Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller

by D. V. Berkom

  “Did you get my little present?” Azazel's breathing echoed through the earpiece.

  Leine covered the mouthpiece as she fought through the rage his voice elicited.

  When she thought she had her emotions under control, she answered, “You're not playing by the rules.”

  “Oh, yes I am, Madeleine. I only said I wouldn't kill her unless you lost all your points. I haven't yet, because you haven't yet.”

  He paused, waiting for Leine's reply. When she didn't answer, he continued.

  “She had to be punished. That little trick of yours with the blender was a good try, but really, I expected more from you.”

  Leine clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palms. Her vision clouded as she fought the nausea welling up within her.

  “Are you still there? Don't worry, Madeleine. I don't need to kill her yet. I have a season's worth of smoothie makings stored in my freezer, and, unless the show's writers step up their game, there are plenty more where that came from. I can wait until this little charade of ours plays out.”

  The nausea began to recede. In its place was a sharp clarity she hadn't experienced in years.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “We're not so different, you and I. You've taken life, I've done the same. I've given this a lot of thought, you know. The only thing separating your true nature and mine is you repress your natural tendencies. I merely act how God created me.”

  Leine stopped breathing for a moment. How does he know what I've done? The possibility Azazel may be a remnant of her past hadn't occurred to her.

  Until now.

  “Your information is false. I worked security for diplomatic envoys, and not very important ones at that. I had no cause to 'take life' as you so poetically phrase it.”

  “Oh, but you have. I'm aware of several. You were considered one of the best. This is where we both excel. I am undoubtedly one of the premier killers in my field. Read up on the contenders—Gacy, Manson, Bundy, Miyazaki. You'll see I'm far superior to their rudimentary methods. The thinking man's killer, if you will.”

  “Again, what do you want?” Leine ground her teeth. Play along. It's the only way forward. Certain her brain would explode if she didn't disconnect soon, she worked to slow her breathing to take her mind off the reality.

  “I have a special assignment for you—worth ten points if you succeed. I need you to find an object for me. A very important object. It's currently being displayed in the back office at Nadja Imports in West Hollywood.”

  Nadja Imports. For some reason the name rang a bell. “What kind of object?”

  “A trade gun.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but what kind of gun would that be, exactly?”

  “It's long, about four feet. Popular with trappers in the nineteenth century.”

  “So it's a flintlock?”

  “Yes. Wood stock, blue barrel.”

  “And you want me to go to this place called Nadja Imports and purchase the gun for you?”

  “Not exactly. It's not for sale.”

  “You want me to steal it, then.”

  “I don't consider it stealing when it belongs to me.” Azazel's voice had a hard edge.

  West Hollywood was known for its large Russian community, along with a fair-sized contingent of Russian mafia. Leine had no illusions about what this request would entail. “Have you checked Ebay? Craig's List?”

  “You're questioning me?” Azazel's voice rose several decibels. “Never do so again. I'm in control. Not you. Do you understand?”

  Alarmed, Leine answered, “Of course. I was merely curious—thought it might make things easier.” She hoped she sounded placatory. It was hard to mask her growing anger. Calm down, Leine. Stay in control. Save it. Let it build for when you find him. String him along.

  “The gun has…sentimental value. There are specific markings on the stock. I'll know if you bought it elsewhere.” His words were calm, but his voice held menace.

  “How long do I have to find it?”

  “Twenty-four hours. If you haven't secured it by then, you'll lose the points you've earned. You know what happens then.”

  The line went dead.

  CHAPTER 18

  JENSEN HIT SPEED dial on his cell phone. After several rings, Leine's voicemail picked up. For the third time, he left a message asking her to call him.

  Why isn't she picking up? She wouldn't avoid him. Not after the night they'd had together. Maybe she's dealing with her daughter, butthead. Leave her alone. Give her some space.

  This was an entirely new experience for Santiago Jensen, babe-magnet detective, as Putnam liked to call him. Usually it was Jensen avoiding the phone calls.

  All day, he'd been unable to concentrate for any length of time before she would invade his thoughts and it was pissing him off. His problem reminded him of what the junkies always said. The dearth of the drug in their system induced a need so deep, the only thing to turn it off was more of whatever they didn't have.

  He knew how they felt.

  His phone hit the wall with a thud. Putnam was walking back from the john and leaned against the desk, a wide grin on his face.

  “Thinkin' 'bout the broad again, eh, Jensen?” When Jensen didn't respond, Putnam crossed his arms, a frown on his face and took a good, long look at his partner.

  “Something else bothering you?”

  “It's nothing,” Jensen replied. “Worried about the case, is all.” He'd hear no end of it if he admitted his obsession to Putnam.

  “Bullshit. Some homeless babe got picked up by a couple of freaks and she escaped. End of story.”

  “Yeah, and a contestant on the first season of Serial Date. Doesn't that mean something to you?”

  Putnam waved his hand dismissively. “We already followed up on that. Besides, Graber's still locked up. So no, it doesn't mean anything to me.”

  Jensen stared at the phone on his desk, willing it to ring. Pathetic.

  “I know you, Santa, and this ain't worry about a case we're working. Your sorry face tells me it's about a broad. And I'm thinking it's the same one who rocked your world the other night. What, she's not calling and falling?”

  The look on Jensen's face must have given him away. Putnam's cackle of laughter erupted as he leaned over and slapped him on the shoulder. “Buddy, you gotta get a hold of yourself. Either that, or go out and drag her back to your man cave. You're off the clock. Why don't you just go?” Putnam walked away, laughing. “Ha. The swinging dick's in deep, now.”

  Putnam had a point. Jensen wasn't the type of man to wait around for a phone call. He knew where she lived.

  Probably find out it's nothing, he thought. He grabbed his keys and phone off the desk and left.

  ***

  No lights were visible through the windows at Leine's place and her car was nowhere to be found. Jensen shifted into neutral and idled for a moment as he watched the house, trying to decide what to do. He tried to talk himself out of staying, but it didn't work. He eased the car into first gear and turned off the engine.

  Jensen wasn't about to admit to himself he wanted to see if she'd been out with another man.

  He made himself comfortable and turned the radio on low. The classic rock station he always listened to was airing a Rolling Stones retrospective. He settled in to pass the time, accompanied by the familiar strains of Gimme Shelter.

  He didn't have long to wait. Her green sedan pulled to the curb fifteen minutes later. He watched as she opened the door and climbed out, then shut and locked the car behind her. When she reached the walkway leading to the front door of the house, Jensen got out of his car and crossed the street.

  “Leine.”

  She stopped but didn't turn.

  “You need to go.” Her voice rippled through the still evening air.

  He covered the distance between them and placed his hand on her arm. She turned and he could see by the light of the street lamp she'd been crying. Surprised, he let
go.

  She turned and walked the rest of the way to her door, fumbling in her purse. Jensen followed slowly, not wanting to spook her.

  “Listen, Leine. If there's something wrong, I can help. Just tell me.” All of his senses were heightened, being so close to her. He could feel her body heat and smell her hair, her perfume. Something by Chanel, she'd told him the other morning.

  “No. You have to leave. Don't ask me to explain.” She found her key and slid it into the lock, but didn't open the door.

  Jensen edged closer and placed his hand on the small of her back. She didn't move. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling her scent and encircled her waist with his other hand, bringing her closer to him. The feel of her body against his left him unhinged and he bent his head to devour her neck, acting like a man who'd found water after days without. Her breath caught; she offered no resistance.

  Her body began to relax into him and a soft moan escaped her. He continued to nuzzle her earlobe and neck, his heartbeat matching his excitement. All sense of time and space vanished. Nothing mattered except Leine.

  Without warning she stiffened and pushed him away. Confused, he drew back.

  “I can't see you anymore,” she said, as she unlocked the door. Before he could protest, she slipped inside and closed it, sliding the deadbolt into place.

  What the fuck? Jensen took a second to recover before knocking. He peered through the door's stained glass, her outline barely visible as she moved through the living room.

  “Leine. What's wrong?” he said through the door. “Talk to me. I can help you, whatever happened. Trust me.”

  She paused for a moment, then disappeared from view.

  Jensen stepped back, staring at the door. His inherent belief in himself and his abilities rose to the surface to smash any self-doubt the encounter may have summoned. He'd never had a woman turn him down. The only acceptable explanation was she'd gotten in deep and didn't want to involve him.

  He returned to his car determined to find out what kind of trouble had found her.

  ***

  Leine sank against her bedroom door, fighting the urge to go after Jensen. There was work to do and she couldn't risk involving him. She glanced at the detection equipment stored in a case on her bed, ready to go. Purchased that afternoon from an old contact downtown, the guy gave her the agency discount after she told him she was freelancing.

  She'd swept her car and smart phone earlier. Both were live, along with her watch. An inexpensive Timex and second rental car soon followed.

  Keeping the lights off in case Azazel installed video, Leine made a sweep of the house, noting where the signal indicated a possible plant. It didn't surprise her he'd employed both audio and video feeds. What did surprise her was the sophistication of the hardware. Most amateurs wouldn't have a clue how to position the minute cameras and microphones for optimal observation. Except for her detached, one-car garage, her entire house was one giant surveillance system.

  That's how he knew about April. And about my former life. She slid the kit onto the upper shelf in her closet and parked herself on the bed to think. If she disabled the bugs, Azazel would know and Leine didn't understand him enough yet to predict his reaction. Her daughter's life was on the line. She couldn't risk it. Besides, if she played it right she might be able to work the feeds to her advantage.

  She walked out to the detached garage and turned on the new tablet she'd purchased that morning. First, she memorized the directions for Nadja Imports, then went to Google Earth to map her exit strategy. Another site from her old life gave her the building's floor plan from a recent remodel permit. Then she searched “trade guns” to get a better idea of what she was looking for, and ran a quick search for news articles regarding known Russian gang activity in L.A. Several identified incidents in the area. Her experience with the tattooed Russian was going to come in handy.

  Last, she typed in the word 'Azazel'. The name came back with references to the devil and the Day of Atonement. Great name choice, Leine thought. Day of Atonement?

  Before heading back into the house, Leine stepped behind an old lawn mower and slid a keychain with one key from her pocket, unlocking the door to a small room. A single bulb illuminated several weapons stored in the small, cramped space.

  Leine chose a forty-five semi-automatic with two full mags, a night vision monocle, two smaller electronic devices and a switchblade, which she strapped to her calf.

  Armed with the weapons and information, Leine closed and locked the door to the room and walked back toward the house, slipping the gun and electronics under her shirt. No sense letting Azazel know where she kept the firearms.

  ***

  The import store was dark except for a couple of burglary-deterrent spots in the front showroom. Leine watched the entrance for activity before she drove down a block and parked. She made her way up the alley to the back of the building, avoiding the pools of light cast by the intermittent street lamps. Dressed in black, she all but disappeared in the shadows.

  A security camera stood watch above the well-lit back door. Leine scanned the surrounding area for additional security. Not seeing any, she edged closer to the building. A loading bay door stood next to a separate man door, which appeared to be made of solid metal and had an electronic keypad mounted near the handle.

  She aimed one of the electronic devices she'd brought toward the camera, jamming the feed. The

  camera's security light blinked twice and she closed the distance to the door. Keeping the device pointed at the video equipment with one hand, she slid the second device into a slot on the keypad with the other. Then she pulled out her phone and entered a pre-programmed sequence of numbers. Its amber light blinked once as electronic impulses scrambled the code. A pause of a few seconds was followed by a click. The red light on the keypad blinked off.

  Leine retrieved the electronic lock pick and inched the door open. The immediate area was clear. She stepped into the dark interior and slid the small night vision monocle over one eye. Shipments on wood pallets covered in shrink-wrap littered the cavernous room's concrete floor. Deep shelves filled with various decorative items lined two of the walls. The flashlight's beam illuminated a hallway to her left.

  She passed a pair of bathrooms and a utility closet before she found the office. The light under the door stopped her cold. As Leine took stock of the situation, a cold, hard gun barrel pressed against her temple.

  CHAPTER 19

  “WHO ARE YOU and why shouldn't I kill you?”

  Leine pegged the accent as Ukrainian. She answered him back in his language.

  “Would you have the blood of a friend on your hands?”

  The gun eased off a few inches. The man stepped beside her and peered into her face.

  “I know you?”

  His breath stank of garlic and onions and bad gums. He was blonde, medium height and had massive shoulders with no neck. 'Roid boy, she thought. Leine matched his stare.

  “We know some of the same people.” Leine searched her memory for the news articles she'd seen earlier. “Zaretsky was my cousin.” She felt secure invoking his name; his entire contingent had been wiped out in a brutal takedown by a rival faction the previous May.

  'Roid boy wasn't all the way convinced, but the gun dropped an inch.

  “You knew Gregor?” He turned to look down the hallway, toward the loading bay. “How did you get in? The door was locked. I make sure—”

  As he turned back toward her, Leine wrenched the gun from his hand, twisted his arm up between his shoulder blades and shoved the barrel against his neck, under his chin. Thankfully, his over achievement in the physical arena hadn't been matched in the mental.

  “We're going to go into the office, now. How many?”

  When he didn't answer right away, she yanked his arm higher, pressing the gun hard enough to make him swallow. He grunted in pain.

  “Two.”

  She shoved him the few steps to the door marked Private.

>   “You first,” she said. “Make one move I don't like and I'll kill you.”

  He grabbed the handle and pushed the door open. A fair-haired man with long legs sat in a club chair on the left. Another man, more compact with a darker complexion, sat at a desk. Both were laughing at something one of them just said. They looked toward the door in unison. Leine knew the exact moment they realized their friend was a hostage; their smiles faded and they both reached for their guns.

  “Do it and he's dead.”

  The fair-haired one glanced at the man seated behind the desk, who eased his hand off the semi-automatic lying front of him. He leaned back, a calculating look in his eyes. The fair-haired man mirrored him.

  The room was a typical office; a desk flanked by two club chairs, filing cabinets along one wall, with a copier and a safe along another. On the wall to Leine's right hung a gold-leafed crèche, spanning well over three feet. Another wall showcased a painting of several wolves in a snow-laden forest, blood dripping from their mouths, staring at the viewer from a recent kill. Leine was only interested in the object displayed behind the desk; a long barreled gun, similar to the pictures she'd seen earlier.

  “What can we do for you?” The dark haired man's accent was definitely Russian, probably near Moscow. He remained still, his eyes riveted on Leine and his gunman.

  “Toss your weapons over here. Now.”

  They glanced at each other. The Russian shrugged, leaned over and slid his gun across the floor. The other man followed suit. Leine kicked them both out of the reach of the Ukrainian.

  Leine nodded at the wall behind the desk. “I want the gun.”

  The Russian swiveled in his chair to look at the piece. When he turned back, a smile played at the edges of his mouth.

  “Now why would you want an old, rusted gun when we have a warehouse filled with many more valuable things?” He shook his head in disbelief and added, “It doesn't even fire.”