by Dan Alatorre
“You know, I think I gave you the wrong impression.” Sergio sat forward. “Carly and I are friends. Her husband is my friend. Her boys call me Uncle Sergio. We hang out sometimes.”
“I know. You didn’t give me the wrong impression.”
“Okay,” he said. “Well, she was on Dawn Across America representing the department. Now, I could talk all night about cop stuff, but maybe we should actually talk about your plans for defending me, counselor.”
Abbie cocked her head. “You’re not jealous?”
“No,” Sergio said. “I never, ever wanted to be a lawyer.”
“Of her. Being on TV.” Abbie held her hand up, her thumb and index finger a fraction of an inch apart. “That doesn’t give you a little twinge of envy?”
“Oh, I’m insanely jealous of that.” Sergio chuckled. “I actually kinda hate her right now for being on TV without me. I even texted her to tell her that. She said I could take solace in the fact that she was hating every minute of it.”
Abbie stroked her chin. “Think she was telling the truth?”
“Yes. Carly hates being in front of a bunch of people,” Sergio said. “With TV cameras? Forget about it. Totally not her thing. She was in hell, trust me. She even sent me a text making fun of the fruit tray in the green room, though. It was a sculpture arrangement, but I guess Dawn Across America didn’t spring for seedless grapes.”
Abbie’s phone buzzed. Without looking, she pressed the button on the side and sent the caller to voicemail.
“Then she said the producer had to do a whole pre-interview.” Sergio waved his hand. “So Dawn could know everything they were gonna say and make up jokes to fit ahead of time. Very cardboard Hollywood.”
“Mm-hmm.” Abbie viewed her phone screen.
“I’m sorry,” Sergio said. “I strayed off the topic.”
“Let’s talk about the case.” Abbie folded her arms as she continued pacing around the living room. “You got suspended. Why?”
Searching the ceiling, Sergio rocked his head back and forth as he spoke. “I broke departmental rules that are there for the safety of me, my fellow officers, and the general public.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She put her hands on the back of his chair. “Why?”
He looked at her over his shoulder. “You didn’t like my first answer?”
“I’d rather have the truth,” she said. “You broke the rules because . . .”
Sergio turned and stared at the wall over the couch, holding the arms of the chair with both hands. Heat rose to his neck and cheeks.
“Get out of here!” The tall, thin African-American man smashed the window of his trailer, pointing the barrel of a gun out into the dark trailer park. “I’ll shoot them and then shoot myself! I mean it!”
Sergio crouched behind his vehicle, next to Franklin. Two other squad cars and an ambulance were on the scene. The trailer park had been evacuated; now it was just a matter of dealing with the drug-fueled junkie inside—and getting his trapped girlfriend and daughter out of harm’s way.
A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Franklin’s face. “Where are the hostage negotiation people?”
“On the way.” Sergio eyed the trailer, his service weapon drawn. “We just need to keep this psycho cool until they arrive.”
“That’s the drugs talking.” Franklin adjusted his Kevlar vest. “He’s so hopped up, he probably doesn’t even know what he’s doing.”
“Stay back!” the man shouted. “I mean it. I’ll shoot them and burn this whole lousy trailer down!”
Sergio crouched lower. “He’s got me convinced.”
“Hey, buddy!” Franklin shouted. “Be cool. Nobody’s doing anything. You’re in control.”
“That’s right! I’m in control. Now stay back. I’ll—I’ll torch this place!”
Sergio grabbed his radio and held it to his face. “Seven twenty-three to base. How’s that negotiation team doing?”
“They are en route,” the dispatcher said. “Advise you to talk to subject to keep him calm.”
Franklin glanced at Sergio. “Talk to him? About what?”
“Baseball?” Sweat rolled down Sergio’s cheek. “He’s hurting. What do you do with somebody that’s hurting?”
Franklin pursed his lips. “You listen.” He lifted his chin over the trunk of the car. The police vehicles’ headlights illuminated the front and side of the dingy trailer; their strobe lights flashed red and blue over the makeshift meth lab’s green-stained walls. “We could make it a little less threatening.” Franklin looked at the second unit. “Timmons. Cut off your strobes. You, too, Liedke.”
“What’s going on?” the man in the trailer screamed. “What are you doing? I’ll kill them!”
“Nobody’s doing anything. Man. We’re getting some of these lights out of your eyes.”
The muzzle flash from the trailer was just a tiny spark. The gun blast was like a harmless pop—like a cheap firecracker some kid set off in the grass.
Franklin crashed to the ground next to Sergio, blood spurting from his neck. His hands fell to his sides as his eyes rolled backwards. A low wheeze escaped his lips, and his thick chest sagged.
Ten feet away, the medics grabbed their gear and raced toward Sergio’s fallen partner. It wouldn’t matter.
Sergio shifted in his chair, unclenching his hands from the armrests. He closed his eyes, letting the images fade. When he opened them again, Abbie was across from him, on the couch, her eyes focused on his.
“You asked why I break rules sometimes,” he said.
She nodded.
“Counselor, the department has rules and I should follow them. Always.”
“No, you don’t.” She put her hands on her hips, facing him. “Be honest. You think the rules shouldn’t apply to you sometimes.”
“If I were being totally honest, I’d say you can follow every order and do everything by the book, and end up just as dead as if you screwed it all up. I’ve seen it happen—close enough to get sprayed by blood when the rules failed someone. But saying that won’t get me my job back, will it? The truth is, you have to exercise judgement in the field, or a killer—a known killer—will get away. Again.” Sergio frowned. “Somebody has to make that not happen. I respect police procedures, but they can’t make a rule to cover every situation, and it’s crazy to pretend they can. The last time Parmenter skated, he disappeared for over a year. During that year, he managed to kill someone else. That’s two. Most people manage to go their whole lives without killing anyone. He’s a bad guy, and it’s my job to keep people like him away from everybody else. If following one rule gets a cop killed and breaking another rule gets a scumbag murderer off the streets . . .” He sunk lower in his chair. “Well, I made my choice.”
“So . . .” Abbie paced around the room again, rubbing her chin. “You think it’s okay to break the rules sometimes.”
“No,” he said. “I think it’s necessary to break rules on occasion. Sometimes in a situation, a cop has to exercise judgement.”
“Somebody with a higher pay grade than you in the department disagrees.” Abbie sighed, plopping back onto the couch. “The department’s rules are set up so you don’t have to decide which ones to follow. It’s already decided. You follow them all.”
“Like I said, for the safety of me, my fellow officers, blah, blah, blah.” He frowned, looking away. “The department rules say wait for backup in a situation like a drug bust, where you’re outnumbered or outgunned. Okay. But what if waiting would have let half a dozen armed felons get away? And let a bunch of drugs get out onto the street?”
“If it’s the case I read in your file, there were twenty armed felons.”
“They were kids!” He threw his hands up. “I knew most of them. They thought they were trying to get into a gang. I was able to walk in and convince the actual bad guys that the place was surrounded and to give themselves up. They went to jail, and most of the kids were scared straight. Heck, it was Emilio Fuentes’ gran
dma that gave me the tip. He plans on applying to the police academy after he graduates next year.” Scowling, Sergio put his hand to his forehead. “Lieutenant Davis can’t pull himself away from the TV cameras long enough to see what needs to happen—unless he’s the one breaking the rules. Then, going against the system is fine. He made sure he got his picture taken in front of the seized drugs in that warehouse—and he also made sure I got written up for going around established protocol. Now, he’s going to hang me out to dry for a car chase.” Sergio tapped the arm of the chair with his index finger. “I caught a serial killer a few weeks ago—one that the department hired. One that tried to kill me and nearly succeeded in killing my partner.” He huffed. “Paper pushers like Lieutenant Davis have a hard time remembering things like that when one of their precious rules gets a little bent.”
“You dislike Lieutenant Davis?”
Sergio’s cheeks burned hotter. “I have nothing but respect for my senior officers. I just happen to have less respect for one or two of them when they’re being intentionally over-strict with the rules so they can get me fired.”
Chapter 25
An electronic chime dinged when the middle-aged man opened the door of the convenience store. The evening air was too chilly for most folks to go without a jacket, but his was zipped all the way up to his neck. His wool dress pants and shiny brown loafers were common for a man his age in this part of south Tampa, as was the twenty or so extra pounds he carried around his waist.
He approached the counter and looked over the boxes of thin, cheap cigars laid out under the glass. A small, cardboard Santa with a cigar smiled at him from inside the display case.
“These any good?” The man pointed to a red cigar box with gold lettering.
“Sorry.” The buxom twentysomething rubbed her nose and picked up a stack of decorative, holiday-themed lottery ticket protectors, sliding them into the box on the display. “I don’t smoke.”
“Me, neither, usually.” The man cupped a fist in front of his face, blowing onto his hands. “Kinda got the urge for something to warm me up for the walk home.” He switched hands, blew onto his other fist, and shoved both hands into his coat pockets.
Through the glass entry doors and their spray-snow edges, plastic drop cloths swung back and forth around the gas pump areas. Inside, the flatscreen behind the cash register showed the local news.
Picking up a candy bar, the man placed it on the counter and nodded at the TV. “You following this story?” He read the cashier’s name tag. Saxy.
The young woman turned to face the screen, pushing her blonde locks over her shoulder. Static electricity from her sweater caused a few hairs to float, adrift in a tiny, invisible wind. The stranger let his eyes wander to the curves in the young woman’s jeans, lingering on the horizontal rips in the material across the backs of her thighs. Her phone barely fit halfway into the skin-tight pocket.
On the TV, a woman with a microphone stood in front of yellow police tape, speaking to a group of people wearing orange safety vests. The caption below the image read, “Volunteers From Around State Help In Search.” At the top of the screen was a banner that said, “Sniper Update.”
As the cashier turned around again, the stranger moved his gaze from the back of her jeans.
“Yeah.” Saxy pulled out a carton of tiny pencils and dropped a few into the holder on the countertop lottery display. “I think everybody in the city is watching this story. I get updates from the app.”
“No kidding?” He moved closer to the counter. “There’s a phone app to follow the sniper story?”
“There’s an app for everything.” Saxy put an elbow on the glass top, reaching back to tug her phone from her hip pocket. Cradling the device in her hands, she rested on the counter and tapped her screen. The phone lit up with a flashing red starburst proclaiming Latest On Tampa Sniper! “Check it out.” She turned the phone to her customer. “Whenever the news has an update or rumor, I get an alert.”
“How about that.” He perused the screen—and the gap at the neckline of Saxy’s sweater that allowed a glimpse of her cleavage. Exhaling sharply, the man squeezed his fists in his pockets. “I know something your app doesn’t.” He leaned closer to Saxy. The scent of her shampoo radiated off her. “The sniper . . .” Peering at the door, he lowered his voice. “. . . uses tarot cards. He leaves them at the crime scene. That’s no rumor, either.”
Saxy stood up, scrolling through her phone. The hem of the cropped sweater hovered inches above her bellybutton ring. “He puts them on the victims?”
The stranger glanced over both shoulders. No other customers were in the store. Only the pretty cashier and him.
He lifted a hand and slowly reached into his coat pocket.
* * * * *
As Carly sat on the back bumper of the van, her phone rang. The screen said Mark Harriman. She pressed the button and stuck her head out of the van, searching the tree line across the street in the fading light. “Hey, Mark. Why are you calling me? Why not use the radio?”
“I wanted this to be a little more private. The sniper hotline got a couple of calls about the flea market next door. It was open the morning of the shooting, and since it’s the holidays, it was packed—so there were a bunch of cars parked illegally up and down the street, and Tampa PD wrote a stack of tickets. Lieutenant Davis wants the car owners interviewed, in case one of them saw something odd the morning of the shooting.”
Carly put a hand on her hip. “That’s a good idea, but do we have the bodies to do that?”
“He says we can farm it out to private investigator firms. They can run down the tickets and report back in case something pans out.”
“And he asked you because you know some of those guys.”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling. I need to pull off this detail for a while.”
“Sure, go take care of it. He’s the boss.” Looking down, Carly scowled and kicked the gravel. “We were getting ready to pull all the volunteers for the day, anyway. It’s going to be getting dark soon.”
“Assigning stacks of tickets and handing them out probably won’t take more than a few hours. I’ll be back helping with your crime scene ASAP.”
“It’s fine.” She pursed her lips, shaking her head. “Yeah—check in with me as soon as you can. I’ll keep you posted on any progress, and I’ll ask Lieutenant Davis to let you be on-site for anything big we get into.”
“Thanks, Carly.”
She ended the call, staring across the road at the washed-out wooden fences. Patches of weeds sprung up along the mile of one-story office buildings and converted houses that now served as things like hair salons and karate schools. Shoving her phone into her pocket, Carly reached for her water bottle.
If we don’t get a bigger break in this case soon, I’ll be running down traffic tickets, too.
* * * * *
The customer at the convenience store shifted on his feet. Tiny beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “He—the, uh . . . the sniper—he places one tarot card at every shooting. In the sniper nest.” He sniffled, looking toward the door again. Twilight descended over the gas pumps. “That’s pretty intense stuff, huh?”
“Wow, yeah.” Saxy flipped her hair out of her eyes and looked at her customer. “How’d you get that? What app do you—”
The stranger stared at her, his gaze unwavering. Fixed, like a gray wolf staring at a rabbit. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, as if it was an involuntary reaction, the way a snake tastes the air.
Saxy’s breath caught in her throat. The entire little store seemed very empty and alone. An uneasy feeling welled inside her abdomen.
What’s with this guy’s crazy staring?
Putting a hand to the collar of her V-neck sweater, she pulled it snug around her throat. She lowered her phone and placed her other hand over her bare midriff.
The stranger’s eyes stayed on hers. “I . . . like to hunt.”
“You, uh . . .” Saxy swallowed, inching a
way from the counter. “You’re keeping up with the killings, you said?”
Her gaze went to the empty parking lot. The tarps blocked her view of the street—and blocked anyone on the street from seeing her.
The knot in her stomach grew.
“I know a lot about these murders.” The man lowered his voice. Each word crossed his lips like a drip from an old faucet. Slow. Deliberate. Paced. “I know things that no one else knows. For example, the shootings are the work of more than one person.”
Saxy nodded, trying not to let her voice tremble. “I heard a few experts on TV say that.”
“The morons who get on TV aren’t experts. They’re guessing.” He stepped closer to the counter. “I’m telling you—it’s not one person. It’s two. The police will admit it pretty soon.” He turned away, eyeing the entrance. “They’ll have to admit it soon. None . . . none of the TV experts knew anything about . . .” His eyes met hers again, dark and menacing. “They haven’t mentioned the tarot card, did they? But they will. They didn’t know about that before . . . before today.”
“No, they—they didn’t.” Heart pounding, Saxy slid her hand toward the silent alarm button. “How do you know about it?”
“I told you. I like to hunt.”
The alarm was for robberies, but Mr. Kenashi said it could be used for any emergency.
But what was the emergency?
A creepy old guy?
But he could be the sniper.
The man stared at Saxy. “I’ll pay for this and be on my way.”
She forced herself to look at the counter.
His candy bar.
Ring it up and get him out of here.
Reaching into his pants pocket, the stranger pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
Saxy’s pulse throbbed in her ears. The store had video surveillance, but it had never been much use on the occasions when they’d been robbed. It could barely be used to identify teen shoplifters from nearby neighborhoods, or the homeless guy who tried to run out with two cases of beer.
But maybe . . .
“I, uh—” She glanced at the clock, twisting her fingers together. “It’s seven-ten. We can’t accept cash after seven.” She managed a casual shrug. “New rule. Can you, uh . . . would you mind paying with a credit card?”