Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller (3 page)

Chapter 5

Peter walked past
the couple sitting at the front table, a plate of linguine and clam sauce between them, and headed for the back room. Several people stood at the crowded bar, singing along to Warren Zevon's
Werewolves of London
. The pretty, model-thin bartender kept pace with the drink orders shouted at her, a smile never leaving her face.

The further back in Bonanno's Peter got, the smaller the crowd, until he came to an open doorway flanked by two large men in pony tails wearing identical black tee shirts, cargo pants and combat boots. They checked his I.D. and parted to let him pass.

Buzz Runyon sat in the far corner, his back against the wall. The senator showed vestiges of his former athleticism, but time and power had done their best to obscure most, if not all of his youthful vigor. His double chin and expanding waistline mocked his tanned features and expensive haircut, giving him the appearance of someone who came late to the party of the L.A. fitness-obsessed. On the other hand, he kept pace quite well with many of the über powerful in regard to their unusual proclivities.

Peter knew from past experience that when the senator needed to get his freak on, nothing was sacred. This included forays to a little-known organic farm outside of L.A. that raised free-range livestock. The senator referred to his little expeditions to the farm as a 'trip to bountiful'. The memory of the senator's favorite pastime would forever be seared onto Peter's retinas. He figured the recurring nightmares were the price he had to pay for access.

“Sit down.” The senator nodded at the chair next to him. Peter took the seat across from him and ordered a shot of Grey Goose from the waitress who appeared at his side.

The senator waited until the waitress left, then leaned forward, anxiety spiraling off him in waves.

“What the hell happened, Pete? I'm in a closed meeting all damn day and I come out and my aide tells me a contestant's been murdered on the set? I thought you said you had security handled.”

“I did. I do. It happened last night, after everybody left. No one was supposed to be near the set. They found the body this morning in the prop closet after they finished filming a promo. Apparently, the rent-a-cop out front fell asleep on the job. It was his first late shift. He doesn't remember hearing or seeing anything unusual.” Peter had wondered how the guy could miss the sound of a power saw being used to dismember a body, not to mention Mandy's screams, but realized he wouldn't have heard a thing from a soundproof set.

Senator Runyon stuffed some pasta in his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of red wine. Peter glanced at the huge plate of fettuccine swimming in butter and his stomach churned. Ordinarily he wouldn't give the artery-clogging meal a second thought. Not tonight.

“I can't let this bury me, Pete.”

Peter took a deep breath, steeling himself to manage the impending meltdown. “Senator, I realize this means-”

The senator cut him off. “What this means, Bronkowski, is we might have had a problem before, but this compounds the original reason I called this meeting.”

“And that would be—”

“I'm a shoo-in for the L.A. County Make a Difference Award, but that slime ball Lopez is getting press for the shit he did for all those inner city kids last year, so I'm running a distant second for the Los ANGELenos Award. Being connected to the show's gonna sink me, unless you can find some way to spin it.”

Peter leaned back. As usual, it was all about the senator. The Los ANGELenos Award was on par with the Congressional Medal of Honor as far as a southern California politician was concerned. The last three Governors and several senators and representatives had won the award, and it was rumored to be the magic bullet when it came to winning over the hearts and minds of multiple constituencies.

Runyon jabbed at the pasta in front of him. “Losing is not an option. Word is, that cocksucker Lopez is gunning for my seat and if he gets the award, it raises his profile to an unacceptable level.” He wiped the grease off his lips and took another sip of wine. “I was gonna have you ramp up a media blitz on the ex-con rehab project. Obviously, that's no longer an option.”

The waitress returned with Peter's drink. He drained the glass before she could leave and ordered another.

“So, who was it? Tina?” The senator dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, looking at him expectantly.

“No, it wasn't Tina.” Peter couldn't decide whether to inform the senator and risk meltdown status and possibly another trip to the farm, or wait and let the media do it. A trickle of sweat slid down the back of his neck. If he waited and didn't get into the particulars, he risked alienating his most powerful ally. On the other hand, the police seemed confident they'd crack the identity of the killer in no time and Peter didn't want to alarm the senator unnecessarily. He opted for a combination of the two.

Peter pivoted toward Runyon, keeping his voice down. The senator leaned forward, his garlic-and-cigar breath enough to make Peter gag.

“There's more to it than what the media reported.”

The senator's expression shifted to one of anxiety. Peter rushed to put him at ease.

“The LAPD's confident they'll be able to make an arrest, so there's no reason to be alarmed.” Not exactly what they said, but if it avoided a breakdown, it was worth the small white lie.

“What happened?” It was the senator's turn to sweat.

“Nothing to be worried about. If it gets to the point where things don't develop as planned, then you'll be the first to know, I promise. Right now, the less you know the better.”

The senator's face flushed deep red. Uh-oh, Peter thought.
He's going to lose it.

“I'll be the judge of that, Pete. What the fuck is going on?”

Peter sighed.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut
.

“The killer dismembered the victim.”

“Dismembered? As in, cut off body parts?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Amanda Milton.”

Senator Runyon collapsed back in his chair with a stunned expression. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a linen napkin. The color in his face had faded to a pasty shade of gray. Alarmed, Peter wondered if he should call 9-1-1.

“This isn't good, Pete. This is very bad, in fact. You said Amanda Milton?”

“Do you know her?”

“Know her? Christ, I've been banging her every Tuesday, for God's sake.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. “Fuck me. Fuck fuck fuck. I'm dead.”

Peter couldn't believe it.
Amanda and the senator?
Thinking about the two of them together made him want to vomit. Mandy with her young, nubile body and perky tits, and the flaccid old senator, who had a hard time getting it up without a farm animal nearby. This definitely complicated things.

“How long?” Peter asked, his morbid fascination growing.

“A couple of months, tops.” The senator's gaze locked on his as though he alone could hold back the tide. “You have to make this someone else's problem, Pete. If this gets out, I'm finished. There's not a media consultant alive who can spin me out of this one.”

Yeah, Peter thought.
That, and the Hereford incident and I could totally bring you down, motherfucker.
He kept his expression impassive.

The senator's eyes widened. “Aw, Jesus. What if I'm a suspect? My finger prints are all over her apartment.” He blinked, once. “Janet will finally get proof of what she's been bitching about all these years. There'll be no reason for her to stay, not if I'm finished.” He closed his eyes. “Knopf has been on her for years to write a book. Offered her seven figures.”

Good God, Peter thought. The man could obsess. What about him? Didn't the senator owe his illustrious career to Serial Date? He'd still be the Mayor of Podunk, California if Peter and the show hadn't given him a platform by agreeing to tie everything in with the California penal system. It had been a pain in the ass, working with the State and Runyon, but in the long run it was a win-win for everyone. Peter accepted the occasional request for a tour of the set from the wardens, and looked the other way when a favored ex-con was promised a slot for the next season.

“As I said, the LAPD assured me that they'll keep information about the investigation to a minimum for as long as they can. No one has to know about your involvement with Mandy.”

“What about your people? You have a lot of employees running around on that set. What if she talked? Can you absolutely guarantee that this won't hit the tabloids?”

Peter had been stressing about that himself, but it wouldn't do any good to convey that to Runyon. Peter answered with a voice that sounded much calmer than he felt. “Everyone's on board, senator. Don't worry. I have a tight rein on my people.”

“You damn well better.” The senator pulled out his phone. “I'm calling Shank. He'll know what to do with this pile of shit.”

Jack Shank was a high-powered attorney to the stars whose specialty was helping his clients avoid unnecessary publicity and/or jail time. Ever since he'd worked his magic for the internationally known televangelist with a penchant for smoking crack and banging male prostitutes, he'd been the go-to guy for anyone with a serious problem. He had his hands full with Runyon.

“Jack? Buzz here. Yeah, fine, fine. Jack, I got a problem I'm gonna need you to run interference on. What? Yeah, it's about the murder.” Runyon glanced at Peter. “He's right here. You want to now? Hold on.” He held out the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

Peter took the phone. “This is Peter.”

Jack Shank's soft voice slithered through the earpiece.

“So the shit finally hit the fan.” There was a faint click in the background followed by a deep inhalation. “I warned the senator it was only a matter of time until something went wrong, but he wouldn't listen. Should never have gotten involved with the show.” Shank started to cough like he was about to hack up a lung.

The coughing subsided and Shank's voice came back on the line.

“Talk to me.”

Peter told him about the murder and what the LAPD said about the investigation. Jack Shank listened in silence, the occasional damp cough punctuating Peter's sentences. When he came to the part about the senator's involvement with the victim, Shank cleared his throat, but didn't say anything for a moment. Peter fidgeted in his chair.

“Well? What do you want to do?” Peter asked.

There was a long pause, then, “I'll tell you what you should do. After I do that, I want to speak to the senator.”

Shank ran down a list of comments Peter could use when the media got hold of the full story, and explained a few other options. “And Peter? When they run with this,

and I guarantee they will, then you roll with it. Spin it like there's no tomorrow. I'll take care of the senator.”

Peter handed the phone back to Runyon, pushed his chair back and stood. The waitress returned with his second shot of vodka. Peter indicated she leave it with the senator. He waited for a moment, but Runyon was so absorbed in the conversation with Shank that he didn't look up or acknowledge Peter.

He left without saying goodbye.

***

Detective Santiago Jensen slapped the folder on the desk in front of him and sighed.

Nineteen years old.
What a waste
. He flipped open the file and glanced at the crime scene photos of Amanda Milton. Peter Bronkowski had some kind of pull if he'd been able to operate the set of Serial Date with only Gene Dorfenberger as security. Jensen rubbed his eyes. It was a damned miracle something hadn't happened before now.

He'd had Garcia pull files on every ex-con even remotely associated with the show. Both he and Putnam were amazed at some of the lowlifes Bronkowski employed. Their rap sheets ran the gamut of burglary, assault, domestic violence. How did the show ever get enough female contestants? Yeah, they got paid, but it wasn't a huge amount. At first blush they thought these guys were serial killers. He shook his head. Apparently, the all-American guy wasn't cutting it for the modern American woman.

Bronkowski made them all sign a waiver that explained who they'd be working with and that the show couldn't be held responsible for anything that happened outside the confines of the studio. He'd been floored when Bronkowski told him maybe one out of fifty contestants opted not to sign.

Putnam was certain Graber did the deed, but Jensen wasn't so sure. To add to everything, there was mounting pressure from above. Murders were up twelve percent in the city of Los Angeles alone. The Mayor and the City Council had been climbing all over the Chief's ass to bring the numbers down. Departments were stretched tight.

Election years sucked.

Jensen thought about Leine Basso, the woman Bronkowski hired to beef up security. Her most recent gig had been working as an insurance investigator. He'd read something in her file about doing security for a couple of government hacks, but Jensen got the feeling if he dug a little deeper, he'd find out a lot more about Ms. Basso.