Primary Target: a fast-paced murder mystery (Double Blind Book 2)

by Dan Alatorre

  The disciplinary session had been quick, but it seemed to last forever. Sergio’s cheeks burned the entire time. The lieutenant’s words carried the weight they were intended to carry—ten tons of bricks hammering Sergio into oblivion.

  “Stay right here until your paperwork comes through, then I’ll have a black and white drive you home. And think about a career change, Detective, because thirty days from now you may very well be getting one.”

  Sergio groaned. A thirty-day suspension. It might as well be ten years. At the end of it, a disciplinary hearing would decide whether he stayed on the force or not—and if he was in violation of any department rules at all, the thirty days would retroactively be without pay.

  He rubbed his face with his hands. It had started out to be such a nice morning.

  Carly burst through the door and pointed at him. “When were you going to tell me about my car?”

  “I—” He held up his phone. A drop of water fell from it. “My phone—”

  “And how could you be so irresponsible?”

  “Oh, boy.” Sergio sunk lower in his chair. “Good to see you, too, partner.”

  Carly’s face was red. “I let you borrow my car for a few hours, and you put it in the bay! How could you be so . . . so irresponsible!”

  “I know. I’m really sorry. I totally screwed up.” He shrugged. “But it was an accident.”

  “How do you accidentally put a car in Tampa Bay? My car?” She put her hand to her forehead, huffing. “My dad gave me that Camaro! He spent forty thousand dollars on it. Do you have forty thousand dollars? No.”

  “I—”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you did! I wanted that one. It was important to me.” Carly paced back and forth in the room, her hands on her hips. “My dad gave that car to me, and he’s not with us anymore. Why did you—” She turned to face him, her face getting redder. “You were on sick leave, so you decided to take my car out and go racing?”

  “No, I—I wasn’t racing. I—”

  “That’s what it says in the news story.” She held her phone up. “Right there. ‘Officer was racing through the streets of Tampa.’ Pursuing a car thief? While you’re on medical leave? What is wrong with you?” She pursed her lips, pacing again. “We had a chance to make an impression on TV today, and while I was trying to make us look good, you . . .” She groaned, turning and covering her face with her hands. “You put my car in Tampa Bay!”

  Sergio shrugged again. “Technically,” he mumbled, “I put it in the channel, not the bay.”

  “Is this a joke to you?” She wheeled around. “You destroyed my car. And you could have been killed.”

  “Well, I’m glad you finally got around to that.”

  “Stop that. Just stop.” She folded her arms, glaring at him. “I knew you were okay because I’m talking to you here and not in the hospital.” She brandished her phone at him. “They hauled your wet butt out like a drowned cat. Why? Why do you do things like this?”

  “It was Lucas Parmenter.” Sergio leaned back in his chair. “I had to get him.”

  She stopped him with a glare. “You had to? Really? Do the rules of police procedure not apply to you? Or should I remind you about the drug bust where you went in by yourself and ran into twenty armed felons? Or when you insisted the department surround a warehouse for a money laundering sting that turned out to be an empty warehouse because drug dealers sent us across town as a distraction? Or—”

  Sergio slouched. “Okay.”

  “It’s not okay!” She frowned, turning away and walking to the window. She stood there, staring out at the morning sky and shaking her head. “I’ve been your partner for four years, Sergio.” Lowering her voice, Carly turned to her partner. “Four years. You are such a good cop, so smart, and with such a good nose for police work. It comes natural to you. Your instincts as a cop are better than mine will ever be. But sometimes working with you is . . . it’s like I have a third child. And today you have really, really put me in a bad position.”

  “Oh, you’re fine, Miss morning TV show.” He faced the window. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the rap. You had no role in this foul up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He cocked his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I think sometimes you do things . . .”

  “No.” He stood up. “I just wanted to get the bad guys, and Sarge wasn’t set up properly yet. That’s the job, isn’t it? Getting the bad guys? Well, I got the bad guy.”

  “But there are rules!”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He returned to the window. “Sometimes the rules might have to get bent a little bit.”

  “Marty, please.” Carly went to his side. “Help me understand. I can’t help but wonder . . .”

  Sergio looked down. She only referred to him as Marty when she was being relaxed and personal—or when she was trying to drive a point into his thick skull. “Hey, I messed up—major league, I admit it. But I had to try. It was Lucas Parmenter.”

  “Parmenter?” Carly’s eyebrows raised. She nodded, lowering her voice and putting a hand to her lip. “You weren’t even on duty.”

  “First time he’s showed himself in forever. I just . . . I had to make sure he didn’t get away.” His gaze went to her. “I’m sorry about the Camaro, Carly. I really am. That was . . . stupid of me. Irresponsible. But I’ll make it right. I’ll make it up to you, and I’ll make things right with the department. Even though they’re suspending me, I’ll find a way.”

  “You could have been fired.”

  “Trust me, Davis made that clear.” He looked out the window. “And it still might happen.”

  Carly clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry, Marty.”

  “Dude, you don’t need to apologize to me.” Sergio leaned into her field of view, gazing up at her and putting his thumb to his chest. “I’m the one who messed up. I hurt the department and I embarrassed us as a team. Worst of all, my mistake makes you look bad as my partner, and that . . . well, that matters a lot. But I’ll fix it, I promise. Somehow, I will.”

  She stepped toward the exit. “I have to go. Since you’ll be getting some down time, maybe you can . . .”

  “Just go ahead and call it a suspension. That’s what it is. It’s not a thirty-day vacation.”

  “Thirty days.” Carly raised her eyebrows.

  “Yeah. Merry freaking Christmas.”

  “Well, maybe you can use it to think about things.” Her face was sad as she looked at him. “Think about what you want from all this.”

  Sergio flinched. “That sounds ominous.”

  “A thirty-day suspension is ominous. That means they wanted to fire you.” She winced, closing her eyes. “A week ago, you were a hero. Maybe you were trying to top that, or maybe you were trying to prove something, but it’s worth a little time to think about all this.”

  “Okay, Dr. Freud. I will.”

  She frowned.

  “I will. I know you’re trying to help me do what’s best for me.”

  “Because I care about you, Marty. That’s why it’s so important for you to clean up your act.”

  He nodded, turning back to the window. Carly sighed, putting her hand on the door.

  “I heard you got on Dawn Across America,” he said. “That’s awesome for you. But you know, what about the Tampa Bay This Morning people? Because sometimes when you meet TV people in person, they have exaggerated features. Like really big heads. Did Cheryl Hills have a really big head?”

  “It . . . it was kind of big, yeah.”

  “I knew it. She looks good on TV, though.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. A smile tugged at the corner of Carly’s mouth, then disappeared. “You know,” he said. “It’s just a car. The way you’re acting, I can’t help but think something else might be going on here.”

  “You don’t think costing me forty thousand dollars is enough reason to be angry? Because my insurance isn’t going to pay for a car that was borrowed by a co-worker
and totaled during an illegal high-speed chase.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t know, Sergio. I mean, you’re so . . . careless sometimes. You could’ve killed yourself this morning and last week you almost killed—”

  “What?” He turned around to look at her. “What was that?”

  “Nothing.” Carly moved away, slipping her purse strap over her shoulder as she exited the room.

  * * * * *

  In the hallway, Carly opened her phone and reread the text from her husband. Glancing back at the room where Sergio was, she put her hand to her forehead, slipping the phone into her pocket and walking to Jordan Mellish’s desk. “Is Lieutenant Davis available?”

  “He’s not, Detective. Not at the moment.” Mellish picked up a pen. “Can I give him a message for you?”

  “Yes.” Carly took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is regarding the sergeant’s position he and I spoke about. Tell him I don’t need to think about it. I’m in. I want the job.”

  Chapter 7

  Lieutenant Davis leaned back in his desk chair. His eyes alternated between the speakerphone in the center of his desk and the faces of his guests, Lieutenant Jack Breitinger and Mayor Michael Mills, who were listening to it with him.

  “Lot of crazy stuff going on, boys.” The police chief’s voice boomed over the speakerphone. “The press says Tampa’s turning into the wild west. We’re becoming a national laughingstock.”

  “New policies have allowed that, Chief.” Davis rocked forward, eyeing Breitinger. “Many that were recommended by you, Jack.”

  Breitinger sat rigid in his chair, his jaw jutting out but his mouth remaining closed.

  The mayor patted him on the shoulder. “Jacky, I had your back all through that serial killer episode. You know that.”

  “Jack’s a good man.” Davis got up from his chair. “But my friend and colleague has put us all in a tough spot here.” He folded his arms, looking at Breitinger. “One of your star detectives put his car in the bay, while the other one sat on her butt and helped the TV networks trash us during her PR mission—she even agreed with them about how we fouled up! Meanwhile, the west side has turned into a—a shooting gallery!” He threw his head back, laughing. “Good grief, Jack. What’s going on? That’s your territory, and those were your detectives.” He glanced at the mayor, then to the speakerphone. “Now, I’ve been consulting with some of the county commissioners . . .”

  Breitinger gritted his teeth, glaring at Davis. “You don’t miss a trick, do you, friend and colleague?” Frowning, he turned to the mayor. “Mike—how bad is it?”

  Mayor Mills smoothed out an invisible wrinkle on the leg of his pants. “We’ve been friends a long time. You have a bright future in whatever you choose.” He looked at Breitinger. “Don’t let this current environment ruin that.”

  Jack’s eyes stayed on him. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Well . . .” The mayor rested his elbow on the arm of the chair, rubbing his chin. “It’s pretty bad. The city council has proposed a vote of no confidence about your actions and those of the department under your watch. Chief Clemmons and I will support you, but we’re in the minority.” He looked his friend in the eye. “ You’ll lose the vote, Jack.”

  “But.” Davis looked at Breitinger. “There were always rumors about you running for congress or mayor. If you want a career in politics later on—”

  Breitinger bristled, his cheeks turning red. “That was a thought for down the road—a few years down the road.”

  “Yeah, well . . . things have changed,” Davis said. “This isn’t the first sign of trouble, either. The TV stations are broadcasting the mayoral primary debate, live, a few days from now—in a city they’re calling the O. K. Corral. And that pain in the neck campaign manager—what’s her name? For Addleson?”

  The mayor rolled his eyes. “Bree Barclay.”

  “Yeah, Bree Barclay. On the heels of today’s shootings, she’s already out there asking publicly if the city is capable of managing security for the event.” Davis folded his arms, huffing. “Now, the honorable Mayor Mills’ days at City Hall are done at the end of this term, but someone in that live debate is sure to bring up all of these embarrassing headlines. They’ll be looking to blame the people and policies of this department—your policies, Jack.”

  Breitinger shook his head. “I can fix all of this. It won’t be easy, but—”

  “Then by all means, stay.” Davis swept his hands outward. “Next year, you were going to announce your retirement anyway. If the department has been able to rebuild its reputation in that short period of time, then staying on is a good move. But, what are the odds? Right now, things don’t look too good. And if Tampa continues to be an unruly shooting gallery that’s featured on the national news every night—like we are right now—you’ll wish you had left yesterday.” He folded his arms, stroking his chin. “You’re lucky to have friends like the mayor and the chief, who’ll help you. Otherwise, that ‘no confidence’ vote would happen tomorrow. Then what?”

  Chief Clemmons cleared his throat. “I hate to agree with Davis, but I think you may have rolled snake eyes once too often, Jack. Moving on . . . well, that may be your best bet.”

  “If you step aside now,” Davis said, “the chief’s friends at MacroTech have agreed to let you spend a few years consulting, with a nice, fat contract. Down the road, when memories have faded, you announce for mayor or congress. No harm, no foul.”

  Breitinger frowned. “Why are we listening to this nonsense? Davis has you all hoodwinked.”

  “I understand you’re hurt, Jack,” the chief said. “But Lieutenant Davis didn’t put a car in the bay or trash the department on TV. Your people did that.”

  “Yes, sir, but—”

  “Whereas,” Davis sat back down. “My detectives have shown they can do their jobs without embarrassing the department.”

  Breitinger pursed his lips.

  The chief spoke up again. “This is my call, Jack. It’s an election year, and the media will be happy to roast your rump over an open fire for the next nine months. Nobody benefits from that. This is a chance to step down with dignity and live to fight another day.”

  “You and I are friends.” Mayor Mills put his hand on Breitinger’s shoulder. “So this is difficult for me. And no matter what option I consider, none of them look very good. My gut says you should stay and fight. You’ve earned that right. But the chief is a friend, too, with a few decades of law enforcement under his belt. That’s a lot more than I have. I think we need to trust his judgement. That doesn’t mean you have to like the decision.” He gave Breitinger’s shoulder a squeeze. “Look to the future. When you’re ready to run for mayor, I’ll endorse you. If I’m Governor by then, that support will count for a lot.”

  “Me, too, Jack,” Chief Clemmons said. “There won’t be any stain on your record.”

  Breitinger stared at the floor. Outside, cars honked in traffic; in the distance, a lone siren wailed as a fire-rescue vehicle rolled out of its station.

  Jack lifted his head and looked at the speakerphone, his face drawn. “Okay, gentlemen, I’ll do it. I’ll . . . submit my letter of resignation this afternoon.”

  “You’re a good man, Jack.” Davis leaned back and grinned. “Go to MacroTech for a while. Come back later and become mayor. Then today is a victory—for all of us.”

  Chapter 8

  Bree Barclay hung up the phone, letting out a long sigh.

  It immediately rang again.

  Grabbing the receiver, she pressed the flashing button along the phone’s base, connecting the call. “Rex Addleson for Mayor, campaign headquarters.”

  The desk in her office was stacked high with signed photographs of the candidate, to be mailed to high-end donors—along with a follow-up request for an additional donation. The campaign’s latest email burst had mentioned an exclusive, one-on-one dinner opportunity with candidate Addelson.

  As long as the recipient donated ten thousand do
llars and considered “one-on-one” to mean a room filled with ninety-nine other high-end donors.

  Bree pushed up the sleeves of her pink cardigan sweater. She sat at one of three long tables in the main lobby in front of her office, manning the phone banks with the first-week volunteers.

  A slender young woman stopped by the table. “We have a special guest.” Jaylee slipped one thumb into the belt loop of her faded blue jeans and pointed to the front entrance with the other. “Can you take a moment to talk to him?”

  With her shoulder, Bree held the phone to her ear and peered across the lobby. Dr. Aumental, a tier-one VIP donor, stood near the entrance, looking around as he fiddled with a signed, 8x10 glossy photograph of Rex Addleson.

  “Yeah, I got him. One sec.” Bree pitched the female caller hard and fast, securing one hundred dollars on a Visa card while thanking her profusely—then asked her to come volunteer.

  The donor on the other end of the line politely declined.

  “No? Mr. Addleson will be very disappointed. He was planning on helping with the phones on Thursday evening, and I know he would have loved to thank you in person.”

  A smile stretched across Bree’s face as the caller reconsidered her Thursday evening schedule.

  “That would be amazing!” Grinning, Bree scribbled on a notepad and handed it to Jaylee. “We’ll see you Thursday, then. And be sure to ask for me when you come down. I’ll see that you get a good seat. Bye-bye!”

  She ended the call and jumped up, walking with Jaylee toward the campaign headquarters entrance.

  “Why do you do that?” Jaylee asked.

  “Do what?” Bree picked up a stack of folders from an empty desk and handed them to a volunteer. “These need to be reviewed by accounting before we file them.”