by D. V. Berkom
She rounded the corner and walked down the steps to the main part of the room. Miles sat on the massive sofa speaking to a dark-haired woman with her back to Leine.
How the hell did she get past the security guard at the gate? The guards had explicit instructions to contact Leine regarding all arrivals. Wary, she skirted the sofa and stood in front of Miles and his guest.
“Leine Basso, I'd like you to meet Jean Quigg, my half-sister.”
Leine extended her hand as her mind raced for context. Jean shook it with a tentative smile, her palm clammy. Deep lines etched the space between her eyebrows and highlighted the dark circles under her eyes, the color of which matched an ugly bruise on her left cheekbone. She made fluttery movements with her hands, as though she wasn't sure what to do with them. She reminded Leine of domestic violence victims she'd met.
Jean was pretty in a conventional way, with blue-green eyes, her medium brown hair swept back in a comb. She wore a knock-off designer sundress. Leine estimated her to be somewhere in her mid- to late-twenties, although she could have been younger; it was possible she'd aged from stress. Being physically abused could do that to a person.
“Nice to meet you,” Jean said. “Miles tells me you're his body guard?”
“That's correct.” Leine had a seat in the armchair across from them. “Excuse my confusion, but I was under the impression Miles was an only child and his parents were killed in a car accident years ago. How is it you're related?”
They exchanged glances and Jean nudged Miles with her hand. “You tell her. I'm still blown away.”
Miles sat forward on the couch, excitement lighting his face. “This is so cool, Leine. Jean is my father's daughter from an earlier relationship. She says her mother didn't tell her until a few months ago who her father was since he left them before she was born. Apparently, he sent money every month until he died.”
Jean picked up the conversation. “When the payments stopped, my mother assumed the worst. It wasn't until later that she told me his name. I did some research on the Internet and found out Miles' parents were killed in a horrible car accident about the same time the money to my mother stopped. Since my father and Miles have the same last name, I wondered if there was a connection.” Jean glanced at Miles who nodded for her to continue. “A few months ago, my mother found out she had inoperable breast cancer. Time was running out. I asked her if she knew if Miles and my father were related. She said he was my half-brother and that she'd written to the foster care agency he was placed with to make sure he had everything he needed. She kept track of him through the years. She felt sorry for him losing his parents so young.”
“I see.” Leine watched Jean closely. Her nervousness, though somewhat suspicious, could be explained as an effect from meeting her famous half-brother for the first time, or, it could be left-over mannerisms from the possible domestic violence. As yet unconvinced, Leine continued. “So if Miles were to contact the agency, they'd confirm your mother's support?”
Without skipping a beat, Jean replied. “Yes, I think so, unless she requested the information to be private.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “I know this sounds far-fetched and Miles probably gets a million people trying to contact him who claim to be related, but I know in my heart he's my brother.” Jean turned shining eyes toward Miles.
Miles patted Jean's hand and glanced at Leine. “Jean's going to be staying with us for a while.”
Leine kept her expression impassive. “Can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Yeah, sure. Would you excuse us, Jean?”
Jean smiled tentatively as Miles got up from the sofa and followed Leine out of the room. “What's up?”
Leine pivoted and took a step closer so she was within inches of Miles' face. “Did you forget why you hired me?” she asked, her voice low.
“Of course not. What's wrong?” He took a step back, wariness moving across his face like a wave.
“Some woman shows up out of the blue, claims to be your sister and you immediately invite her to live with you? Have you lost your mind? Last time I checked, you were convinced someone was out to kidnap you. Don't you think Jean's timing is a tad suspicious?” Leine shook her head in exasperation as she crossed her arms and started to pace. “How the hell did she get through to you? It can't be easy.”
“The letter came through Rico. He gets mail from my fans and determines which ones I should respond to. He thought this was something I would want to see.”
“You should have come to me as soon as you got the letter.” Leine stopped pacing and stood in front of Miles. “I can't work like this, Miles. You have to meet me part way here.”
“It's not like that.” Miles' eyes pleaded with her to believe him. “She told me stuff only I know.”
“Like?” Leine resumed pacing.
“Like the names of all of my foster parents. And she knew the name of my favorite stuffed animal when I was eight years old.”
“You sure that info never made it into some interview you gave? Or, how about one of your friends, or foster parents? You can't possibly remember everything you ever said or know what someone else may have told an interviewer.”
The concentration line between Miles' eyes deepened into a frown. “Look. I'll be honest with you. There's more. She's trying to find her daughter. Some thugs kidnapped her and Jean's afraid of what they'll do. Did you see the bruise on her face? They smacked her around when she ran after them, told her they'd kill her if she tried anything.”
Leine stopped mid-stride. “They took her daughter?”
“Yeah. She knew she had to contact me because I have the resources and contacts to help her. She thought because we were related I'd be more inclined to help her.”
“How did they take her?”
“Child protective services took the kid away from her and put her into foster care. Even though she wasn't supposed to go near her, Jean made a habit of following her to school and back, to make sure she was all right. The kid ran away from the foster home one night and Jean followed her. She saw a van pull over and she got in. Jean followed, thinking it might be someone her daughter knew, but when they got to the highway and kept going, she realized Mara was in trouble. She followed the van to a gas station just outside of LA and confronted them, but one of them beat her pretty bad. They took off.”
“Did she go to the police?”
“She can't. They told her if she did, she'd never see her daughter again, that they have a contact in the LAPD and would know.”
“They don't want money?”
“No. They want the girl.”
“Traffickers.”
Miles sighed. “She thinks so. God, Leine. You know what those bastards do with twelve-year-old girls?”
Leine nodded. “LAPD has a unit dedicated to human trafficking. She should start there. I'm sure they've worked this kind of case before and will know how to proceed.”
“No. Jean was adamant. No police.”
“They could have told her they had a source in the department to scare her.” Leine sighed. Shit. She was going to have to take Miles' word for it—for the moment. “Let me make some inquiries, see if I can find out about the people who took her. I'm going to need to talk with her, see if she knows more than she thinks.”
“You're awesome, Leine.” Miles wrapped his arms around her in a hug, then let go with a cough, his face red. Leine raised an eyebrow.
“You do know I'll need to run a security check on her. And, I'm going to get her DNA tested to determine if she really is related.”
Miles smiled, obviously relieved to move on from the hug. “Check away, Leine. She's my sister, I'm sure of it.”
***
Leine managed to pry tiny bits of information out of Jean, but it wasn't much to go on. The woman was obviously terrified of crossing the men who took her daughter. So much for the domestic violence angle. These guys sounded like they knew what they were doing and didn't have a problem using any means to get what th
ey wanted.
“I never would have lost Mara if it wasn't for the booze,” Jean said.
“What happened?” Leine asked.
She took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “I'm a binge drinker. I have a tendency to blackout for days at a time.” She looked down at her hands. “I left Mara…alone a couple of times. The neighbor noticed and called Child Protective Services. They took her away.”
“Miles told me how they picked her up off the street. Did you get the license plate number on the van?”
Jean nodded. “I did. But now I can't find the piece of paper I wrote it on.” She closed her eyes. “I thought I put it in my purse, but it's not there.” A tear slid down her cheek.
Leine felt some of the hardness she'd been harboring toward Jean soften. She figured she'd had enough questioning for the day and rose to leave. Jean grabbed her hand.
“Please help me find her, Leine. She's the only thing I've got. We—” Jean's voice cracked. “She was so angry with me for not being able to stop them from putting her in foster care.” She raised imploring eyes to Leine. “I'd do anything to get her back. I have to regain her trust.”
Leine shifted uncomfortably as the memories from her own life flooded back. She'd had a similar relationship with her daughter, April, before the Serial Date killer abducted her and used her to lure Leine into his web of sick games and grisly murders. In the aftermath, she and April's relationship had slowly begun to heal as they rebuilt the solid mother-daughter bond they'd enjoyed years before.
“Here. Take this. It's the one picture I have with me.” Jean reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a much-handled photograph of her daughter. She handed it to Leine. Leine glanced at the enigmatic expression on the photograph and her breath caught: it was the same girl from Miles' handprint ceremony.
“I've seen her. She was trying to get through the barriers at one of Miles' events.”
Jean frowned, looking at Leine. “How could that be?”
“I'm sure it's her. There were two men in the crowd who appeared to be looking for her. By the look on her face she saw them, got scared, and disappeared.”
Jean stood, hugging her arms. “You mean she escaped?” She started to pace, her head down, lost in thought. “We've got to find her. She won't be able to survive out there by herself. She was trying to get to Miles, I know it. He's her favorite actor. She doesn't know anyone in L.A., so of course she would try to get his attention.” She stopped and stared at Leine, large eyes dark against a white face. “We're the only chance she's got. You've got to help me.”
“I'll do what I can, Jean.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS PAST NOON BY THE time Leine reached DNAsty Labs with the saliva sample from Miles and hair from Jean's brush. Though it had taken some doing, she'd convinced Miles it was better to do the initial screen without Jean's knowledge in case she wasn't who she said she was, got nervous and did something stupid. A standard background check didn't reveal anything other than what Jean had told her, but Leine still wasn't convinced. Call it a gut reaction, call it cynicism, but she rarely took anyone at face value. Especially someone who conveniently discovered she was Miles Fournier's half-sister the same time someone allegedly tried to kidnap him.
The attractive, sandy-haired woman behind the counter was different than the person Leine remembered from before when she'd brought in a severed finger to be tested to make sure it wasn't her daughter's. Leine smiled as she approached the desk.
“My name is Leine Basso. Is Zephyr Cain available? I'm an old friend.” Zephyr and Leine went way back to when she and Carlos, an assassin she'd been involved with, both worked for the Agency. Zephyr had been a lab tech at the time—now he was acting CEO of DNAsty Laboratories.
“Just a minute, I'll check,” the woman said. She pressed a button on her phone and spoke into a headset. “A Leine Basso's here to see you? All right, I'll send her back.” She smiled at Leine. “He's through those doors, down the hall, third door on the left.”
“Thanks.” Leine walked through the double glass doors and along the hallway, following the pulsing percussion of Paper Thin by John Hiatt. The music had to be coming from Zephyr's office.
She was right. Zephyr sat at his desk playing an imaginary set of drums with a pencil in each hand, head of curly dark hair bobbing, lost in the beat from an impressive set of speakers on the surfboard-flanked bookshelf behind him. He grinned when he saw Leine, jumped out of his chair and threw his arms around her in a breath-defying bear hug. Leine hugged him back and laughed.
“Good to see you, Leine,” he said. His eyes twinkled behind a pair of black nerd glasses. “To what do I owe this most auspicious visit?” The smile faded and he grew serious. “Not another finger?”
“No, not another finger, Zeph. I need to know if these two people are related.” Leine opened her purse and took out two plastic containers. “This one's a cheek swab. The other one's hair.”
“Easy enough. When do you need it? Is this a matter of life or death like the last one, or can I have a little time? We're really backed up.” Zephyr crossed the room and reached over to turn down the volume on his iPod.
“I'd like to have the results as soon as possible, but it isn't life or death.” At least, not at the moment.
“Will a few days work?”
“Perfect.”
“So how are you? I mean, I heard about April and that sadistic fuck who kidnapped her. How's she doing?” He returned to his desk, giving her a meaningful look. “It's not every day you kill a psychopath. The whole thing must have been mind-altering.”
Leine rubbed the back of her neck. “Mind-altering in a good way. April and I are back on track. Azazel's dead and the case is closed.”
Zephyr drummed his fingers on the desk with a look that said he wasn't sure whether to say what was on his mind.
“What? I know that look, Zeph.”
The drumming stopped and Zephyr cleared his throat. “I don’t know if this is important, but I heard some stuff on the old Agency grapevine. Stuff about you.”
“And?”
“That the feds are building a case against you for three murders that happened in L.A. years ago.”
“Let's just say I'm a person of interest. And no, I didn't kill the men in question.”
Zephyr's frown told her there was more to the story. She waited in silence.
“Yeah, that's not what I heard. I heard you're the main suspect and that Eric's boss pulled out the stops in the investigation. He went ballistic when he found out you told the LAPD Eric was the shooter. Dude—” Zephyr shook his head, his expression serious. “You gotta watch yourself with these guys. You're staring into the massive jaw of a great white on this one.”
“Good to know. I wasn't aware of that.” Why hadn't Jensen told her? Christ, if he didn't want to risk a phone call he could have gotten his partner, Putnam to do it. Eric must have intercepted the information Leine sent to his boss. The files listed the multitudes of sins he'd committed off the books while he pocketed exorbitant fees and used Agency resources. The information conjured up a whole host of problems, not the least of which included the real possibility of a multiple-murder conviction. California wasn't afraid of the death penalty. Leine looked at Zephyr. Her chest tightened at the concern on his face.
“Thought you should know,” Zephyr said. “And be careful of Eric, man. He's a few clowns short of a circus, if you know what I mean. He'd just as soon kill you as know you're out there gunning for him.”
He had a point. Trained as an assassin, being hyper-alert and aware of her surroundings had become second nature, with danger a close ally. She'd always run under the radar, not subject to the United States legal system or any other country, for that matter.
But now she was on her own. There'd be no Agency to watch her back, no Carlos to commiserate with. Even Jensen wasn't available. In the eyes of the Agency, isolated and uncontrolled tended to be a potent and dangerous combination. If the Age
ncy continued along the avenue they were headed now and the LAPD brought charges against her, chances were good Leine would have to go to ground, yesterday. The Agency was not a sympathetic entity. She'd be as good as dead.
If that happened, Leine would be running for the rest of her life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE HOUSE ON MULHOLLAND was perfect.
The video equipment, lighting and audio had already been delivered and put in place for Ellison's pet project. Twenty-four-hour security had been hired to monitor the front gate remotely to keep crashers from showing up unannounced. All he needed now was his star attraction. That, and his small, hand-picked film crew.
The town car sped past the elegant, towering eucalyptus trees that lined the driveway as his driver maneuvered back down the mountain toward Malibu. Ellison barely noticed the awe-inspiring view of the ocean in the distance.
He was not a man who waited, and he'd had to wait. The fact that his latest acquisition was temporarily unavailable set his blood to a rolling boil. He'd paid a premium and expected immediate delivery. Ellison punched the new number into his phone and leaned his head against the leather headrest with an irritated sigh. Two rings…three rings…four rings. The shit heel still didn't pick up. Ellison ended the call and slammed down the phone. The person he was trying to reach wasn't under contract—all business was done on a handshake. The implied threat of severe repercussions should things go south was the only deterrent to the deal falling through.
Things couldn't have gone further south if he'd flown to Antarctica.
Impatient, Ellison reached over to the console and pressed the button to open the DVD tray. He selected one of his favorites, popped it into the holder and pressed play. The scene opened on a well-lit bedroom with two doors. Sensuous music played in the background. The door on the left opened and a man in his late fifties walked in, holding the hand of a young girl wearing a frilly sundress. At that moment, Ellison's phone rang. Annoyed at the interruption, he glanced at caller I.D. It was the number he'd just called.