The Target

by L. J. Sellers

  What was a dead body doing here? It must have been dumped. Cortez cringed, thinking the case could be difficult. He wanted a chance to prove he could help close homicides. Pulling on his suit jacket, he climbed from the car. A powerful scent of rust, seaweed, and decay hit his nostrils. Sometimes, he wished he didn’t have a heightened sense of smell.

  A uniformed officer stood in front of the long, low building. Cortez hurried over and showed the badge on his belt. “Detective Cortez.” He felt his mother smiling every time he said it.

  “The body’s around back,” the officer said, gesturing. “In the little room near the platform.”

  “Thanks.” He trotted around the building, sweat forming on his brow as soon as he pulled on latex gloves. Twenty feet away, another uniformed officer talked to a young woman in jogging clothes who held a small dog on a leash. Behind them, a decrepit loading dock stuck out from the cannery. The jogger had probably found the body. But where? Cortez hurried over, nodded at the officer, and pulled a camera from his zippered briefcase. He stepped toward the decaying wood still holding up the building. A broken door led into a small room. Inside, a big man in a dark suit squatted next to a man’s body. A dust-covered desk hugged up against the back wall and a chair stood in the middle of the old office. The smell of wet metal hung heavy in the air, and a reddish-brown stain coated the steel gray of the right front chair leg. Cortez snapped several photos, seeing the crime scene through the lens, as if it were a movie setting. This one was black-and-white, a noir piece with solemn investigators. All that was missing were the fedoras.

  He moved to the other side of the corpse, waiting for Detective Hawthorne to acknowledge him. A glance at the victim’s face sent a shock wave through his chest. James Avery! One of his favorite movie actors. Cortez dropped to his knees, and a strange sound escaped his throat. Hawthorne looked over, his expression grim.

  “That’s James Avery, the movie star,” Cortez blurted.

  Hawthorne glanced at the victim again. “Shit. No wonder he looked familiar.”

  The actor’s aging but handsome face had been beaten, leaving it swollen and bruised, but still recognizable. “Why would someone do this?” Cortez tried to mask his distress. “How did he die?”

  “Not sure. Other than the beating, I don’t see any wounds. And those bruises don’t look lethal.”

  Cortez stared at the man who’d been so daring and vibrant in his movies. He seemed so much smaller. Like any other guy on the street. James Avery wore dark pants, sandals, and a long-sleeved button-up shirt. Stains dotted the front where blood had dripped from his face. Cortez wanted to see his body and check for knife or bullet wounds, but he would have to wait for the forensics technician on his team. “I assume the jogger found the body.”

  The older detective shrugged. “She says her dog started barking, pulled away, and ran back here. She followed, then called it in. Not much to go on.”

  “We won’t find a witness here either.”

  “Well, shit,” Hawthorne muttered. “I really didn’t need an impossible high-profile case. I just want to finish out this year, then collect my retirement.”

  “We can solve this,” Cortez offered, sounding more confident than he felt. He’d only worked two homicides so far, one domestic and one gang-related, both with witnesses. No real detective work involved.

  “A dumped body scenario?” Hawthorne scoffed. “You don’t know what you’re saying. But I like your naive enthusiasm anyway.”

  Naive? Cortez’s cheeks flushed. Just because he wasn’t bitter and jaded… Plus, he saw the scene differently. “What if he wasn’t dumped?”

  Hawthorne scowled. “You mean the bruises? You think he met someone here and had an altercation?”

  The scenario in Cortez’s head was more sinister. “Or they brought him here and beat him.”

  “Maybe.”

  With a gloved hand, Cortez pushed back a cuff on the dead man’s shirt, exposing his wrist. A livid red mark encircled his pale skin. “He was bound.”

  “Who the fuck would kidnap and beat an aging movie star?”

  “He was only fifty-seven.”

  Hawthorne raised an overgrown eyebrow. “Why do you know that?”

  Cortez flushed again. “I like his work. Especially the Jack Kramer series. I love those action flicks.”

  “They were decent, but he was too old for the last two.”

  Cortez disagreed but didn’t argue. “He was a good guy and recently raised a lot of money for sick children.”

  “So how the hell did he end up here?”

  Cortez wished he had a good answer. “Did you find a wallet or anything personal?” They needed a starting point.

  “I haven’t spotted a single piece of evidence, but let’s look around.” The older detective stood, so Cortez did too. Even with his rounded shoulders, Hawthorne’s Ichabod-Crane body-type made Cortez feel short at five-seven. Next to his father and cousins, he was the tall one.

  The abandoned office was only twelve-foot square and nearly empty, except for the decades-old, crumbled paper trash in the corners. A ten-minute search left them empty-handed.

  Hawthorne scowled again. “Are you sure it’s James Avery? Movie stars often look different in real life, and this guy’s been beaten.”

  They heard two more vehicles pull up outside. Probably, the medical examiner and the final member of their team, a crime scene specialist. Detective Harris had kids at home and couldn’t respond as quickly. She made up for it later by taking on the grunt work.

  Cortez knelt down and quickly unbuttoned Avery’s shirt.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Checking for a tattoo.” He pushed the fabric aside, exposing the victim’s shoulder and a black-and-red Chinese symbol. “It’s definitely James Avery. He mentioned his ink in an interview with Entertainment Weekly.”

  “Get away from the body and clear the area.” The ME, a sturdy older woman, stepped into the room, followed by a younger man. Both wore white coveralls and carried forensic toolkits.

  The two detectives stepped back, and the floor made a loud creaking sound. Cortez glanced down. With a loud crack, the wooden slats split open. He jumped toward the side wall, hoping to land on a support joist.

  Hawthorne let out a shriek, followed by a crashing thud. A string of curses came next. Cortez turned.

  His partner had fallen through the busted boards, with only his chest and head visible. “Call an ambulance! I think I broke my fucking leg.”

  Cortez reached for his cell phone. As he called dispatch, he had a flash of excitement. What if he got to take the book on this case? He wouldn’t give up until he found James Avery’s killer and brought justice to one of the finest actors Hollywood had ever known.

  Chapter 7

  Thursday, July 10, 8:30 a.m.

  Dressed in a tight black skirt and cream-colored silk blouse, Dallas pulled her newly dyed hair into a messy bun at the back of her neck. She’d cut it for her last assignment, and it hadn’t grown much past her shoulders yet, but she was glad to be rid of the mousey brown. She wanted to darken it permanently to a burgundy brown but hated the idea of blond roots that would need to be colored every three weeks. For this assignment, she was glad to be light-haired. Nobody at TecLife would suspect a strawberry-blond secretary of spying.

  She dabbed pheromones behind her ears and on her wrists, then tossed the bottle into her purse, in case she had more than one interview and needed to reapply. They were most effective for intimate encounters, but she needed to use a full arsenal to ensure the company hired her. Mrs. Palmer had called an hour after she uploaded her résumé and asked Dallas to be at TecLife at ten this morning to meet with Max Grissom. Davis, the cute neighbor, hadn’t shown up, and she’d gone to bed early and disappointed.

  Out of habit, she slipped her fingers into the outside pocket to check for her cloth. The square inch of fleece was all that remained of a security blanket she’d had since she was a toddler. As a child, she’d car
ried the blanket in her backpack everywhere—‌to the home of whoever she would stay with next, to school everyday, and to all the activities her aunt had enrolled her in. She’d kept it into college, but hid it better and sniffed it less. Dr. Harper had finally convinced her to cut the unwashed blanket in half and toss a chunk. Eventually, she’d done it again. And again. The small scrap was all she had left.

  Dallas started to rehearse answers to mock questions, and a case of nerves made her get up and pace. She wasn’t worried about the interview. It was just another acting job that might require some improvisation. What concerned her was the possibility of not getting hired, of failing the bureau and being sent home. Interviews were completely subjective. If she reminded the CEO of some girl in high school who had rejected him, he might subconsciously choose someone else. Fortunately, Mrs. Palmer had sabotaged two other applicants already, so the TecLife executives should be eager to hire the first qualified person they talked to.

  She checked her purse for essentials such as lip-gloss and a burner phone, but left her weapon under the mattress, waiting to see what security was like at the company. If they had metal detectors, she might not be able to take her gun to work with her. Being without it made her uncomfortable, but at least she would be in a public place.

  Downstairs, she climbed in the rental car and said “TecLife” into the GPS on her phone. She couldn’t imagine finding her way around new cities without it. After her interview, she planned to come home and change, then head to the beach just to make sure she put her toes in the ocean while she was here. Once she dug into her assignment, she might be on task until the case was resolved.

  TecLife sat at the end of a short cul-de-sac in the midway between the bays. A tall brick-and-glass building occupied the front of the property with two single-story industrial buildings set back from the road. She guessed them to be the headquarters, flanked by a lab and a manufacturing plant. Dallas parked in the visitor’s spot up front and strode to the building. A security camera mounted above the glass doors informed her they were probably locked, but she tried them anyway. When they didn’t open, she stepped back and smiled at the glass eye. At least there was no metal detector, so she’d be able to bring her weapon if she got hired. It would be tucked into her special handbag, along with a burner phone, plastic evidence bags, and some zip-tie handcuffs. Just in case she caught someone in the act.

  A twenty-something man came to the door and spoke into the intercom. “State your name and business.”

  “J.C. Hunter. I have an interview at ten with Mr. Grissom for the administrative position.”

  “Show me your ID please.” Dallas dug out her new driver’s license and held it up to the glass. She’d had to upload a photo with her résumé as part of the security, so the company was obviously a little paranoid. But if they were conducting sabotage or stealing proprietary secrets, then they probably worried their competitors were too.

  The doors clicked and slid open.

  “Welcome to TecLife.” He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. “I’m Adrian, the front desk host.”

  Aka, receptionist. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Have a seat in our lobby and someone will be with you in a minute. Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  The room was narrow and tall, with a fifteen-foot ceiling and black low-slung couches lining the walls. A giant flat-screen filled one side, rotating with scientific images, most of a molecular nature. The company’s name was displayed on the opposite wall, spelled out in oversized chrome lettering. Egotists, she thought. Filled with the importance of their work. She wondered what the company culture was like for employees. From here, the building seemed silent. Even Adrian, the receptionist, had disappeared behind a brick wall.

  But she didn’t feel alone. Someone was watching her. Dallas looked around for cameras but didn’t see anything overt. After a ten-minute wait, she heard footsteps coming down stairs, and a moment later, a woman entered the lobby. Late-thirties and bone-thin, she had flawless pale skin that nearly blended into her white shirt. Close-cropped auburn hair and dark-blue eyes that didn’t smile.

  “I’m Cheryl Decker. We had a last-minute change, so I’ll be conducting the interview.”

  Damn. The pheromones were probably wasted, and this audition would be more challenging. Dallas stood and shook her hand. “J.C. Hunter. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “This way, please.”

  She followed her to a door at the end of a short hallway. Decker spoke over her shoulder as she opened the door. “I don’t trust elevators, so I hope you don’t mind taking the stairs.”

  “It’s fine.” Odd that a scientist didn’t trust technology. Or maybe it was just a personal phobia.

  Cheryl Decker moved quickly for someone who displayed little muscle tone and looked like she’d never set foot outside. Dallas hoped the executive was confident enough to hire a younger, more attractive woman—‌or that she was gay.

  Two flights up, they stepped into another hallway and headed for an office at the end. Decker hadn’t spoken since they left the first floor, and Dallas was worried. They entered an outer office, with no one at the desk, then Decker unlocked the inner door. Not good. The woman kept her office locked whenever she went out. Snooping, or even planting a bug, would be challenging.

  Her corner office was huge, but messy, and it looked more like a lab than an executive suite. The windows were covered with dark drapes that blocked out the bright sun.

  “Have a seat, and we’ll get right to this.” Decker gestured but stayed clear of her desk.

  The guest chairs were the only surfaces not covered with papers. Dallas sat, her mind working madly to find a way to win this woman over. Why wasn’t Max Grissom interviewing the person who would be his assistant?

  “We’ve had a change of plan since we posted the job.” Decker sat next to her, without a notepad or list of questions. “My assistant asked to take the opening with Mr. Grissom, and we all agreed that would be for the best. So the open position is now as my assistant. Can you work for a woman?”

  Oh great. She was difficult to work for. “Of course. As long as a boss is competent and respectful, gender is irrelevant.”

  “Define respectful.” She didn’t smile.

  “I just mean no verbal abuse. I’m pretty thick-skinned about everything else.”

  “Will you work late if needed?”

  “Of course. I don’t have kids or social obligations.”

  “Good. Your résumé has all the qualifications, so the decision is personal. I need someone who won’t run out of here at five if we’re in the middle of something.”

  “I’m task-oriented, so I never quit halfway.”

  “I see you worked for MediGuard. I’m curious about what’s in their pipeline.”

  A test. “That was a few years ago, but I’m not comfortable revealing anything they consider proprietary.”

  Decker nodded. “Then you understand that everything you learn here must be kept strictly confidential.”

  “Of course. This is a very competitive business.”

  A flicker in her eyes. “What are your ambitions?”

  “I’m taking business classes in the evening, and I’d like to run a consulting firm some day.”

  Decker cocked her head. “Why?”

  “I want to get paid for telling people things they already know or should know.”

  The executive laughed. “I like you, J.C.” Decker suddenly leaned in. “What do you know about microbial research?”

  Not enough, Dallas realized. If it was Decker’s passion, this might be the critical question. She smiled. “Intestinal microbes have tremendous potential to cure diseases, and I’m not squeamish about the idea, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Cheryl Decker pushed out of her chair, as if she just remembered something. She grabbed a notebook from her desk and began thumbing through it. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, “I don’t allow
social media during work hours. Are you on Facebook?”

  “No. I’m a private person.” Fortunately, the undercover team hadn’t created any media accounts for her background. And now she wouldn’t either.

  “Our dress code is pretty flexible, but no cleavage and no hooker outfits.”

  Dallas wanted to laugh. “I respect that. Who needs unwanted sexual attention at work?” She was glad she’d left her blouse fully buttoned.

  “I’m in the middle of an important project that needs immediate assistance. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Then go see HR for the paperwork and a security pass.”

  Chapter 8

  Thursday, July 10, 9:15 a.m.

  The hospital room door was open, so Cortez stepped in. Sergeant Riggs stood next to a bed where Detective Hawthorne lay with his leg in a cast. The sergeant turned. “Come in, Cortez. This is good timing.”

  A ripple of apprehension caught in Cortez’s throat. The sergeant usually supervised from his desk. Was the boss taking over the case? “Yes, sir.” He moved toward the two. Politeness required him to ask Hawthorne how he was doing, but everything he came up with sounded stupid, so he simply nodded.

  Riggs turned to him. “Hawthorne and I were discussing the Avery case. With him being injured and you so inexperienced, I think we should turn it over to the next team in the rotation.”

  No! “I’d really like to keep it, sir. I think I can be an asset.”

  “Sorry, but this one will get a lot of media attention, and we need to solve it quickly.” Riggs—‌with arms like an orangutan—‌slapped his shoulder. “Please turn over any notes or photos to the lieutenant and he’ll reassign it.”

  “But Mr. Avery’s wife hasn’t been contacted yet,” Cortez argued, surprising himself. “I finally found their information, and I’d like to be the one to tell her.”