by D. V. Berkom
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 o
f 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?”
“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 clo
se 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.