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

by Dan Alatorre

  Alejandro looked up at his mother, his eyes wide. “Mama?”

  She grimaced.

  “I’d pay for his food and everything,” Sergio said. “And a cat toy or two.”

  The boy jumped up and down. “What do you say, Mama? Would that be okay?”

  Putting her finger to her cheek, the woman wiped away a tear. “I guess that would be all right.”

  Alejandro cheered, hugging her.

  Standing, Sergio took all the cash from his wallet—about fifty dollars—and held it out to her. “I guess I’ll buy the whole cat family, ma’am. So they can stay together—if that’s all right.”

  “It’s almost a Christmas miracle.” She sniffled. “You don’t know what this money means to us, to our family. Alejandro was so sad.” She wiped another tear from her eyes. “I got downsized from my job last week, and—”

  “Yeah, I know the feeling. It’s a real punch to the gut.” He pressed the money into her hand, then looked at Alejandro. “And you—I’m going to be working security over there at the debate site, so you be sure to come by so I can see Marcus Aurelius, okay?”

  “Okay!” The boy clutched his cat to his chest, spinning around on the sidewalk.

  “Alright.” Sergio glanced toward the street corner. From the adjacent parking area, Tyree waved at him. Sergio reached over and mussed up Alejandro’s hair. “I’m supposed to meet with that guy over there, so I gotta go.”

  The woman nudged her son. “Alejandro, what do you say?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, Alejandro. Merry Christmas, ma’am.”

  She grabbed Sergio and wrapped him in a bear hug. “Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Wish for Santa to leave some Karma under my tree.”

  Alejandro’s mother patted Sergio on the back. “I will.”

  Waving goodbye, Sergio trotted across the street. Tyree was dressed in jeans and a sweater with leather patches sewn into the shoulders and elbows. He looked the way he always looked—relaxed, but alert. Some guys try to look tougher than they are; Johnny Tyree was the opposite. He didn’t need to act tough; he was tough. He was roughly the same height and weight as Sergio, but no matter who he was standing next to, Tyree always looked bigger.

  “Johnny.” Sergio waved. “Good to see you again. Thanks for helping me out, man.”

  “Yep. No problem.” Tyree looked him over. “I was glad to hear from you. Security for the debate has gotten tricky since this sniper business started, and we need all the help we can get now. You might be a little overdressed for today, though.”

  His years as a Marine gave Tyree an aura of strength and confidence, which he parlayed into a short-lived career at a Texas sheriff’s department. Tyree decided he couldn’t look the other way when he found out his bosses were taking kickbacks from Mexican drug smugglers and the “coyotes” that snuck people across the border. Instead, he walked into the office with a city prosecutor and a grand jury subpoena—and ended up getting fired for his trouble. That’s how he wound up back in Tampa, working for his uncle as a private investigator.

  “I’ve been watching the news,” Sergio said. “Kinda drives me nuts that I’m sitting on the sidelines while Tampa PD needs every badge working the streets looking for that guy.”

  “I feel ya. Don’t try to scratch that itch, though. The Department won’t appreciate meddling from a—well, while you’re taking a hiatus from each other.”

  “I’m meeting a lawyer after this.” Sergio nodded. “To start working on my appeal. Maybe that’ll keep my mind off the sniper case.”

  Tyree smirked. “From what I hear, your appeal could use some work lately. If I lend you a car, promise me you won’t try to go sailing in it, okay?”

  Pursing his lips, Sergio looked away, heat rising to his cheeks. “Yep.”

  “So, here’s our situation. My little firm was retained to do security for the mayoral primary debate. This . . .” Tyree pointed to the red, white and blue banners and striped, rounded bunting decorating the east side of the Esturiano building. A platform had been erected in front of the big columns. A thick mass of cables ran from the platform to the side of the building. Tyree walked toward the makeshift stage. “This is where the campaign managers for the primary candidates want to have their debate.”

  Sergio followed, staring at the stage. “Why here? It’s a vacant building. Looks like it needs to be condemned. And this whole area is pretty wide open. That’s hard to secure.”

  “Because political campaigns are about looks, I guess. They think outdoor security is the same for a political debate as it is for a Jimmy Buffet concert at the fairgrounds. Bree Barclay has been calling me all week, wanting things set up so her boss can look regal yet still appeal to the common man.”

  A plastic banner rippled in the morning breeze, stretching across a tall, cast iron fence at the street corner. It read, “Primary Debate For Mayor. Rex Addleson vs Matthew Blumenthal.”

  Sergio pointed to the banner. “Which candidate does Barclay work for?”

  “Bree works for Rex Addleson,” Tyree said. “She’s nice enough, but she’s intense. Very driven. Since the news reported the shootings yesterday, she’s been calling me three times an hour about making sure nothing happens during the big event.”

  Sergio scanned the tree line. A span of flat, green grass lay between the tall oaks and the Esturiano. “They should cancel the big event. There’s no way to secure this place. Not outside, anyway. You can install a fence and pat people down, scan them with metal detectors, but this guy won’t be in the crowd. He’ll be in one of those trees, two hundred yards from here. The stage is openly exposed on three sides . . . I mean, it’s a pretty building and all, but there’s just no way.”

  Tyree stared at him.

  “I’m sorry.” Sergio looked down. “I don’t want to lose my job on the first day, but . . .”

  “You can always tell me the straight truth,” Tyree said. “I want your opinion. What you just told me is what I told Bree Barclay. I was all set to fold up. Uncle Frank has been bugging me about a missing persons case in New Orleans that he wants me to look into, but Barclay’s not having any of it. And since she’s a friend of Mrs. Dilger . . .”

  “The nice, rich lady who funds your PI firm.” Sergio shook his head.

  “. . . we’ve been asked to keep moving forward for now.”

  Shoving his hands into his pants pockets, Sergio walked toward the old building. “With all due respect to Ms. Barclay and your financier, the sniper makes it a bigger safety concern—and not just for the candidates. Nobody knows what he’s up to. An important event like this, with big crowds, being televised—that might be irresistible to him.”

  “Barclay has been working members of the city council, too,” Tyree said. “They would like to avoid shuttering the event because it will make the city leaders look bad. Timid. That sort of thing.”

  “So, let everyone come out and get shot.” Sergio huffed. “Great idea.”

  They walked to the south side of the big building, where the adjacent lots were visible. More unsecurable green space loomed in front of them.

  Tyree faced Sergio. “Mrs. Dilger will shut this thing down if I tell her it’s not realistic, so we can play that card. She just wants us to explore every option first, and since she’s the boss, we’ll do that.” In the far corner, workers were stringing up chain link fencing. “Besides, it’s possible they catch the shooter first, isn’t it?”

  Sergio snorted. “It’s possible the department-appointed shyster I’m seeing after this will miracle my butt back into my job, but I wouldn’t want to stake my life on him making it happen.”

  “The city debate group and the campaign people will all listen to reason.” Stopping, Tyree put his hands in his pockets. “But money’s been spent. Big money. And if spending more will avoid wasting what they’ve already put in, they want to see what’s possible.”

 
“Well,” Sergio said. “I guess if it’s possible to secure the Green Zone in Iraq, then it’s possible to secure a few acres in east Ybor City.” He surveyed the empty lots, then the street. The roads were empty.

  If they were blocked off . . .

  “But it will require the same thing—an army.” He looked at Tyree. “Which means they should do it somewhere else. These people may be too stupid to be Mayor.”

  “Let’s walk the perimeter, so you can see how hard our job’s going to be.” Tyree headed across the grass, pointing to several pickup trucks at the far corner of the field next door. “We were sitting pretty before the sniper stuff happened. The city is already installing the temporary fencing and they’ve agreed to block off the surrounding streets the entire day of the event. After the sniper started his shooting spree, I had to up our game. This afternoon, two dozen scissor lifts arrive, with enclosed compartments at the top, to serve as lookout stations. The field lighting comes in tomorrow—enough to make every inch of this place as bright as the inside of a department store. Then we have bomb-sniffing dogs, night vision binoculars, infrared scanners, and a plan for plainclothes officers to mingle with the crowd.”

  “Pretty thorough,” Sergio said.

  Tyree stepped back as two workers came forward, plunging post hole diggers into the grass. A team of fence stringers followed them.

  Tyree faced Sergio. “The problem is bodies. I had a bunch of off-duty deputies and Tampa PD lined up for the job originally, but they’ve all been called back to look for the sniper. All that specialized equipment is useless without people to operate it.”

  “Yeah, that’s a dilemma.” Sergio scratched his chin. “I can call around to other cities. There might be some cops we can borrow. County deputies are always looking for gigs like this, too.”

  “I tried that. Every available badge is on loan to Tampa PD to search for the sniper.”

  “Geez. Well, I’ll look outside of the state, then. Maybe some cops in Georgia would like some extra Christmas cash. How many other people do you still have?”

  Tyree grimaced. “I run a small firm—me and Lavonte. Since they pulled the off-duty cops, adding you increased our team by fifty percent.”

  “Terrific.” Sergio rubbed his eyes. “Looks like I’d better start making some phone calls, because if it’s just you, me, and Lavonte, I’d better get started recruiting that army.” He looked around. “Where is Lavonte, anyway?”

  “I’m not sure.” Tyree glanced at the street corner. “He should have been here a while ago. Big Brass isn’t always great at punctuality.”

  “The city is allowing him to work security for a political debate?”

  Tyree nodded. “He’s part of my firm, so yeah.”

  “Uh . . . do they know he’s a former drug dealer?”

  Shrugging, Tyree started back to the Esturiano building. “We kinda didn’t mention that part.”

  * * * * *

  The first bullet bounced off the hood of the car and ricocheted through the dark warehouse.

  Lavonte crouched lower, curling his thick, musclebound frame as tight as possible behind the front wheel of a pickup truck.

  “You can’t hide in here forever!” Carmello commenced firing again. The next four or five bullets careened off everything, sending up sparks and bits of debris.

  The rows of trucks and vans in the warehouse belonged to a freight delivery service that was in receivership, so the vehicles had been gathering dust for a few weeks. Carmello said it was a chance to boost some of the cars for overseas sales; Lavonte saw it as a setup—and he was right.

  “If you ain’t workin’ for me, you ain’t workin’ for nobody!” Carmello’s voice bounced off the warehouse walls. “Big Brass, my ass! I ain’t having no entrepreneurs startin’ up. You a wholly-owned subsidiary of me! You got that?”

  Lavonte kept close to the dirt floor, quivering. He inched forward to peer toward the old building’s large entrance. His former boss was a silhouette against the bright sun outside.

  Another muscular silhouette joined Carmello. “What you wanna do, boss?”

  “He stays alive—for now. Good producers are hard to come by. But he can’t hide from me forever.” He shouted into the warehouse. “Runnin’ to Tampa ain’t gonna save your dumb ass! Next time I see that big, ugly mohawk of yours, I’m gonna part it down the middle with a bullet—and your fat head along with it!”

  Carmello fired a few more shots. Several bullets banged off of the cars. One whizzed by Lavonte’s head.

  When he opened his eyes again, the silhouettes in the doorway were gone. A car engine started and drove away.

  Big Brass stayed on the floor, counting off five full minutes before crawling toward the rear exit and slipping out the back door.

  * * * * *

  A cab pulled up in front of the Esturiano building. In a suit covered with dirt stains, Lavonte stood and paid the cabbie, then walked toward Tyree and Sergio.

  Tyree cocked his head, staring at his associate. “Lavonte, you, uh . . . you look a little different.”

  The mohawk was gone. Big Brass’ smooth, brown head shined in the midday sun. His facial tattoos had disappeared, too.

  “You’re . . . taller.” Tyree smiled. “No, shorter.” He faced Sergio. “Does he look shorter to you?”

  “Shorter? No.” Sergio walked up to Lavonte. “Did you lose weight? Like from the top of your head?”

  Big Brass frowned. “Very funny. Can’t a brother try out a fresh look without you crackers busting on him?”

  “Hey, the day I shave my head, you can rag on me all you want.” Tyree put his finger to his cheek. “And what happened to your facial tattoos? I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  Lavonte looked away. “Henna.”

  “Huh?” Tyree leaned closer to his employee.

  “They . . .” The big man sighed. “They were henna.”

  Tyree laughed. “You . . . faked your tattoos?”

  “Not all of them. Only the ones on my face.” Lavonte looked around. “A brother gotta have a look, man. Now that I’m into some above-board business, I changed it up. Know what I’m saying?”

  Tyree stroked his chin. “So, basically a decent haircut and a shower was standing between you and respectability this whole time.”

  “Man, shut up.” He glared at Sergio. “What’s up with you, five-O? Where’s your good-looking better half?”

  “Wow.” Sergio stared at Big Brass’ smooth, shiny head. “You’re an eight ball.”

  “Okay, you can shut up, too.”

  “Gentlemen!” A man’s booming voice came from behind Sergio and Tyree. “You’re all here.” Tyree’s uncle Frank clapped Sergio on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Detective.” The rotund man nodded to Big Brass. “Lavonte, you’re looking very . . . aerodynamic. Happy to see you could make it.”

  Big Brass scowled.

  “I’m glad you’re in a good mood, Frank.” Tyree turned to his uncle. “Because the three people you see in front of you are the entire security team for the debate right now.”

  “Really? That’s not good.” Frank raised his eyebrows, digging into his pocket. “Maybe I can make a few calls.”

  Tyree put his hands out. “No, no, no. We’ll take care of it. We don’t need the Saudi Arabian National Guard showing up here.”

  “Saudis?” Frank looked up. “I do not work with the Saudis. They still owe me money. Why, what have you heard?”

  Sergio pulled his phone from his pocket and checked the time. “Hey, guys, I need to get to my ten o’clock. There’s a big hairy guy being paid minimum wage to pretend to represent me in the appeal of my suspension.”

  Lavonte nudged Tyree. “Dude got suspended? What for?”

  “Later,” Tyree whispered. He waved to Sergio. “Okay, Detective. Thanks for checking in. I’ll call you later with an update. Meanwhile—”

  Sergio nodded, turning. “I’ll hit the phone and scare up some bodies for us.”

  “But no Sau
dis.” Frank waved a finger. “Not until they pay their bill.”

  Chapter 19

  Naked, Marla Palmer raced to her front door, pulling a large t-shirt over her head. It hung almost to her knees, but it would suffice for the moment.

  The knock sounded again, louder this time.

  Glancing toward the bedroom, she cracked open the door and squinted in the bright morning light. A chilly breeze swept into her apartment. She hunched her shoulders and stayed partly behind the door. “Yes?”

  The man outside could have blocked the sun. He was huge, in a muscular but fat way, and over six feet tall.

  “Good morning.” The stranger’s voice was gruff, with a New York accent. He smelled of cigarettes. “I’m lookin’ for a friend of mine—Nick Rossi, from over at The Sports Bank—and I heard he might be here.”

  Marla’s heart thumped. Goosebumps spread over her arms and thighs. “No,” she lied, keeping her hands on the door. Her body weight wouldn’t keep the man out if he wanted in. She glared at the brass latch chain, dangling on the painted white door frame. Why didn’t I chain the door?

  “Nick Rossi?” She swallowed hard. “No. I don’t know anyone by that—”

  “Maybe I could come in and have a look around.” Stepping forward, the stranger put a thick hand on the door. “Probably, he told you a different name. You know how guys are.”

  “No.” Marla leaned on the door. “No, there’s no one here but me.”

  The stranger’s eyes widened. “Is that right?” He smiled, his gaze going up and down over the thin white t-shirt.

  “What I mean is . . .” She shivered in the cold, pulling the hem of the t-shirt lower. “My—my husband will be home any minute.”

  “Uh huh.” The man’s smile disappeared. “Then maybe he can make us some coffee.”

  The stranger shoved the door open. Knocked off balance, Marla took a step backwards as her front door banged into the wall. Backing away from the stranger, she bumped into the end table as he passed. As her decorative candlesticks fell onto the carpet, Marla pulled the t-shirt further over her naked legs.

  The thug shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, glancing around the living room. “How about you tell me where Rossi is right now?”