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

by Dan Alatorre

  The man’s eyes remained fixed on her. The tarps outside rippled in the wind. Overhead, the low hum of the fluorescent lights was the only other sound in the store.

  “Sure.” He lifted his arm and unzipped the jacket, easing his hand inside. “Here you are.” He pulled out a black wallet and opened it. “I have no issue charging this purchase.”

  Placing a credit card on the counter, he stretched out one finger and slid it past the card reader on the counter and toward Saxy.

  “Thanks,” she whispered. She usually told customers to please use the reader, but this time, she didn’t mind swiping the stranger’s card for him. It would be faster, and getting him out of the store quickly seemed like a very good idea. She picked his credit card up and slid it across the top of the cash register.

  The blue LEDs on the register screen spun in a circle. Next to that, a line of text crawled across the screen.

  Transaction processing . . .

  If the purchase went through, the police would be able to trace the man’s card—and him.

  If the stranger was involved in the killings, it could be a breakthrough in the case—the kind the newscasters had been hoping for. Simultaneously, Saxy tried not to consider the possibility that a serial murderer was standing in front of her, just the two of them, alone in the convenience store.

  A queasy feeling coursed through her system.

  Holding her breath, she checked the cash register screen.

  Transaction processing . . .

  Saxy stifled an audible groan. She wiped her hands across her jeans and forced herself to make small talk.

  “The computer gets slow at night sometimes.” Trying not to let her voice quiver, she cleared her throat and wiped her free hand on her jeans. “It should only be a minute.” She flipped the credit card over and over in her other hand, staring at the blue LEDs.

  Transaction processing . . .

  “You, uh . . .” She glanced at the stranger. “You know a lot about the sniper case.” Brushing her hair from her eyes, she shifted on her feet, pressing herself to the back counter as the little LED dial on the register screen spun and spun. “So, the, uh . . . the news said the victims were shot from a long distance—with a high-powered rifle, like you said. So, they have everybody thinking it’s, like, a military guy.” She forced herself to look into his eyes. “What, uh . . . what do you think?”

  “These media folks don’t know guns.” He spoke as if he were made of stone. Only his thin lips moved to accommodate the flat, lifeless words crawling out of his mouth. “I own the weapon that did those killings.”

  Saxy’s stomach jumped. “You . . . own it?”

  “When the knucklehead cops and the media cowards get their heads out of their rear ends, an AR-15 with a high-powered scope is what will be the murder weapon. That’s a fairly common weapon and it has the power and accuracy to do what they’re describing.” His eyes widened. “I’ve shot things from over 600 yards, dead on, one bullet. Boom.”

  “You . . .” Her breath came in short gulps. “You like hunting.”

  He slowly shook his head from side to side. “It’s not hunting when you do that. It’s killing. You can make a man’s head explode, you know?” He held his hands up, extending the fingers outward. “Poof.”

  Trembling, Saxy checked the cash register.

  Transaction processing . . .

  She squeezed her knees together. The blue LED dial spun slower, then stopped.

  Saxy’s heart did, too.

  Transaction approved.

  A wave of relief swept through her. She ripped the receipt off the register, grabbing a bag and tossing the paper and the candy bar into it. Stepping back from the counter, her pulse pounded in her ears.

  The man pulled the bottom hem of his jacket lower over his love handles. The jacket was stained reddish-brown near his pants pocket.

  Saxy’s gaze went to the blood-colored smear as fear gripped her insides. “Is . . . that stain on your jacket from . . . from hunting?”

  He lifted his hand away from the counter and looked at his belly. His gaze returned to her.

  “There . . .” She pointed, her finger shaking. “. . . on the side.”

  He peered at the area above his hip. “That’s—it’s not blood. It’s . . . something else.”

  “Yeah. I—I don’t even know why I mentioned it.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I—”

  “Mud, probably.” He stared at her. “Or shoe polish. I was . . . I was shining my shoes. I must have gotten some of the polish on my jacket. These shoes. Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Shoe polish.”

  Saxy looked at the man’s feet. “The stain . . . is red.”

  “Yes.”

  “Your shoes . . . they’re brown.”

  His eyes followed hers. “Ah. So they are.” He raised his eyes again to stare at her. “It’s . . . reddish-brown polish.”

  “Yeah. Stupid me.” She exhaled, forcing a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. The lights, you know? They make it look . . . well, it’s brown, like you said.”

  “Reddish-brown.”

  “Yeah.” She nodded weakly, pushing the bag toward him. “Have a nice evening, sir.”

  He remained in place, as if frozen, his eyes locked on hers.

  Sweeping his hand over the counter, he snatched up the bag and headed toward the exit. “This town’s in a panic.” He glanced over his shoulder at the TV. “Wait ‘til they tell everybody about the tarot cards found at the scenes. Then, the city is going to absolutely erupt.”

  Chapter 26

  The emergency call center operator’s earpiece clicked with her next call, sending her microphone live. “911, what is your emergency?”

  “I think—” The woman on the phone was frantic. “I think the sniper was here! At my work!”

  The large screen over the operator’s main monitor displayed the address the call was coming from. A smaller screen to the side automatically transcribed their conversation. “Are you in danger right now, ma’am?”

  Whimpering, followed by some static.

  A cordless phone.

  “He left, but he could come back. I locked the door, but—send somebody, quick!”

  The operator glanced at her monitor. The source of the call was a business address located within the city limits. She clicked an alert for a Tampa PD patrol car to be dispatched and sent them the location. Her finger hovered over the button that would signal for lights and sirens. “Ma’am, do you feel as if you are in danger right now?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m—I’m very scared. I’m the only one here. I got the sniper’s credit card information. You can use that to find him, right?”

  “Okay. Can you lock the doors of the business?”

  “Yes. I locked them.” The caller sniffled, her voice wavering. “I bolted the door and went into the storage area in the back. I think he was the sniper.” Each of the caller’s sentences was followed by a harsh exhale into the receiver. “He said there were tarot cards—that you would know because there were tarot cards. He said he left them at the scene.”

  “Stay on the phone with me. I’ll connect us with an officer at the dedicated tip line. Stay on the phone, okay?”

  “Hurry, please,” the woman cried. “I don’t know what to do. It was the sniper.” Her voice broke. “I was—I was in the same room with the sniper!”

  “I’m connecting us now.”

  The line clicked. A male voice said, “Tampa Police Department, Officer Gainforth.”

  * * * * *

  Carly was halfway home when her phone rang in the cupholder of the rental car. The phone screen said Deshawn Marshall was calling.

  She tapped the phone and put it on speaker. “What’s the latest, sir?”

  “Turn your car around,” Deshawn said. “911 dispatch got a call from a freaked out convenience store clerk who said she had the sniper in her store. He said he owned the gun that did the shootings and that he left a tarot card at the scene.”

/>   Carly’s jaw dropped. “What!”

  “That’s no coincidence. Almost nobody knows about the tarot card your group found earlier. We have uniformed officers on scene running the suspect’s credit card through a reverse lookup. They’ll have a home address for the suspect in a few minutes. Where are you?”

  “On the crosstown.” Carly glanced in the rearview mirror, thrusting her car to the far right lane. “I’m turning around.”

  “Yeah, get off and circle back. According to the clerk, the suspect was out for a walk, so he won’t live far from the store. Lieutenant Davis wants an army of cops surrounding the suspect’s house as soon as the address comes back. You’re going to knock on the door.”

  She took the next exit. “Okay. But why me?”

  “Davis must either like you or hate you. Either way, I’ll have a Kevlar vest waiting at the rally point. I’ll text the address to you. Start heading toward south Tampa.”

  * * * * *

  The address was near an upscale neighborhood in old Tampa. Money, but not the kind like they had on Bayshore, a few blocks away.

  Half a mile to the west, under hand-held flashlights, Carly suited up at the impromptu rally point—the back of a plain, black van. Two technicians assisted her and a tall young officer into heavy duty Kevlar as the SWAT team commander told her the marching orders.

  She focused on his instructions, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach.

  “Detective, SWAT will completely surround the residence, in stealth mode, prior to your approach.” He held up a satellite photo of the home. “We are surveilling the home right now, with three teams, and they are loaded for bear. The teams will deploy with one around the back and one on each side, ready to storm the home at my command. You will be part of the approach team, along with Officer Noffke here, in full Kevlar gear.”

  Noffke nodded at Carly. “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “You, too.” She held her hands at her sides, clenching and unclenching her fists so her fingers wouldn’t tremble as a technician helped slide her thick, bullet proof vest into place. She turned to Noffke. “Let’s be careful so we can meet again sometime.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the officer said.

  The Commander traced his finger across the edge of the property in the photograph. “Our people will all be in place before you set foot on the property. You approach the front door and knock, like you’re there to serve a bench warrant for a traffic ticket.” The Commander lowered the photograph and looked Carly in the eye. “Detective, if that sniper so much as flinches, we will unleash a firestorm on him.”

  She glanced at Deshawn. “Traffic ticket?”

  “It’s a thin lead,” the lieutenant said, “but we need to be hyper careful—both ways. We need you protected and we need the suspect taken down if the lead pans out. But if it’s a false alarm, we don’t want to be kicking in the door and scaring the pants off some innocent citizen.”

  “So, move quickly and be aware of barriers.” The Commander held up a blurry image of a heavyset white male. A digital time stamp in the lower right corner displayed the words Shop N Go. “This sniper has been shooting people at 600 yards or more. He won’t hesitate to blast you on the doorstep, so if there is any reason to move, get low and to the side. Hit the dirt and cover your head, because we will light the place up. It’s possible he tries to run before he even opens the door. If you hear any noises—thumps, bumps, anything—you get off that front porch and get to the ground. We’ll take it from there.”

  Carly inhaled deeply, trying not to let her voice shake. “So, basically, Officer Noffke and I are only there in case the sniper wants to give up.”

  “I’m not pretending it’s a walk in the park, Detective.” He put the photo in a clipboard case and set it on the floor of the van. “It’s potentially very dangerous. But believe it or not, a lot of these serial killers give up when they know they’re caught. Son of Sam did. The Night Stalker did.”

  “The Beltway killers went without a fight.” Noffke shrugged. “They were asleep in their car.”

  “Well, the last serial killer in Tampa tried to shoot me full of holes.” Her heart racing, Carly pulled a uniform officer’s jacket over her Kevlar protection. “But let’s go.”

  Carly and Noffke stepped into the back of the police van.

  The Commander climbed in and sat opposite them. The vehicle pulled away. “When the van stops,” he said, “walk straight to the door. Move fast, but don’t run. Eyes on the door at all times. Our people are in place. Let them watch everything else.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carly’s breathing was fast and shallow. Sweat formed on her forehead.

  “Okay.” The Commander nodded to one of the technicians, then looked at Carly. “Let’s test the mic levels one last time. Detective?”

  Carly stared at the dark floor of the van, wiping her hands across the tops of her thighs. “Testing, one, two, three.”

  “Good.” The Commander faced the other officer. “Noffke?”

  The young man sat up straight, pulling at the neck of his Kevlar. “Officer Noffke on mic two. How are my levels?”

  “Crisp and clear, Jim,” the technician said. “But with that Kevlar on, you look like you gained twenty pounds since I saw you a few minutes ago. How are your nerves?”

  “Tight.” Noffke bit his lip. “I’ll be all right.”

  “Detective?” the technician asked.

  She took another deep breath, her abdomen in a knot. “I’m good to go. Let’s bag this maniac.”

  The Commander raised his radio to his cheek. “All teams, we are active. Base command, this is Rolling Thunder. All units are in place.”

  “Roger that, Rolling Thunder.”

  “Team leaders,” the Commander said, “prepare for our advance with a go, no go.”

  As the van rolled toward the house, the radio crackled with replies.

  “Unit one, we are a go at the back of the house. Come and get them.”

  “Unit two here. West side of the residence. Go, team. Good luck, Detective. Good luck, Noffke.”

  “Unit three, east side. We are clear and all quiet for your go. Advance at will, Commander.”

  The replies were audible over the Commander’s radio but not in Carly’s earpiece. She sat upright, the knot in her gut growing. “Am I supposed to be hearing that in my ear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the technician said. “Are you not?”

  She shook her head, pulling the earbud out. “Not a word.”

  The Commander frowned. “Geyer, address the detective’s audio, please.”

  “On it, sir.”

  As the technician retrieved the faulty earpiece, the van continued to its destination. The SWAT Commander rubbed his chin and pressed the red button on his radio again. “Front team, how do we look?”

  “The house is quiet, sir. There are too many trees to deploy the drone, so we are eyes on directly. I can confirm a white middle-aged man in the dining room and a small woman in the kitchen. Male suspect appears to be on the phone. A landline. No weapons in sight, Commander. We are clean. Go for your approach.”

  “Ten-four.” The Commander faced the front of the dark van. “Tech Ops, make a note of that phone call. He may be contacting another shooter. Let’s follow up on that ASAP.”

  “Roger that, Commander.”

  Hunching over, technician Geyer made his way back toward Carly and held out his hand. A tiny, flesh-colored ear bud rested in his palm. “Try this one, Detective.”

  Carly’s fingers shook as she inserted the earpiece. The van came to a stop.

  The Commander clicked off his flashlight and lowered his voice. “It’s go time, folks. Don’t worry, we have fifty rifle barrels trained on that house.”

  Her pulse pounding, Carly glanced at the Commander. “All of your people can hear me?”

  “That’s right.”

  A voice came over his radio. “Commander, this is unit two. Swanson confirms a white van in the garage.”

&
nbsp; Carly heard it over the Commander’s radio but not in her ear. Her stomach lurched.

  “A white van.” He made a fist with one hand and pounded it into his other palm. “Okay, people. On alert, status one. This is our guy. Be ready.”

  The latches on the van doors clicked; light poured in to reveal an officer in plainclothes, but with the telltale bulky areas around the chest and torso that meant he was wearing Kevlar under his uniform. Stepping to the side, the young officer held open the van doors with one hand, his other resting on the gun in his holster. His eyes were trained on the residence.

  Carly jumped out of the van and walked toward the house. The air was cool across her sweaty cheeks.

  A street light up the block illuminated the scene. Noffke was right beside her. Their pace was brisk, to not give the suspects time to develop any plan if they were spotted early.

  Carly’s chest was tight. Each short gasp was locked in her lungs.

  Knock. Traffic ticket. Stand to the side.

  She glanced at the ground by the home’s concrete porch. Well-tended bushes and a manicured lawn graced the front of the residence.

  That’s my safe spot. Dive, duck, and cover.

  As she walked up the steps, her earpiece crackled. “Our officers are on the porch.”

  Noffke’s long shadow fell over the front door. The tiny doorbell glowed orange in the night. Taking a deep breath, Carly stretched out her finger and pushed it.

  Her pulse raced.

  “This is unit one. Our audio confirms the doorbell has been rung. The male suspect is standing up. We have no motion from the woman.”

  Carly shifted on her feet.

  “Male suspect appears to be talking to woman. Get ready to ring a second time.”

  “Hold on that,” the Commander said. “Do not ring yet.”

  “Commander, the male suspect is moving. He’s going to the back of the house.”

  A blast of static came over Carly’s earpiece. She put a finger to her ear. The volume cut out completely.

  Adrenaline surged through her system, clamping her gut like a vise. Panting, she tapped the ear bud.