and smelled of mildew and something far more dank. She shifted her body and the springs underneath her screeched in protest. Elise sat up on the mattress, her movement cut short by a chain attached to her wrist. Her head spinning, she pulled at the cold metal handcuff. There was no give.

Fear pooled in her stomach and slid slowly upward, clamping her throat shut as panic turned to dread. She remembered now why her shoulder ached. After hours of driving, they’d stopped at what looked like an abandoned warehouse. The driver had dragged her out of the back of the SUV by the arm and stuck her with a needle. The last thing she remembered before she blacked out was the world tilting sideways and the deadweight of her arms and legs making it impossible to move.

How long had she been out?

Elise inhaled sharply as she probed where she’d hit the ground after being dragged from the Porsche. Her right hip and leg were both tender. Her shoes were missing, and her feet felt like blocks of ice. She rolled onto her side and tucked her legs close, the hot sting of tears forming in her eyes.

Whatever these men wanted, it wasn’t good. Elise now wished that she had listened to her father’s security guy when he warned her not to wear expensive jewelry or designer accessories when she went out, as well as to choose a lower heel and more comfortable clothing in case she had to get anywhere fast. She’d scoffed and waved him off, thinking he was being overly cautious. Elise felt safe in her exclusive Beverly Hills neighborhood and never gave security a second thought. Partying in Mexico on a Saturday night was usually no big deal. She and her friends would often cross the border to go drinking on the weekends, especially when there wasn’t much happening in town.

Elise hugged her knees and buried her face in her arms. Tears coursed down her cheeks as panic rose to the surface. She wished Josh were there. At least he would have been someone to talk to. He might have tried to calm her frayed nerves.

But he’s dead, remember?

The reality of her situation came crashing down, bringing a fresh round of tears. She’d never known anyone who had died, much less someone who was
murdered.
She agonized over why the man had shot him but not her. Although, if she really thought about it she wasn’t certain they’d actually
killed
Josh—just hurt him to make him do what they wanted. Just because there was all that blood didn’t mean anything. She’d read that head wounds bled a lot. Besides, it was so dark and she’d been so scared she wasn’t sure she’d even seen what she thought she had.

Elise didn’t think her parents would believe she’d been abducted, if the kidnappers could even reach them. Dick and Belinda Bennett certainly didn’t act like they wanted her around. Her mother usually rolled her eyes and admonished her to “stop the drama” whenever Elise tried to get her attention. To Elise, family was highly overrated.

Even though Brittany grumbled about having to be home for dinner every night, Elise noticed her friend didn’t skip out of a lot of meals with her parents and usually didn’t talk smack about her family. Sometimes, when Elise was bored, she wondered what it would be like to actually have parents who cared.

The sound of a key rattling the lock echoed through the darkness and Elise froze, all thoughts of home and family supplanted by a jolt of fear. She clamped her jaws together to keep her teeth from chattering and tensed as the door opened. Light spilled from the doorway, outlining the silhouette of a man.

The overhead light clicked on, and Elise squeezed her eyes shut against the glare. The man moved next to the bed and set a glass of cloudy water on the nightstand. Then he squatted, a small digital camera in his hands.

She didn’t recognize him. Older than Elise by at least ten years, he wore his light brown hair cropped close, had a generous mouth and full lips, and his left eye was much larger than the other. Elise shivered involuntarily as he aimed the camera at her.

“Say chiss,” he demanded, his accent thick. With a click, the shutter released and he lowered the camera. He frowned and motioned for her to sit up. “You must sit.”

Not wanting to anger him, Elise complied and sat up as far as the chain would allow.

The man nodded. “Better.” He took another picture and stood, sliding the camera into his front pocket. He turned, preparing to leave.

“Wait.”

The man waited, his face expressionless.

“Where am I? Why am I here?”

“No,” he answered and reached for the light switch.

“Do you
know
who I am?” Outraged that the man would ignore a direct request, she overcame her fear and gave him a haughty stare. “My father knows people. People who will find me and hunt you down.” All she got was a blank stare. Either he didn’t understand English or he didn’t respond to threats.

“I can’t drink that—it’s gross,” she said, switching gears and eyeing the murky liquid on the table beside her. “Bring me bottled water, like Gloss.” Just because they kidnapped her didn’t mean they could mistreat her this way.

The man tipped his head and smiled as if amused, fueling her anger.

“It’s not funny. There could be bacteria in there that might make me sick. And if I get sick, my father won’t pay. He’ll send the military to find me, and then you guys will be dead.” Elise had no idea if getting the army involved was even possible, but if she didn’t know, then he probably didn’t either.

Her threats were met with silence. She tried a different tactic. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

The man pointed underneath the bed. Elise leaned over the mattress. Her moral outrage withered at the sight of a plastic bucket and a dirty roll of toilet paper. Did he really expect her to use an open bucket to go to the bathroom? She stared at him in shock. The man just grinned. Then he stepped through the door and closed it behind him. The key rattled in the lock, followed by the echo of his fading footsteps.

With a wail, Elise collapsed backward onto the bed and curled in a ball, burying her face in the lumpy pillow. When she’d cried herself out, she rolled over to her back and stared at the grungy ceiling. Crying wouldn’t help. She needed to do something. Her father’s face appeared in her mind. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what he’d do in this situation.

That’s stupid, Elise. He would never be in this situation.
She resolved to be more like him and try to negotiate the next time someone came into the room. What was it he always said? As long as you have something the other party wants or needs, you can win.

And she obviously had something they needed.

At least the man had left the light on. Ignoring the glass of foul-looking water, Elise took stock of her surroundings. A dirty concrete floor with gray block walls made up the majority of the small room. Her bed and the table beside it were the sole pieces of furniture, not including the bucket. Emotion welled inside of her at the thought of her beautiful canopied bed with the 800-thread count sheets in her well-appointed bedroom back home.

Stop it. Crying will only mess up what makeup you have left. You have to do what you can to look your best or the kidnappers won’t take you seriously.
She longed for her iPhone so she could text her feelings to the world. First thing she’d do was take a selfie and show these horrid surroundings. Surely someone in her feed would be able to help her.

Eventually, thirst won out. She brought the glass to her nose and sniffed the turbid water, gagging at the faint but unmistakable odor of diesel. Repulsed, she set the glass back on the table with a grimace.

Brace yourself. You may have to drink tap.
Disdain shoved fear out of the way when she realized her captors couldn’t possibly be refined enough to know the difference.

Elise’s limited life experience was a detriment to her now. Just because she’d traveled extensively didn’t mean she’d seen anything of the world except for five-star hotels and the pretty parts. Oh, sure, she’d been aware of how the poor lived in the Caribbean, and she’d seen pictures of the shitty sections of Los Angeles, but that was as far as it went. Her parents shielded her from anything unpleasant, and Elise had gone along. Daddy’s plane took her and her friends wherever they wanted to go, and she didn’t want to go anywhere that had anything less than luxury bedding and a full-service spa.

She shuddered when she thought about her blog followers’ reaction to finding out she’d had to put her lips to something other than the fifty-dollar-a-bottle, crystal-studded Gloss H2O.
Beverly Hills Blonde, Rich and Loving It!
was renowned for its trendsetting style—in clothing and accessories as well as what to eat and drink. Her loyal fans could never know.

Oh my God. What will happen to my Alexa ranking?
A jolt of fear spiked through her at the thought of her blog’s über-high position in the popular rating system sinking into oblivion, matching that of someone who rarely posted. All the work that went into achieving the rank—the daily blog posts, the selfies wearing her #ootn (outfit of the night), the artfully constructed foodie photos—gone because she wasn’t able to post to her lifestyle blog. And, cha-ching—because of
Beverly Hills Blonde’s
popularity certain companies had begun to contact her about advertising on the site.

Kiss that revenue stream goodbye.

Confidence began to return to Elise in increments, partially replacing the fear she’d felt when Josh had been shot. The kidnappers hadn’t hurt her and gave her water, so they needed her alive.

And, the man took her picture. She figured it would only be a matter of time before they sent the photograph to Dick and Belinda Bennett. She should have told him to upload it to Instagram or Snapchat. They’d get a much better response than sending it to her parents. Although when she thought about it, she was relieved she hadn’t suggested it. The photo of her was probably horrible and she’d never live it down.

Soon, reality reached its invasive little tentacles into her brain, and she realized none of it mattered. It wouldn’t be long before her kidnappers figured out the Bennetts didn’t respond well to blackmail. Elise had already tried that. She closed her eyes at the thought of her mother telling her father that she was just “doing it for the attention.”

Elise took a deep breath. Daddy wasn’t going to send the plane this time. She’d played the drama card once too often. Her parents would think she was bluffing to get more money. They would never pay the ransom, assuming she was staging another abduction.

Despair replaced confidence and burrowed in for the long haul as she settled back on the mildewed bedspread, and hoped her parents would realize the truth before it was too late.

A
s soon as
her tablet picked up the signal from her neighbor’s wireless account, Leine signed into FindMe with one of the aliases she’d set up for interacting online. If she had her way, she wouldn’t use the social media site at all, preferring to communicate via secure chat. But that wasn’t something her daughter, April, was interested in doing, and April was in Europe. Leine used whichever site her daughter posted on.

Leine hated the digital footprint her online activity left behind and always used a program to shield her identity, but given enough time and resources a talented hacker could find out who and where you were.

With Leine’s past, that could get her killed.

As she scrolled through her daughter’s photos of Amsterdam and Paris, Leine thought back to one of her last trips to Europe with Carlos. True, they’d both been there for a job but had taken a few days afterward to enjoy a romantic vacation on the Italian Riviera. At the time, Leine hadn’t analyzed her ability to compartmentalize work and pleasure, and now she realized how protective the skill had been. Apparently, that ability was seeking expression in other ways.

Case in point: her relationship with Santa.

Even though back at the apartment Santiago hadn’t asked her to marry him, she could see the inevitable march toward cohabitation and, knowing Santa, matrimony. The idea had a certain appeal—waking up with Santa every morning would be heavenly—but Leine wanted to keep things on an even keel for as long as possible and not rush into anything. She viewed their romance as a delicately woven tapestry with only the first few rows complete. Not yet strong enough to withstand the pressure of daily wear and tear.

With a sigh, Leine read her daughter’s latest post detailing how awesome the impressionist paintings in the Musée d’Orsay had been. April went on to describe their meal at a Parisian restaurant followed by drinks at a club in the Latin Quarter. Leine stopped herself from posting a warning about pickpockets in the Quarter and instead wrote, “Glad you and Cory are having a good time.”

When her daughter, April, had been abducted by a serial killer, Cory had helped Leine locate her. That had earned him a special and permanent place in Leine’s heart. Although her daughter traveled extensively, Leine worried like only a mother could and was relieved Cory went with her. In a way, the fact that she worried was comforting. Leine had assumed she was a shitty mother without the ability to nurture, warped by the nature of her past profession as an assassin, but it turned out the mothering instinct trumped assassin all day long.

She signed off and did a search for Richard and Belinda Bennett, finding the usual entries for a well-known power couple:
Entrepreneur
magazine profiles, interviews in
Forbes
and
Fortune
, an article in
Bloomberg Businessweek
about the biotech firm Dick Bennett founded. But it was an essay in the
Economist
that captured Leine’s attention. The piece mentioned that five years ago Dick Bennett had received startup money for his company from an investment firm run by an Albanian national named Z. Ristani. The name rang a bell. Leine did a search, but the
Economist
article was the only result with any relevance.

Leine closed her eyes, trying to remember why she knew the name Ristani. Images of a hit she did in Paris of a Bulgarian arms dealer who was about to sell a long-range missile to a visiting North Korean general played through her mind. But the name didn’t fit. She found a short news item in a French publication reporting on the unusual manner in which her Bulgarian target had died. Investigators deemed it an accident, and the death hadn’t received a lot of coverage. A grainy photograph of the target and two other men accompanied the article.

Leine isolated the photo and enlarged the image to see if she recognized either of them. The two men stood next to the Bulgarian she’d been sent to kill: one was stocky with a thick neck and a shaved head. Tattoos crept up the side of his face and onto his skull, giving him a fierce, tribal appearance. Leine tried but couldn’t quite make out what the tats signified, hoping to see which criminal affiliations he had. Since he appeared to be an acquaintance of the target she was pretty sure he had several.

The other man had partially turned away from the camera. He was tall and lean with broad shoulders, an aquiline nose and a shock of white hair. Unlike the other two, he wore an expensive-looking suit and sunglasses. The caption only identified the Bulgarian. Nothing about either of the two men triggered her memory.

Giving up on the Bennetts and Ristani for the moment, she checked public records for both Elise and Josh to see if there might be anything the Bennetts neglected to tell her. Then she ran a general search of their names.

Josh turned out to be the grandson of a wealthy financier but was only mentioned in passing. Elise’s blog,
Beverly Hills Blonde, Rich and Loving It!
appeared at the top of search results for her name.

Photographs of ‘artistic’ menu items and expensive clothes and shoes littered the pages—most included Elise modeling and/or mugging for the camera near easily identifiable landmarks like the Coliseum and Abbey Road. Comments on the posts ranged from the erudite
OMG, this is the best blog evah,
to
squee!
Leine skimmed recent entries, but she didn’t find anything helpful.

Josh and Elise appeared to be just two of thousands of kids partying in Mexico for spring break.

The carjacking theory was beginning to look like the most plausible explanation. Usually, the occupants of the car being stolen were left alive in a rural area and had to find their way back to civilization. By the time that happened, the carjackers would have already stripped the car or delivered it to a prearranged buyer after changing the VIN and plates. But no one had heard from Josh or Elise, and there had been plenty of time for a couple of healthy teenagers to find their way back.

Unless the robbery had gone bad. It was possible that Josh made the mistake of being a hero and tried to stop the hijackers from stealing the vehicle, which could have easily gotten him killed. Still, Mexican authorities hadn’t found the car or even a hint of foul play. Leine doubted the carjackers would have taken the time to bury the bodies and Tijuana was a highly populated area. Dead bodies would be noticed.

Leine rummaged in her pocket and found the note with Elise’s friend’s name and number, and punched it into her cell phone.

“This is Brittany,” a chipper female voice said.

“Brittany, my name is Leine Basso and I work for SHEN.”

“The human trafficking agency?”

“That’s the one.”
Interesting that she’s heard of SHEN,
Leine thought. Then again, the organization was all over the news when they’d located Mara. “I’ve been asked by Elise’s parents to try to find her, and I was wondering if we could meet somewhere and talk?”

“Sure.” Brittany paused before continuing, a hint of fear seeping into her voice. “Do you think she was sold…as a sex slave?” The last two words came out in a whisper, as though speaking them aloud would make it true.

“There’s no way of knowing, at this point.”

“I will absolutely meet with you. I’m on my way to Yvette’s French Café on Beverly Drive. Would that work?”

“Is that in Beverly Hills?”

“Yes.”

“I can be there in thirty minutes.”

***

Yvette’s was busy. Filled with chic, reed-thin women with long hair, big sunglasses, and even bigger pocketbooks, they kissed the air in greeting and chatted animatedly with each other, all the while preening at themselves in the glass behind the counter. They reminded Leine of a colony of squawking flamingos she’d seen years ago in the Florida Everglades.

Leine walked to the counter to wait in line as the customer ahead of her ordered a half-decaf, two-pump, no foam, sugar-free praline and vanilla latte to be delivered at precisely one hundred and seventy degrees. The coffee bar’s air conditioner wasn’t working very well and Leine pulled her hair up off her neck and secured it with a couple of bobby pins as the cashier scanned the woman’s phone for payment. The young clerk looked at Leine expectantly, fingers poised above the register, ready to capture her instructions.

“Black coffee. Large,” Leine said.

The clerk stood in flustered silence for a moment before replying. “Would you like room for cream?” she asked, her fingers quivering over the keys.

“Black coffee. Large,” Leine repeated, wondering what the hell was so difficult about the order.

“Oh, okay. Sure. Coming right up.” The clerk jotted the drink on the side of a cup as though she might forget what Leine had just ordered in the next two seconds and turned back to the hulking coffee urns behind her. As she filled the eco-friendly paper cup with steaming hot coffee, Leine scanned the café for Brittany.

She’d described herself as a Rhianna look-alike, but several of the café’s patrons could have fit that description. In the end, it was Brittany who found Leine.

“Leine Basso?” a feminine voice said behind her.

Leine accepted the coffee from the cashier and dropped the change into the tip box sitting on the counter before she turned around.

“You must be Brittany.”

Diminutive with jet-black hair, deep brown, almond-shaped eyes, and dressed in a form-fitting pale yellow top and pencil Capris, Brittany could have easily passed for the pop star. Upon closer inspection, Leine revised her age downward after realizing that underneath the artfully applied makeup Brittany wouldn’t pass for more than seventeen.

They had a seat at a table by a window in the corner, the nearest customer far enough away that they wouldn’t be overheard.

“Tell me about Josh and Elise,” Leine began.

Brittany took a sip of her coffee. “They’d just started hanging out together. I think this was the third time Lise went out with him.”

“Third time? So they weren’t serious?”

Brittany shook her head. “Not even. In fact, the last time I talked to her, she’d been pissed at him because he left her at the club.”

“The bar in Tijuana, right?”

“Right. The Blue Manatee.”

“And you were supposed to drive down to the border to pick her up?”

Brittany nodded, her eyes tearing. “Yes. But then she texted me not to bother, that she was going to some party on the beach with Josh and that she’d text me later.” She looked at Leine, the worry she felt for her friend evident in her eyes. “I never got another text.”

“The Bennetts’ housekeeper believes Elise ran away with him. That they were going to be married.”

Brittany rolled her eyes. “Teuta’s nice and all, but she’s just the maid. She doesn’t know anything. She’s convinced Lise is pure as the driven snow and would never sleep with a boy, much less go out drinking in Tijuana with one.” She picked up her phone, scanned the screen for messages, and set it back on the table. “Elise is definitely not a virgin. And she isn’t going to get married before she graduates. Believe me.”

“That’s what her mother said.”

Brittany smirked.

“What?” Leine asked.

“Like she’d know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Belinda Bennett only looks out for Belinda Bennett. Personally, I don’t get why she even had a kid. She doesn’t care about her.” She crossed her arms. “The only thing the Bennetts care about is money.”

“They seemed pretty shaken up when I met them.”

She shrugged. “Maybe they finally figured out that they had a daughter. Believe me, it’d be a first.”

Leine asked Brittany a couple of other questions about Elise’s relationship with her parents and then handed her a business card.

“In case you hear from Elise or remember anything else that might be helpful.”

Brittany took the card and slid it into her purse. “Thanks.” She paused and looked at Leine. “There’s something I didn’t tell you.”

Leine waited.

“Elise has disappeared before.”

Leine glanced at her sharply. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“She ran away a couple of times, trying to get her parents’ attention, but it backfired. The last time she did it, they didn’t even bother to notify police.” She leaned forward. “This time is different, though, I know it.”

A brief flicker of anger surged through Leine. If Elise had staged her abduction in order to get her parents’ attention then the kid was wasting everyone’s time. Leine could be much more effective elsewhere, searching for actual missing children. And why hadn’t the Bennetts mentioned it in the interview? The previous times Elise ran away would be easy enough to check if the Bennetts had reported her missing.

“Why is this different?” Leine asked.

“She always texted me before, let me know where she was so I wouldn’t worry about her. One time,” Brittany lowered her gaze to the floor, “she was at my house while the cops were looking for her.”

“Good to know.” Leine got up to leave.