by D. V. Berkom
She relaxed her grip on the knife, but kept Azazel in a headlock.
“April's free.” The words helped make things real. Azazel stiffened in her arms, barely breathing.
“You're lying.”
Keeping the knife to his throat, Leine shifted him so he could see the empty laptop screen. A guttural cry sounded from deep within him as he realized she spoke the truth. Azazel lunged forward. Leine shifted the knife a split second before the blade would have sliced through his carotid artery.
“Kill me,” he demanded.
“Never,” Leine whispered.
***
April paced the room as Garcia watched. “Ready to go?” he asked.
“I need to use the bathroom really bad.”
“Oh, sure. There's one right around the corner here. It's not gonna be close to clean, though. This place is pretty messed up.”
“Believe me, when you've been tied to a chair as long as I have, it doesn’t matter what it looks like.”
“Here, take a flashlight.” Garcia handed her the one from his utility belt.
“Thanks. I'll be right back.”
He showed her where it was and told her he'd be nearby if she needed him. She thanked him, walked down the hall and stopped at the door that said Women. She turned to see if Garcia was still there. His outline was barely visible from the light shining into the corridor from the office. He waved. She waved back and stepped into the bathroom.
She let a few seconds pass and turned off the flashlight. Then she cracked the door open. Garcia was still there, but she didn't think he could see her without the flashlight on. Silently, she slipped down the hallway, counting to fifteen.
***
Jensen, Putnam and Garcia found the break room first. Jensen walked over to the thick brocade curtain hanging from the ceiling at one end of the room while the other two did a quick search. The sweet smell of incense reminded him of college. Muted voices filtered through from the other side of the curtain. Tracking the sound, he worked his way along the fabric, looking for an opening while Putnam searched the opposite direction. Divecchio stayed back, prepared to move when needed.
Jensen discovered where the two curtains overlapped and peered through. His eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the low light level before he saw two people on the floor by a large, four-poster bed. One of them was Leine. She held a man in a chokehold, a knife to his throat.
***
“Drop the knife, Leine, and back away.”
Leine turned her head. Relief washed through her when she recognized Jensen standing next to the curtain. She threw the knife to the other side of the bed and climbed to her feet. “I cut through his hamstring. He's not going anywhere.” She raised her hands and backed away.
At that instant, a loud shot echoed through the room. Azazel jerked and slumped sideways to the floor. Leine dropped to her knees and scanned the area. Where the hell did that come from? Jensen and Putnam had both taken cover behind the bed, their guns drawn and pointed at the other side of the room.
“Drop it, now,” Putnam yelled.
Near the video equipment, a lone figure stood next to one of the cameras, the outline of a gun visible in her hands. The gun clattered to the floor.
It was April.
CHAPTER 38
LEINE ZIPPED HER suitcase closed and brought it out to the living room. The cop who accompanied her, Officer Hayim, grabbed hold of the handle and hauled it outside to the backseat of the patrol car. The bomb squad had been there that morning and disabled the detonator attached to her door and removed the explosives so the house was safe to enter. Leine spent most of the prior afternoon deflecting questions about the source of the bomb and the work she'd done before being hired as security for Serial Date.
The show was currently in indefinite limbo, or hiatus as the network brass liked to call it, pending the outcome of the LAPD's investigation into the missing contestants. Peter Bronkowski had disappeared at approximately the same time as the news broke about the real serial killer who'd been on a contestant killing spree. LAPD issued a warrant for Peter's arrest and were working with Interpol to locate him. He'd left a note identifying Gene Dorfenberger as a person of interest in the disappearance of contestant Stacy Ross.
A Facebook page had been created dedicated to the missing women, with over two million 'Likes'. Network executives were currently trying to figure out a way to parlay the outpouring of affection from the fans of the show into advertising dollars.
Leine took one last look around the place to make sure she didn't miss anything. Putnam and a team from LAPD were currently combing the house, searching for the audio and video equipment Azazel had installed. Not being the sentimental type, Leine wasn't sorry to leave it and L.A. behind and return to her old life in Seattle. She'd miss Jensen, but he'd acted cool during the post-warehouse interview, so she didn't hold out much hope. He also was conspicuously absent from the house. He knew she was getting her stuff that afternoon. Probably avoiding her, she thought.
As she walked out the door onto the front porch, Jensen pulled up in his Camaro and parked. Leine waited until he'd gotten out before she walked down the steps to meet him.
“Hey,” she said, half hoping he was there to ask her to stay in Los Angeles. Not too realistic, she chided herself.
Jensen nodded at Hayim standing on the porch, watching them. “I need to talk to her for a minute. We'll be right back.” Hayim nodded and took a seat on the porch swing. Jensen turned to Leine. “Let's walk.”
They walked along the sidewalk in silence for a distance before Jensen stopped and took something out of his pocket. He held it up for her to see.
Leine stared at the keychain in the plastic baggie. Then she looked at Jensen.
“I found this at my place the night I drove you home from the Happy Mermaid. It's got the same markings as the bullets from those cold cases I told you about.” Jensen's gaze bored into hers. “Where'd you get this?”
Leine closed her eyes and felt the blood drain from her face. That's where the key to the room in the garage disappeared. Opening her eyes, she took a deep breath. “It's a reminder of my old life.”
“So the casing's yours?”
Leine wanted to cry from the accusing look on his face.
“No. It belongs to my old boss, Eric. I kept it to remind me of what kind of life I left behind.” Leine walked to the edge of a neighbor's yard and sat on the lawn, next to a eucalyptus tree. Jensen followed but remained standing.
“Years ago I worked for a covert organization, overseen by a part of the government that neither you or any senate subcommittee has ever heard of. No one has. Our mission was to remove specific threats by any means necessary. I assumed all of the targets were legitimate. They weren't. Eric ordered me to carry out an assignment under false pretenses and when I learned the truth I left.” Leine gazed into the distance. “Eric wanted me back. I told him no and foolishly mentioned I had something of his that wouldn't be good for his career advancement. He sent a team to eliminate me.” She nodded at the keychain in his hands. “Your shooter is my old boss.”
“Why didn't you tell me? You knew I'd been trying to find the person responsible for the shootings. All you had to do was explain.” Agitated, Jensen started to pace.
“It's not that easy. You won't be able to get near him. He's too protected.” Leine hesitated before continuing. “There is one way to bring him down, and I know how to do it. Once he's vulnerable, you might be able to get him on the old murder charges.”
Jensen stopped pacing. “I didn't book this as evidence yet because I wanted to talk to you, get your side of the story. Once it's submitted, you'll be a person of interest.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we won't be able to see each other for the duration of the investigation. It also means you'll have to stay in L.A. for the foreseeable future—until you've been cleared of the murders.”
Leine let the information sink in. Stay in L.A. She wa
sn't sure she'd do very well with that. She didn't have many friends there. She called Frank as soon as she'd been certain April was okay and he asked her to dinner to discuss what happened. She'd declined, not looking forward to explaining herself yet again. Maybe she needed to call Frank back and accept his invitation, try a little détente.
The only other person she really knew in L.A., Gene, was going to be recuperating from his injuries in prison. When police told him they had a letter from Peter implicating him in the disappearance of Stacy Ross, he rolled over on Peter, adding he knew Peter had held back evidence in at least one of the other murders. Apparently, the questioning finally got to Gene and he confessed to giving Azazel a key to the studio, effectively proving his connection to Amanda Milton's murder.
“I've got one more question,” Jensen said. “Why didn't you trust me?”
Her heart ripped in two at the naked hurt in his eyes. “I wanted to tell you. But he threatened to kill April if I did and I knew he had my house and car wired. I didn't know how far he was prepared to go.” Her voice was barely audible. “I was afraid it would put you in danger, and I swore I'd never do that to someone I cared for again.” Leine could feel the tears building and looked away before he saw them. “I'm so sorry.”
Jensen stared into the distance. She wondered what he was thinking. After a few minutes, he turned toward her and held out his hand. She wiped her eyes before she placed her hand in his and he helped her to her feet. Their eyes met and Leine felt a jolt of electricity between them. Putting the tree between them and the line of sight from the house, Jensen leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. Leine returned the gesture. They broke the kiss at the same time and began to slowly walk back toward the house.
“Do you need help finding a place?” Jensen asked.
Leine smiled. “No, I think I can manage, but thank you. I should probably find a two bedroom again, in case April decides to stick around when this is all over.” April was being held on murder charges, but it was likely the district attorney would allow her to plead to a lesser charge, possibly misdemeanor manslaughter because of the circumstances. The case was a loser for the D.A. A jury would most likely be sympathetic to her as the victim, and not convict.
He walked her onto the porch and nodded at Hayim. “I'm going inside, see what they've found so far. Take good care of her.”
“Sure thing,” Hayim replied.
Leine watched as he walked away and then turned back to Hayim, still sitting on the porch swing.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Almost.” She picked up a large manila envelope from the little side table next to the swing addressed to Scott Henderson, Eric's boss at the agency. At the bottom she'd written, “Re: Razorback.”
Leine followed him down the steps and got into the squad car.
“Can we stop by a mailbox on the way, please?”
***
Jensen acknowledged the forensics guy working in the kitchen and walked down the hallway to the far bedroom. No one was working that section of the house. He'd been fighting with himself since he'd thought of the idea, but the answer always came back the same.
After checking the hall one last time to make sure no one was nearby, he slipped inside the bedroom and partially closed the door. He walked to the dresser on the far side of the room under the window, and pulled the plastic baggie from his pocket. Jensen stared at the keychain, arguing with himself once more. How do you know she's telling the truth? What if she's the shooter? There was only one answer: then you're fucked, Santa. Jensen realized this one act could jeopardize everything, put everything he'd ever worked for at risk. But he couldn't help thinking this one time he was finally going to trust his gut, all evidence to the contrary.
Opening the third drawer down, Jensen wiped the keychain and the keys with a cloth from his pocket, then dropped it in the back corner and slid the drawer closed. Without hesitation, he walked out of the room and down the hall toward the kitchen.
He'd make sure they conducted a thorough search of the back bedroom.
EPILOGUE
PETER BRONKOWSKI NERVOUSLY eyed the dog making his way down the line with his handler at the U.S.-Mexico border south of San Diego. He'd only stashed a small amount of blow in the passenger side door, thinking getting it into Mexico would be a piece of cake. It was coming back to the U.S. that was hard. But Peter wasn't planning on coming back. The airline tickets and passport on the seat next to him had a Croatian surname Peter could barely pronounce. He'd figured it would draw less attention than an American name once he boarded the plane for his villa.
He'd left money and instructions with Dr. Shapiro to take care of Edward, however he deemed appropriate, assuring him he'd email him an address where the good doctor could contact him. Peter had bought the house where Edward lived in Edward's name and he intended to list it with a California realtor as soon as he arrived in Croatia, putting the sale money into an account for Dr. Shapiro to use on his brother's behalf.
As the dog drew nearer to his car, Peter started to sweat. How did everything go to hell so fast? One minute, he was flying higher than he'd ever dreamed. The next, he was wanted by the cops and had to leave the country. The phony passport and tickets to Dubrovnik wiped out what little savings he had. They'd frozen the rest of his accounts. He was gonna need to start from scratch. Again.
The border patrol walked next to Peter's car and hesitated. The German shepherd pulled him to the other side of the vehicle and started to paw at the passenger side door. The officer leaned over and knocked on the passenger side window.
Peter glanced at the airline tickets on the seat next to him as the perspiration rolled down his face. It looked like he was going to have to give the senator a call.
***
Senator Runyon sucked in a deep breath of the sweet, fresh, unpolluted air. This is God's country, he thought to himself with satisfaction. Birds chirped happily in the trees and the farm animals contentedly munched away at the grass in the pastures. He was thinking seriously about purchasing the little piece of land next door that had recently gone up for sale.
After he won his next term, of course.
He'd taken the unanticipated detour to Bountiful once news broke with the discovery of the serial killer and dead contestants from Serial Date. Thanks to Shank's quick thinking and handiwork the cops hadn't been able to track down the earlier missing evidence from Amanda's apartment, while Heather's 'drowning' had taken care of the blackmailing little bitch. Filled with relief at having dodged yet another bullet, the senator figured he deserved the side trip.
As he made his way back to the farmhouse and his limousine, his aide, Christopher strode toward him, his face white.
Now what, the senator wondered? Christopher covered the distance between them and stopped, opening and closing his mouth like a dying fish as he searched for the right words.
“Well, speak up, Christopher. What?” Runyon growled.
“Senator, I-I don't know how to say this—”
“It's easy, Chris. Use words. It's all the rage.” Irritated, Runyon brushed past him toward the car.
“There's a video of you. On YouTube. It's gone viral.”
“And that's a problem?” As far as the senator was concerned, anything going 'viral' on the internet was good press and would help with his re-election.
“It's-it's of you and—and Heather and—”
Runyon felt the blood leave his face. He stopped, as still as stone.
“My God. Oh my God.” He bowed his head as Christopher's words sank in. His stomach twisted into a knot and his knees liquefied. Feeling nauseous, he blindly reached out. Christopher quickly stepped forward and caught the senator before he collapsed. They staggered to the limousine as one and Christopher leaned the senator against the hood of the car. The driver got out and stood nearby, unsure what to do.
“Do you want me to call somebody?” the driver asked.
Runyon vigorously shook his head and waved the driv
er off. “No,” he said, his voice sharp.
The senator pulled a monogrammed, starched white handkerchief from his pocket and blotted the perspiration from his forehead. His chest grew tight as blood pounded in his ears and he attempted to wipe his clammy hands on his trousers. Clearly alarmed, Christopher ran to the side of the car and grabbed a bottle of water from the limo's fridge, brought it back and offered it to the senator. Runyon pushed it away.
“Call Shank,” he commanded and handed Christopher his phone. Dear God, how do I survive this? How the hell did it get on YouTube? Heather's dead. Runyon shivered as he imagined Heather's ghost reaching out to choke him with icy fingers from the grave.
Christopher searched his speed dial, punched in Shank's number and glanced up, waiting for it to ring. At that moment one of the farm's beloved dogs, a spunky border collie named Ralph, ran from behind a chicken coop with something large and dirty swinging from his mouth. He scampered toward the limousine, wagging his tail and overjoyed with having found something unusual with which to play catch.
Upon closer inspection, the object turned out to be a blood-encrusted human head with no ears. Runyon's heart couldn't take it. The tightness in his chest evolved to a crushing pain and the senator fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Panicked, Christopher loosened the senator's shirt collar and attempted to lay him on his side.
His eyes wide, the driver looked at Christopher, then at the senator, then back to Christopher.
“Call a fucking ambulance, now,” Christopher yelled. The driver dove into the front seat of the vehicle and picked up the console phone. Ralph trotted over to Christopher and Runyon, dropped the head next to the senator and started to lick his face, all the while wagging his tail.
It would be Senator Runyon's last trip to Bountiful.