Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller

by D. V. Berkom

  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 hea
d 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.”

  CHAPTER 3

  DETECTIVE SANTIAGO JENSEN was having a bad day. Not only did he and his partner, Don Putnam, draw the Serial Date murder case along with the prospect of the media climbing up into their shit, but his ex-wife was making noises that he was going to have to fork over more money to keep her in the lifestyle she deluded herself she deserved. Jensen could have kicked himself for caving in to the breast implants. She was an actress. He thought the boob job would help her secure regular employment, get her off his back. Now she thought he was the never ending spigot of wealth.

  He should've bought her acting lessons.

  The forensic team headed for the men's dressing room. Jensen sighed. He didn't have the energy for this. These guys were hardened criminals; they weren't going to give their permission to search the lockers easily. Luckily, Putnam was always ready for a fight. Jensen was happy to give the part-time pugilist free rein in all matters testosterone. He preferred dealing with the opposite sex.

  “I see you all have padlocks on your lockers. I applaud how security conscious you actors are, but here's how this works.” Putnam watched the small group of ex-cons gathered in the room with a belligerent expression. Jensen knew he was itching for a reason to cuff somebody. “You can give us the keys or tell us the combos and then give us consent to search, or we all stay here until individual warrants come through.”

  One of the cons, a big one named Reginald, propped his foot up on the bench that ran between Putnam and the rest of them. “Fuck that. Get your warrant. I got rights.” There were several murmurs of agreement among the men. Jensen leaned against a wall of lockers, enjoying the show. Putnam's expression morphed from belligerent into what Jensen referred to as his 'happy face' which was anything but.

  “Then you're gonna be here a long time. Is that what you all want?” Putnam shrugged. “Make it easy, make it hard. It's no skin off my ass.”

  One of the men, a blonde-haired guy built like a brick shithouse with matinee idol looks stepped forward and said, “I got nothing to hide. Go ahead and search.”

  “Shut up, Graber,” a guy next to him hissed. Graber turned to him with a look that said, don't mess with me. The other guy backed down.

  “Now, see? That's all we ask; a little cooperation from you fine, upstanding gentlemen.” Putnam eyed Graber, sizing him up, then turned his attention to the rest of the group. “Before you say no, let me just say we're not interested in anything that you smoke, snort or stick in your arm. Make us spin our wheels while we get the remaining five warrants and we will take a serious interest in your little contraband stashes. I will make it my sole mission in life to ruin each and every one of your days.”

  All but Graber grumbled and got pissy, but in the end, Putnam had his way. By the time they made it to Graber's locker, they'd found the usual stash of cocaine, methamphetamines and ecstasy, along with several pornographic magazines, a crack pipe and anal prong. Putnam opened Graber's locker and stopped.

  “Santa, come here.”

  Jensen walked over next to Putnam to see what he'd found. He pointed to a single diamond stud earring, tucked into a piece of foam rubber glued to the locker door.

  It matched the one on the victim's remaining ear.

  Putnam and Jensen exchanged looks. Jensen stepped back from the locker while Putnam held up the earring for Graber to see. His expression hardened.

  “This your idea of a sick joke? Huh? Some kind of messed up kill-trophy?” Putnam shook his head, disgust obvious on his face.

  “No—” Graber's eyes widened. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Panicked, he looked from Putnam to Jensen to the offending piece of jewelry. “It's not like that. S-she gave it to me—”

  “Gave it to you?” Putnam sneered. “You mean after you raped and killed her? Right.”

  “No—I swear I didn't do it. I-I loved her,” he finished, quietly. There were a couple of snickers from the other men in the room.

  “Twisted way to say I love you, don't you think?” Putnam glanced at Jensen as he handed the earring to one of the guys on the forensic team. “Looks like we'll get to interview you all one more time.” A chorus of groans erupted from the group. “Especially you.” He glared at Graber.

  “Do what you gotta do. I didn't kill her, man. I would never do that.”

  “Sure, whatever you say.” Putnam leaned in close, getting in Graber's face. “You'd best make yourself available anytime, day or night. Cause we're gonna be so far up your ass, you'll think a prostate exam is pleasant.”

  Graber lifted his chin as Putnam brushed past him and walked out. Jensen watched him for a moment, noticed the weariness in his stance as he stared at his locker. Then he left to catch up to Putnam.

  “What do you think?”

  “Fucking dirt bag, that's what I think.” Putnam turned to look at Jensen. “What? You think he didn't do it?”

  Jensen shrugged. “I don't know. The guy gave us consent to search. If it's a trophy, why let us find it so easy?”

  “Because he knew we'd find it eventually whether he gave us consent to search or we got a warrant.”

  “True. Still, an earring's not much. I watched him when you opened his locker. He was pretty code four when you went for it. He didn't react until you called it a 'kill trophy'.”

  Putnam snorted. “Jesus, Santa, he's an actor. I got a reaction because I called it for what it was. He had to appear shocked.”

  At that moment, Felix Ditterand, a rookie officer everyone gave the crappy jobs to, walked toward them wearing gloves, booties over his shoes and a paper suit. He looked like he'd been standing next to an exploding blender. Carrot and potato peelings dropped off of him with each step, littering the floor, and there were several unidentifiable stains that climbed up his pant leg. He carried a plastic evidence bag with what looked like a blood soaked rag inside.

  “What you got there, Dits?” Putnam eyed the bag, wrinkling his nose at the rotten food smell emanating from Ditterand's attire.

  Ditterand handed it to him and said, “Bloody towel. Kind you use at the gym. Found it
in the dumpster two doors down behind the Thai place.”

  “Good work. Anything else?”

  Ditterand shook his head. “Not in that one, or the other two I searched.”

  Putnam nodded, waving his hand in front of his face. “You're stinking the place up. Go get changed and when you book the towel, tell the lab we want a rush on processing. We got a good suspect.”

  Ditterand grimaced and headed down the hallway toward the back door, muttering something about the glamor of law enforcement. Putnam turned to Jensen.

  “At least now we're getting somewhere. I'll lay five to one it's the vic's blood. And,” Putnam's smile lacked levity, “we could get lucky and find us some killer DNA.”

  CHAPTER 4

  THE EXTERIOR OF Serial Date's building teemed with law enforcement. Badges and yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed the attractively landscaped grounds.

  Lukewarm sweat ran in rivulets down Leine's back, made worse from the short walk from her rental car, staining her cream colored blouse. She hated hot weather. It was the reason she moved to Seattle. No sweltering. And, no one from her past life could bother her. Well, except for Gene the bullshit machine. Being in L.A. also put her within spitting distance of Frank, but he rarely bothered her anymore. Apparently, he took to being a free agent a lot easier than Leine did.

  It was annoying as hell.

  And now, here she was back in La La Land. What was she thinking? She'd locked down her apartment in Belltown, gave the key to her neighbor, Del, and grabbed the first flight out of SeaTac to LAX. Oddly, it felt good, reminiscent of the old days when she'd get the call with the target's identity and the clock started ticking. Made her feel alive. But reality had set in as soon as she'd touched down and looked out the window of the 737 at all the brown crap Los Angeleños affectionately called “air.”