by Dan Alatorre
Pulse racing, she looked at the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall, then to the massive man in her living room.
What do I do?
I can’t let this guy find Rossi. That would turn into a disaster.
Think.
“See,” the stranger said, “Rossi was supposed to make a deposit for his boss last night, but he never showed up. The bartender at The Sports Bank said he left with a hot little brunette with curly hair.” He faced her, his eyes narrowing. “That’s you.”
“No.” She tried to keep her voice from trembling. “I, uh . . . I never . . .”
The man strolled back and forth across the spacious living room, past framed pictures of Marla with friends and family, eyeing the decorative window valences and ornate fixtures.
“It just so happens . . .” He commenced pacing again. “That one of our other employees was driving up when Rossi was leaving the bar. This other guy was supposed to receive the deposit from Rossi. So imagine his surprise when he sees Rossi leaving with you. He calls me and I tell him to follow your car, but don’t get too close in case something’s up. He gets the tag number and he follows. He hangs back, so’s he’s not spotted, like when you parked at that stop sign for a while and had a chat with Rossi about who knows what. My guy follows you all the way here and spends all night in your parking lot, waiting for our boy to come out. But he don’t come out.” He faced her, rubbing his hands like he was getting dirt off them. “That about brings us up to date, and now here we are.”
“He . . . was wrong.” Marla crossed her arms over her breasts. “Your friend must’ve left with someone else. I—I don’t go to bars.”
The man cocked his head. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. And—”
“And your husband—” He pointed to the wall. “—who doesn’t appear in any of the photos around this nice living room—he’s gonna be home at any minute.”
“He . . . I . . .”
“Know what I think?” The man glanced down the hallway. “I think pretty boy’s asleep in the back bedroom.”
Marla shook her head, pressing herself harder into the wall. “No.”
“I think you picked him up and brought him here for a little late-night fun.”
“No.”
“And I think when I go through the bedroom door, Rossi’s gonna be butt naked under the sheets just like you were five minutes ago.”
The stranger turned and marched toward the bedroom.
Marla yanked open the drawer on the end table, removing a loaded handgun. Thrusting her finger onto the trigger, she sprinted forward, jammed the muzzle against the back of the stranger’s head, and fired.
The gun blast rang through the living room. The man’s fat head snapped backwards, a string of red ooze launching outward from his face. Arms at his sides, his huge body careened forward like a falling tree and slammed to the floor. His feet bounced up with the impact, and then came to a rest. Mouth hanging open, the stranger’s eyes were still, staring unfocused across the carpet.
Marla stepped forward, her hand shaking and her ears ringing, pointing the gun at the stranger’s head. “How’s that?” Her voice quivered. “Still wanna go look in my bedroom?”
She placed one leg on the other side of the enormous torso and standing over him, her .38 aimed at the dead man’s bloody skull.
“Got anything else to say, smart guy? No?” She nudged the corpse with her foot, the gun trembling in her hand. “Still want that coffee?”
Panting, she stood over him for what seemed like hours. When she’d caught her breath, Marla lowered the gun to the floor and took a seat on the couch, pulling the t-shirt down past her knees. A few more deep breaths allowed her thoughts to clear.
What have I done?
She raised her blood-splattered hand. Turning it back and forth in the morning light, she inspected the many red dots. Some large, some small, but all of them streaked—tiny lines of blood, thrown onto her skin by the impact of her bullet into the intruder’s head. Her gaze went to her other hand, which was clean, then to the front of the t-shirt. It was dotted with blood splatter.
Sitting on the couch, Marla stared at the corpse on her living room carpet. A trickle of red shimmered as it oozed around the dead man’s skull.
Baggies.
She lifted herself from the couch and walked to the kitchen, taking two long, yellow rubber gloves from the counter. Slipping them on, she opened the pantry door and grabbed a box of baggies, then proceeded to the medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom, where she retrieved the pills, the washcloth, and the little brown bottle.
A juice glass from the kitchen cabinet was next. She went to the corpse and pressed the glass to the dead man’s forehead, holding it there until a half inch or so of liquid crimson had collected at the bottom of the glass.
Standing, she raised the glass to eye level, nodding her head as the morning light beamed past around the edges of the window curtains and illuminated the glass.
Perfect.
She peeled off the t-shirt, standing nude in the room, then rolled the rubber gloves into the shirt and gathered it into a ball. In the hallway, she pulled open the laundry room door and deposited the red-speckled bundle into the washing machine. She then moved to the bathroom sink. Scrubbing furiously, she lathered herself until every visible speck of blood had been removed from her hands and arms.
She leaned close to the mirror.
Son of a gun.
Blood dotted her cheeks. She held her hands under the faucet, rubbing until the dry red flecks softened and smeared, then faded to a watery pastel—and finally disappeared from view.
A strand of her curly brown hair bounced on her forehead.
There’s probably blood there, too.
She stepped back, easing the bathroom door shut and turning back and forth in front of its full-length mirror.
No visible stains elsewhere. Good.
Her eyes remained fixed on her naked image. She lifted her chin, holding her hand underneath and gently pulling at the sides of her cheeks. She pursed her lips, moving her fingers to her temples and tightening the skin there. The tiny crow’s feet disappeared.
Inhaling, she sucked in her abdomen and rotated to inspect her breasts and abdomen. She turned, peering over her shoulder at her rear end and holding onto the counter to keep her balance. On her tiptoes, she twisted back and forth, reviewing herself in the mirror.
She smiled, her hand drifting to the back of her thigh.
Satisfied, she picked up the items in the hallway and went to the bedroom, placing everything on the near nightstand and slipping between the sheets, nuzzling up to the beautiful naked man on the other side of the mattress. She curled around the blonde Adonis as he lay on his side, facing away from her. She pressed close, letting his body heat warm her.
After an eternity, he stirred.
Marla put her lips next to his ear, whispering. “How’s your headache, baby?”
“Bad. Like my head got hit by a bus.” Rossi groaned, pulling the edge of the pillow over his eyes. “It’s so bright in here.”
She reached over to the nightstand and picked up the two green tablets. “Take this. It’ll help.”
Lifting his head slightly, Rossi managed to crack one eye open. “Are you sure? I don’t—”
“These are prescription. From my . . . from a friend’s cosmetic surgery. They gave her these for the pain, and they work like a doozie. They’re fast.”
She put her hand under his chin like a mother with a child, and when he opened his mouth, she lifted her palm and dropped the pills in. The nightstand on his side of the bed held an open beer can. He grabbed it and took a few gulps, then set it back down and lowered his head to the pillow.
“That’s right.” Marla stroked his cheek. “Back to sleep.”
“I feel like I’ve already been asleep for days, but I’m still wiped out. What time is it?”
“You crashed early last night. But that’s okay.” She glanced a
t the cable box to check the time. Reaching for the baggy, she gently pried it open and withdrew the wet rag from inside.
“Marla, baby . . .” Rossi lifted his head. “I was supposed to meet a guy last night. Do you—”
She shoved the washcloth over his mouth and nose, holding it tight.
His hand shot to hers, grabbing her wrist as he fought to sit up. Her other hand went to his shoulder, lifting herself upward and using her body weight to keep him down. She groaned, fighting his powerful arms, forcing the washcloth to stay in place.
He pushed it away an inch. Throwing her leg over him, she pressed both hands to the cloth as he twisted and pushed. The smell of the washcloth’s pungent liquid assaulted her nose. Turning her head, she pressed the rag back over his mouth.
Rossi moaned, his grip becoming soft and clumsy. His eyes closed and his fingers slipped from her arms. His tan, muscular torso relaxed back into the sheets.
She held the cloth in place, nearly exhausted. “You’re quite a fighter, big boy,” she panted. “But no match for the chloroform.”
Jumping up, Marla ran to the bathroom, returning with a bath towel. She pulled Rossi onto his side and lifted his thick arms, sliding the towel underneath. Grabbing the juice glass and toothbrush, she dipped the bristles into the blood and pulled it out again, holding it close to Rossi’s arms. Running her thumb over the wet bristles, she sprayed his hands with flecks of blood.
Chapter 20
“I think that about concludes things.” From the podium at the front of the police station, Lieutenant Davis scanned the dozens of reporters who had assembled for his press conference. “If any of you have additional questions about the sniper or anything else, I’ll be happy to address them with you individually.”
He gathered his notes, turning to Carly and Deshawn. “You’re dismissed. Hit the streets and find that sniper.”
“Yes, sir.” Carly got up from the row of chairs behind the podium. As she and Deshawn reentered the station, she shook her head. “That was a waste of our time.”
“Now I know what window dressing feels like.” Deshawn stopped, gazing back at the lieutenant. Davis was with a reporter from Channel Ten in St. Petersburg, grandstanding. A line of reporters stretched out from there. The sergeant groaned. “It’ll be hours before he’s ready to do any real police work on this.”
“Then I guess we’d better get started,” Carly said. “What’s first on your list?”
“Interviews. I want to ask every witness about that white van. You?”
“Same. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find someone who caught a picture or video of it on their phone. I want to visit each crime scene, too. If it’s one shooter, there may be something the locations have in common.”
“Going straight by the book, huh?” Deshawn said. “As always?”
She nodded. “Going by the book works. That’s why they wrote it.”
Officer Harriman approached them in the lobby. “Carly, I got the witness list for you.” He handed her a piece of note paper. “The first six can meet you any time.”
Inspecting the note, Carly frowned. “Six people out of what, fifty?”
“Yeah. Fifty-four. And the sniper hotline is getting over a hundred calls an hour.” Harriman put his hands on his hips, looking at Deshawn and then Carly. “You know, I try to be an optimist, but so many shootings over such a short span of time . . . dozens of potential witnesses, thousands of calls to screen . . . This could take forever.”
“No, it can’t,” she said. “We’re not going to let it. I have kids. Like every other parent in this town, I want it to be safe for my boys to play in their own front yard.”
* * * * *
Jordan Mellish picked up a cold bottle of water and stood a few feet to the side of his boss and a reporter.
Nodding at Mellish, Lieutenant Davis put his hand to his neck. “I’m talking myself hoarse.” He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I grab a quick sip of water?”
“No, please do, Lieutenant.” The reporter lowered her microphone. “Take your time.”
“Thanks. I’ll only be a sec.” Davis walked toward Mellish and took the bottle, turning his back to the reporter. He cracked open the water and took a swig, lowering his voice. “Everything all set across town?”
“Yes, sir,” Mellish whispered. “There will be about six reporters there, waiting.”
“Good.” Davis handed the water bottle back and straightened his tie. “Very good.”
“Uh, sir . . .” Mellish shifted on his feet. “There’s just one thing. A question, I guess. About Detective Sanderson.”
“Make it quick. These TV people are busy. They don’t have all day.” Davis grinned at the reporter, holding up one finger.
“Well, Lieutenant, I understand why you’re featuring Sergeant Marshall so prominently in the investigation—he’s an active sergeant, and he’s been in that job for a few years. But Sanderson hasn’t even been promoted yet. Why are you making her such a prominent face of this operation? That’s a lot to put on an acting sergeant’s plate. You might be setting Carly up to fail.”
“Simple,” Davis said. “This sniper case is a loser—big time. The shooter is racking up victims like he’s part of a video game, but it takes us more than a week to process the average murder scene. He’s ahead of us and pulling away. He’ll probably keep killing at this rate until we’re lucky enough to stumble onto a break and track him down—which could be months. During that time, whoever’s leading this case will be chewed up and spit out by the press on a daily basis. Now, if Carly somehow happens to succeed and catches this maniac, I get credit for realizing her talent and potential, selecting her for the job, mentoring her . . . But if she fails—which is much more likely in a case like this . . .” He took another swig from the bottle and handed it back to Mellish. “We hang everything on her and flush her down the toilet like I did Breitinger.”
“Steal the glory, deflect the blame,” Mellish said.
“Exactly.” Davis adjusted his tie. “So, either way, I’ll come out just fine.”
* * * * *
Sergio carried his briefcase down the sidewalk, early for his appointment in the Walker building with his defense rep. A small cluster of about half a dozen people were gathered in front of the building. As he approached, a woman turned from the group and called out. “There he is.”
She lifted a microphone and rushed toward him. A few others came his way; the remaining members of the gaggle hoisted TV cameras onto their shoulders and followed.
“Detective Martin, I’m Giselle Winsome from Channel Eight news. Do you have any response to the accusations your partner made?”
Sergio waved her off. “Hey, I’m really sorry, Giselle, but I’m on my way to an appointment inside. Just give a call to the department PR folks. I’m sure they can have someone talk to you about the case Carly’s handling, okay?”
Another reporter blocked his way. A camera pressed between them, pointed at Sergio. Two more reporters shoved microphones in his face.
“Does it bother you that your partner said you almost got her killed?”
“Did her accusations lead to you being suspended, Detective?”
Sergio stopped, leaning back. The questions kept coming, rapid-fire.
“Is Detective Sanderson using your negligence to get promoted?”
“Is she right when she says your actions allowed the Seminole Heights serial killer to stay on the street and kill more people when she wanted to bring him in?”
Sergio took a step back. Heat rushed to his cheeks. “Carly said that?”
The reporters pressed forward, firing more accusations at him—all in the name of his partner.
Forcing a smile, Sergio held down the anger welling in his gut. “I’m, uh . . . not authorized to make any statements on behalf of the department. Or my partner—Detective Sanderson.”
Giselle Winsome got in front of the others and shoved her microphone into Sergio’s face. “As an American citizen, yo
u’re allowed to reply on behalf of yourself, Detective. After all, the reason you’re even at the Walker building this morning is to meet with an attorney and work on appealing your suspension, isn’t that right?” She narrowed her eyes. “Or are you such a spineless team player you’d let Detective Sanderson stab you in the back just so she could get promoted?”
Sergio exhaled sharply, leaning down to set his briefcase on the sidewalk and putting his hands in his pockets. “Giselle, you’re right—I did get stabbed in the back.” He pursed his lips. “By a serial killer, in the stairwell of the Tampa PD, as he was trying to shoot the place up.” Smiling, Sergio patted his stitches. “I can show you the scar, if you’d like. And as for Detective Sanderson . . .”
A hush fell over the group. The camera operators pressed closer.
“Everybody, gather close. I want you all to hear this.” Sergio looked Giselle in the eye. “The day I got these stitches, Detective Carly Sanderson saved my life. She is one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with—no, she’s the best cop I ever worked with. And if the department sees fit to promote Carly, I say that’s a plus for the entire community. If she’s in charge of the sniper case, he’s as good as caught.”
Winsome narrowed her eyes. “So even though she said you almost got her killed—”
“Well, I think one of you news types might have gotten a little excited and put a few words in Carly’s mouth—accidentally, of course. But I’ll tell you this. When Detective Sanderson does say something—about this new case she’s working or anything else—you should believe it, a hundred percent. She’s smart, hard-working, and loyal. She does things by the book, and that’s why she’s being considered for a promotion.” He looked directly into one of the cameras. “Tampa PD could use a hundred more just like her.”
Winsome’s face fell. She lowered her microphone.
Waving, Sergio picked up his briefcase. “Now, I’m sorry, but I have to go. Thank you for letting me clear up any confusion that may have been going around about all this.”
* * * * *