Read Online The Body Market: A Leine Basso Thriller by D.V. Berkom - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: D.V. Berkom
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smells of downtown Tijuana brought back deeply buried memories: the seared meat juices soaking the drip pan at the ever-present food stands accompanied by the familiar smell of refried beans and handmade tortillas; overripe melons and strawberries and pineapples piled high on top of fruit carts; spilled cerveza and tequila mixed with the faint (and not-so-faint) odor of exhaust and urine.
The garishness of the city at night with its blatant neon and blaring music blended seamlessly with the hive-like drone of hundreds of hustlers and entrepreneurs, all working the system and tourists to make a buck. This was not the place to come for a quiet siesta or to find quality time alone with your sweetheart. Tijuana after dark existed for the fast and reckless, for the alcohol-fueled folly of thousands of daily visitors hell-bent on experiencing something different from their privileged American lives—addictive entertainment that smacked of the vaguely dangerous.
Elise and Josh found dangerous all right , Leine thought.
She located the Blue Manatee down a side street, the door unmanned and wide open to the balmy night. She walked into the cool, dark club, empty of customers except for a man sitting at the far end of the Lucite-and-chrome bar nursing a beer. Disheveled and probably hung over, he acted as though it was too much effort to acknowledge anything other than the cigarette in his hand. He had the look of someone who had become disillusioned with life, moved to Mexico, and now found himself drinking alone in Tijuana. He could have been thirty. Or sixty.
A large screen at the other end played a music video of the pop star du jour. Blue laser lights flickered at random intervals, attempting to give the impression of an electrified, high energy interior. The club’s namesake—an enormous, plush blue manatee—hung above the bar.
A dark-haired man who Leine estimated to be in his early twenties was stocking bottles on the shelves behind the bar. She approached him and sat on one of the padded Lucite stools. He turned to her with a smile and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. A tattoo of a rattlesnake devouring a scorpion was visible on his neck.
“What can I get for you, señora?” he asked. His name tag read Jorge.
“I’m looking for some information, Jorge,” Leine said in Spanish. “By any chance did you work the bar last Saturday night?”
“Sí—I always work,” Jorge answered with a practiced grin.
Leine reached into her pocket and pulled out the photographs of Elise and Josh that Gunderson had included in the report. “These two were in here last Saturday evening. Do you remember them?”
Jorge leaned over the bar and squinted at the pictures. He cocked his head to one side and frowned.
“She looks familiar to me, but I can’t be sure,” he said. He stepped back and shook his head. “He does not. I see so many people each night. They all begin to look alike after a few hours.”
Leine contemplated offering him money to jog his memory but rejected the thought. The possibility was too great that he would just tell her what she wanted to hear. “Did anyone else work the bar that night?”
Jorge nodded. “Guillermo is here every Saturday.” He glanced at his watch. “Tonight he is at another club one street over. The Gypsy.”
“Thank you, Jorge.” Leine slid a business card with the name Lana Turner and her cell phone number across the bar. “If you remember anything, would you give me a call?”
“Of course. May I ask why you are looking for them?”
“They never came home.” She rose to leave and held out her hand. Jorge shook it.
“I appreciate your time,” she said.
“No problems. I hope that you find them.”
Leine left the Blue Manatee and headed for the Gypsy. Tucked in the back of a small outdoor mall with several shops surrounding it, the place appeared to be less nightclub than restaurant, serving food at low prices to the locals. There was a bigger crowd than
The garishness of the city at night with its blatant neon and blaring music blended seamlessly with the hive-like drone of hundreds of hustlers and entrepreneurs, all working the system and tourists to make a buck. This was not the place to come for a quiet siesta or to find quality time alone with your sweetheart. Tijuana after dark existed for the fast and reckless, for the alcohol-fueled folly of thousands of daily visitors hell-bent on experiencing something different from their privileged American lives—addictive entertainment that smacked of the vaguely dangerous.
Elise and Josh found dangerous all right , Leine thought.
She located the Blue Manatee down a side street, the door unmanned and wide open to the balmy night. She walked into the cool, dark club, empty of customers except for a man sitting at the far end of the Lucite-and-chrome bar nursing a beer. Disheveled and probably hung over, he acted as though it was too much effort to acknowledge anything other than the cigarette in his hand. He had the look of someone who had become disillusioned with life, moved to Mexico, and now found himself drinking alone in Tijuana. He could have been thirty. Or sixty.
A large screen at the other end played a music video of the pop star du jour. Blue laser lights flickered at random intervals, attempting to give the impression of an electrified, high energy interior. The club’s namesake—an enormous, plush blue manatee—hung above the bar.
A dark-haired man who Leine estimated to be in his early twenties was stocking bottles on the shelves behind the bar. She approached him and sat on one of the padded Lucite stools. He turned to her with a smile and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. A tattoo of a rattlesnake devouring a scorpion was visible on his neck.
“What can I get for you, señora?” he asked. His name tag read Jorge.
“I’m looking for some information, Jorge,” Leine said in Spanish. “By any chance did you work the bar last Saturday night?”
“Sí—I always work,” Jorge answered with a practiced grin.
Leine reached into her pocket and pulled out the photographs of Elise and Josh that Gunderson had included in the report. “These two were in here last Saturday evening. Do you remember them?”
Jorge leaned over the bar and squinted at the pictures. He cocked his head to one side and frowned.
“She looks familiar to me, but I can’t be sure,” he said. He stepped back and shook his head. “He does not. I see so many people each night. They all begin to look alike after a few hours.”
Leine contemplated offering him money to jog his memory but rejected the thought. The possibility was too great that he would just tell her what she wanted to hear. “Did anyone else work the bar that night?”
Jorge nodded. “Guillermo is here every Saturday.” He glanced at his watch. “Tonight he is at another club one street over. The Gypsy.”
“Thank you, Jorge.” Leine slid a business card with the name Lana Turner and her cell phone number across the bar. “If you remember anything, would you give me a call?”
“Of course. May I ask why you are looking for them?”
“They never came home.” She rose to leave and held out her hand. Jorge shook it.
“I appreciate your time,” she said.
“No problems. I hope that you find them.”
Leine left the Blue Manatee and headed for the Gypsy. Tucked in the back of a small outdoor mall with several shops surrounding it, the place appeared to be less nightclub than restaurant, serving food at low prices to the locals. There was a bigger crowd than
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