Read Online Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller by D.V. Berkom - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: D.V. Berkom
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Especially when it came to bodies. There was something alluring about a stock pair of breasts…
The waiter appeared with a basket of breadsticks. After checking with Leine, Jensen ordered a bottle of red wine. The waiter left and Leine reached across the table, placing her hand on his. The energy snapped between them.
“I really need to thank you, detective.”
“Call me Santiago.” Jensen smiled his most charming smile—the one that melted the ladies. This evening was definitely heading in the right direction.
“Your call came at a good time. My daughter's here for an unexpected visit and we're not exactly getting along at the moment.” Leine released his hand and took a sip from her water.
“Oh? I'm sorry to hear that.” Looked like they'd be going to his place later. Good thing he straightened up the living room. Even put new sheets on the bed. Twenty points. “So, is Dad still in the picture?”
Leine frowned and shook her head. “No. He died when she was two.”
“Sorry to bring it up.” Jensen shifted in his chair.
“Don't be. It was a long time ago.”
Time to change the subject. “I read in your file you worked security for the State Department before becoming an insurance investigator. How was that?”
Leine shrugged. “Kind of boring, actually. I worked with lower level diplomats. Not a lot of action, but a ton of travel. And waiting around.”
Jensen noticed a subtle difference in her demeanor when she spoke of her past. A studied casualness. Wariness, maybe, or closing up because experience taught her not to give anything away. He wondered what she wasn't telling him.
The waiter reappeared with the wine and two glasses. They both waited to continue the conversation until he'd left.
“How long have you been with the LAPD?” she asked, cradling her glass in both hands.
“Coming up on twenty years.” He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “I guess it's true what they say: the older you get, the faster time flies.”
“What made you want to be a cop?”
“Thought it'd get me laid.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Did it get you laid?” Leine's expression remained neutral.
Nice and direct. Jensen liked that. He smiled and took a drink of his wine. “Maybe.”
“The real question is, why stay?”
Jensen paused for a moment before answering. “Early in my career, I watched a guy get tapped for a murder charge and knew he wasn't guilty. I mean, he was no angel by any stretch, but he didn't kill the victim. Don't ask me how I knew. Call it a gut reaction. The job was too clean and there were other indicators it was probably a contract hit. In my estimation, this guy would never have been able to pull it off. I voiced my concerns, but it went nowhere. There was an eye witness and the jury ate it up. He got the death penalty. A few years later, evidence turned up that exonerated him. I never forgave myself for not following up on my hunches. That's when I decided to become a detective.”
“Were they able to catch the real murderer?”
Jensen grabbed a breadstick from the basket on the table and tore it in half. “Nope. Never did.”
“You say there were other indicators. Like what?”
“The killer left a calling card. An etching on the bullet. I've seen the same symbol used in two other instances: the murder I told you about, and two more a couple months later. Then, nothing.”
Leine leaned forward in her chair. “What kind of symbol?”
Jensen's smile slipped into place. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but that information is classified.” He searched her face. “You seem pretty interested in the subject.”
Leine smiled. “It's a hobby. Some of the guys on security detail would shoot the shit—I picked things up. Thought it was fascinating. From what I understand, contract killers take their job very seriously. I assume most would prefer to remain anonymous. I wonder why this one left such a distinctive mark?”
“Ego stroke, probably. I keep watching for a hit
The waiter appeared with a basket of breadsticks. After checking with Leine, Jensen ordered a bottle of red wine. The waiter left and Leine reached across the table, placing her hand on his. The energy snapped between them.
“I really need to thank you, detective.”
“Call me Santiago.” Jensen smiled his most charming smile—the one that melted the ladies. This evening was definitely heading in the right direction.
“Your call came at a good time. My daughter's here for an unexpected visit and we're not exactly getting along at the moment.” Leine released his hand and took a sip from her water.
“Oh? I'm sorry to hear that.” Looked like they'd be going to his place later. Good thing he straightened up the living room. Even put new sheets on the bed. Twenty points. “So, is Dad still in the picture?”
Leine frowned and shook her head. “No. He died when she was two.”
“Sorry to bring it up.” Jensen shifted in his chair.
“Don't be. It was a long time ago.”
Time to change the subject. “I read in your file you worked security for the State Department before becoming an insurance investigator. How was that?”
Leine shrugged. “Kind of boring, actually. I worked with lower level diplomats. Not a lot of action, but a ton of travel. And waiting around.”
Jensen noticed a subtle difference in her demeanor when she spoke of her past. A studied casualness. Wariness, maybe, or closing up because experience taught her not to give anything away. He wondered what she wasn't telling him.
The waiter reappeared with the wine and two glasses. They both waited to continue the conversation until he'd left.
“How long have you been with the LAPD?” she asked, cradling her glass in both hands.
“Coming up on twenty years.” He laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “I guess it's true what they say: the older you get, the faster time flies.”
“What made you want to be a cop?”
“Thought it'd get me laid.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Did it get you laid?” Leine's expression remained neutral.
Nice and direct. Jensen liked that. He smiled and took a drink of his wine. “Maybe.”
“The real question is, why stay?”
Jensen paused for a moment before answering. “Early in my career, I watched a guy get tapped for a murder charge and knew he wasn't guilty. I mean, he was no angel by any stretch, but he didn't kill the victim. Don't ask me how I knew. Call it a gut reaction. The job was too clean and there were other indicators it was probably a contract hit. In my estimation, this guy would never have been able to pull it off. I voiced my concerns, but it went nowhere. There was an eye witness and the jury ate it up. He got the death penalty. A few years later, evidence turned up that exonerated him. I never forgave myself for not following up on my hunches. That's when I decided to become a detective.”
“Were they able to catch the real murderer?”
Jensen grabbed a breadstick from the basket on the table and tore it in half. “Nope. Never did.”
“You say there were other indicators. Like what?”
“The killer left a calling card. An etching on the bullet. I've seen the same symbol used in two other instances: the murder I told you about, and two more a couple months later. Then, nothing.”
Leine leaned forward in her chair. “What kind of symbol?”
Jensen's smile slipped into place. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but that information is classified.” He searched her face. “You seem pretty interested in the subject.”
Leine smiled. “It's a hobby. Some of the guys on security detail would shoot the shit—I picked things up. Thought it was fascinating. From what I understand, contract killers take their job very seriously. I assume most would prefer to remain anonymous. I wonder why this one left such a distinctive mark?”
“Ego stroke, probably. I keep watching for a hit
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