Read Serial Date: A Leine Basso Thriller for Free Online Page B

off a round to try to stop him before reaching the crowded roadway. As a result, Graber landed in Cedars Sinai with a bullet to the groin and Ditterand was placed on administrative leave.
    Somebody leaked the gruesome details of the murder to a reporter from Entertainment All the Time! and the news went viral. The press descended like a flock of tourists at an open bar. Chat rooms everywhere buzzed with conjecture and vitriol regarding Amanda Milton's grisly murder and what it meant for the future of television and reality shows. Twits tweeted, bloggers blogged and several news outlets ran in-depth interviews of the show's previous contestants and bachelors.
    The senator called in Jack Shank for spin control and Jack Shank called Peter.
     
    ***
     
    By the time Jensen walked into his office, Peter Bronkowski had polished off most of a bottle of vodka and was contemplating which method of suicide would be less painful. He'd narrowed it down to swilling a handful of Xanax or wearing a Humvee.
    “I'm fucked. Fucked, fucked, fucked.” Peter sat slumped in his Italian leather chair, a small Baccarat crystal lamp the only illumination in the room.
    “Did they at least buy you dinner first?” Jensen folded himself into the chair opposite him.
    “This is it. I'm finished. Yesterday's news. Horseshit.” He looked up, tried to focus on Jensen. “What're you doing here?”
    “Thought I should come by, let you know we picked up Graber, but it looks like you already know.”
    “No shit.” He attempted to lift himself to a standing position, but fell forward into the desk. He held his hands out to steady himself, missed and staggered backward into the chair.
    “He's the star. What the hell are we gonna do without the star of the fucking show? Oh, yeah.” He smiled to himself. “There won' be a show after tonight.” It annoyed him he couldn't stop the hysterical giggle before it disintegrated into pitiless weeping.  Not in front of the cop.
    “I'm sure it's not that bad-”
    “The fuck do you know?” Peter lurched forward and jabbed his finger in the air, then let his arm drop to his side. “Christ, I stroked this one so hard, sucked up to all those bastards. Now everybody's pulling their ads. No way I'm gonna survive this.” He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. “What am I gonna do with Eddie?”
    “Who's Eddie?”
    Peter waved the question away, shook his head. “Nobody. Forget it.” He narrowed his eyes at his watch, trying to make out the numbers. “Should be getting the old pink slip any minute, now. Fuck. Me. They'll be out for blood.” He glanced blearily around his office, taking in the expensive Italian furnishings and modern art, his gaze settling on the new ninety-inch, Internet-ready 3-D television. Emotion welled up inside him and he choked back a sob.
    Not only had he not saved any of the money he'd made, he was up to his balls in debt—the house in Malibu, the Ferrari, the villa in Croatia, Edward's new place. And oh, God, the cocaine. The weekly payment to his dealer, El Zorro, was way past most developed countries' GDP and the thought of losing unrestricted access made him shudder. He'd have to go back to smoking crack. He started to pull out the small stash of Peruvian Bliss in his desk drawer to have a reassuring snort and remembered Jensen's presence across from him in the nick of time. He eased the drawer shut with what he thought passed for nonchalance.
    “If it makes you feel any better, things can get back to normal now.”
    Peter let out a loud belch, tipped the bottle of vodka upside down and drained it. He set it back on the desk but misjudged the distance and watched it fall to the floor. “Doesn't.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The room started to spin. He pitched forward and threw up in the Murano glass wastebasket near his feet.
    He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as the office door opened. Senator Runyon, Billy, Gene Dorfenberger and several