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

by Dan Alatorre

  “He bonded out. And he probably won’t show up for his pretrial hearing. But I doubt he’ll move or quit the business.” She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Now, if we had a person inside their organization, we’d be getting firsthand information that could put him and the whole ring away for good. Airtight stuff, complete with a DEA seal of approval.”

  Sergio stepped into the living room. “You said I’d have to throw Carly under the bus. Why?”

  Stabbing an olive in her plastic salad bowl, Abbie shrugged. “For starters, it’s payback for Good Morning Tampa Bay, when she called you incompetent and implied that you kept a serial killer on the street.”

  He shifted on his feet. “She didn’t say that.”

  “Then you weren’t watching.” Abbie took another bite of her salad. “But it helps sell your case to Morton’s people. When a really disgruntled employee is on the way out the door, they tend to burn all the bridges. They want to make a point.” The lawyer sifted through the few remaining soggy, wilted lettuce leaves. “She dumped on you—hard. So, you’ll dump on her. That will look like a burnt bridge. Doing it publicly, and in an ugly way, will cement it, removing anyone’s lingering doubts. The news cameras are already following you around. All you have to do is let them catch you. Then feed them the information we need out there. Go on a rant about the department and Carly . . .”

  “I won’t do that.” Sergio waved a finger, returning to the kitchen. “I won’t burn Carly.”

  Abbie jumped up off the couch and followed him. “She’s about to burn you, Sergio. Lieutenant Davis is slated to give her a panel interview soon, for the sergeant job. She’s going to be asked operational questions and ‘what if’ scenarios. They’re going to be using your cases—disguised and anonymous, of course, but presented in a way to make the officer look very bad. And when they’re done laying it out, any applicant would recommend termination. But in reality, it’ll be your termination.”

  He put his hands on the edge of the sink, glaring at her. “How do you know all this?”

  “Tampa’s a small town that thinks it’s a big city,” Abbie said. “One of the partners in my firm is on the interview board. The way Davis has it set up, Carly’s going to have no choice but to recommend your termination to the interview panel.”

  “She . . .” Sergio shook his head. “Carly wouldn’t do that.”

  “She’s not going to know it’s you.” Abbie rested a hip against the counter. “But once she does recommend termination to the panel, she’s going to move herself one small step closer to getting the promotion she wants. And you’ll be one giant leap closer to being fired.”

  Sergio’s head sagged. “I . . . don’t care. I’m not turning on her.”

  “You don’t seem to get it,” Abbie said. “You’re not going to be working for the Tampa PD in a few weeks. Davis has already decided that—and you know it. Your former partner is just going to be the one who inadvertently makes the case to the review board.”

  “You mean the interview panel.”

  “It’s the same group of people!” Abbie held her hands out. “There’s not that many administrative department heads.”

  Turning, Sergio pursed his lips and stared at the wall.

  “On the other hand . . .” Abbie stepped toward him, her voice calm and low. “You just might have a chance at saving your career as a cop. A guy who stepped up when he had every reason to walk away, and selflessly helped the DEA bring a Tampa drug ring down—how could the department not want you back? Everybody loves a hero. You’ll have the public on your side. Davis is all about that. You’d be back in his favor.”

  He folded his arms, shifting his gaze to the floor. “I don’t know.”

  “Listen, I’m not trying to hurt your ex-partner. I know you guys were tight. After it’s done, I’ll tell her exactly what happened. That we put you up to it, and it was all for show so that it would be convincing for the drug dealers.”

  Sighing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and faced her. “It’s just . . . With some people, there’s no coming back from certain things. Her reputation, under attack from someone she trusted . . . From me. It’ll be me, her partner for all these years, saying those things about her. That carries a lot of weight, Abbie. It’s nitroglycerin wrapped in an A-bomb. And even if it wasn’t, saying those things . . . It’ll hurt my—my friend, my friendship with her . . . probably in a way that can’t be recovered from.”

  Abbie folded her arms. “Did you think things were going back to normal with your friend after Davis cuts you loose in a few weeks? The wheels are already in motion. This is probably your only shot at keeping your job.”

  He let out a long, slow breath.

  Four years.

  Day in and day out, side by side, working and sweating and trusting each other with our lives.

  Wrecking her car was one thing. Attacking her professional reputation, publicly, is another. It’s a betrayal, and there won’t be any coming back from that. Not with Carly. People who play by the rules don’t forgive certain things.

  He knew Abbie was right, though. Davis was gunning for him. The suspension was only because he’d been a golden boy a week earlier, or he’d have already been fired—Davis as much as said so.

  Abbie’s offering me the one opportunity to keep the only job I’ve ever wanted. She’s giving me the chance to earn my way back onto the force.

  What other options are there? Saying no at this point is as good as quitting.

  Maybe there’s a way to go along now but not throw Carly under the bus. I just need time to think of it.

  But until then, take the deal.

  “Okay.” Sergio lifted his eyes to hers. “Okay, I’ll help you.”

  “Good.” Abbie walked over and clapped Sergio on the back. “And this is only one piece of a bigger puzzle. A good lawyer has to know people and what motivates them. This is just a show for people outside of the Tampa PD. There are a few other cards I can play, too. Things that will get the upper police brass rethinking Davis’ decision. For example, the department Christmas party is tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.” Sergio stretched his face into an exaggerated wince. “I don’t think cops on suspension are invited.”

  “But I am. You’ll go as my plus one.” Abbie stood up straight. “Dress nice and be polite. Make sure everyone inside the department knows how much you still want to be a cop. And mean it.”

  This time, Sergio’s wince was for real. “Kiss butt privately and trash them publicly? That’s a tough dance.”

  “Yep. Welcome to my world. We should celebrate our new work relationship with a drink, because tomorrow I’m going to prep you to put on the show of your life. This party isn’t a party. It’s an interview. And we are going to cover every angle so you execute it flawlessly.” She opened the refrigerator. The bottle of asti spumante rocked back and forth on the bottom shelf. Abbie pointed to it. “Is that stuff any good?”

  Sergio leaned over her shoulder, nodding solemnly. “Asti spumoni is Italian for ‘let’s get drunk fast.’ Right now, that sounds like a heck of an idea.”

  “Perfect.” She grabbed the bottle. “Get some glasses.”

  Chapter 29

  Harriman walked down the corridor to the conference room on the third floor. Holding the door frame, he peeked inside. “I pulled all the parking citations, Carly.”

  “Perfect. Thank you, Sergio.” She rubbed her dry eyes and peered over the conference table. Index cards and sticky notes covered the surface.

  Harriman looked at her. “Ma’am?

  “Yes?”

  He pointed to himself. “Mark.”

  “Oh!” Carly put her hand to her head. “Of course. I’m sorry, Mark. Old habit. I guess I’m tired.”

  There is no Sergio. Not this time.

  “No problem,” Harriman said. “We’re all running on fumes.” He looked at the table. “I think Mellish put a fresh pot of coffee on to brew. I’ll grab you a cup in a few minutes when it’s rea
dy.”

  Carly’s gaze went back and forth over the cards. All the conference room chairs had been pushed away from the table and moved to the walls so she could have better access to the rows of papers littering the large oval tabletop. Even the conference room phone lost its place on the table, now residing on the floor in the corner.

  The names of the sniper’s victims had been written on the cards in the top row. Laid out under those were the names of the detectives working the case and what relevant information appeared to connect to the other cases. They had all been written by hand, by Carly, all night.

  Each major aspect of the shooting scenes got a color-coded sticky note, and each aspect lined up on every single scene. The wounds were the same. The ballistic tests on the bullets were the same. So, everything matches except for the tarot card, and search teams were looking for those on the other scenes at first light, at approximately the same distance as the one found at Carly’s.

  She stared at the sticky notes, rubbing her forehead. “The D.C. snipers were creating a smoke screen with their killings. If our sniper is a copycat, I sure can’t see what they’re trying to distract us from.”

  “His smoke screen’s working,” Harriman said. “From our vantage point, we can’t know what his objective is.”

  “No, we can’t. Not yet. Maybe it’s not here.” She walked to the window and picked up her coffee cup from the windowsill. A few cold drops remained in the bottom. Lifting the cup to her lips, she emptied it into her mouth. “Do we have a make and manufacturer of the tarot card yet? We need to trace that. Tarot isn’t a high purchase item.”

  “Carly.” Harriman lowered his voice. “We only sent the request out a few hours ago, at close to midnight. The manufacturer probably isn’t even awake yet.”

  “Right. Sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them wide again, blinking. “Sergio, look into the victims and who they all might know in common. Friends they might have in common. Or a place they all worked. You’re good at that. You’ll spot the links.”

  Harriman made a note for himself. “Sergio is pretty good at that. But I’ll do my best.”

  Carly looked up, heat rising to her cheeks. “Mark, I’m—”

  “Detective.” Carrying a file folder, Lieutenant Davis brushed past Harriman and entered the room. “Go home and get some sleep. You’re exhausted.”

  “Oh, I’m okay, sir.” She put a hand on the edge of the table, blinking hard. “A little more coffee, and I’ll be—”

  “Home. Now. Your eyes are bloodshot, red as a stop sign.” He glanced at Harriman. “Have a black and white unit take her to her house.” Turning to Carly, Davis put his hands on his hips. “We’ll have another one bring you back after you’ve rested. You’re no good to the case if you can’t think straight. That’s how mistakes get made—and we can’t afford any more mistakes. I was able to grab four hours of sleep on the couch in my office. When was the last time you slept?”

  Carly set her pen on the table. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  “Okay, then. Go home, get a few hours of shuteye and a shower, then come in for your panel interview at one o’clock.”

  Leaning her head back, Carly closed her eyes and held back a groan.

  The panel interview. I forgot all about that—and I’m wiped out.

  I need to call Mom and see if she’ll watch the kids for another night—or more . . .

  Ugh, I haven’t even started wrapping their Christmas presents! They’d better stay out of my closet.

  But her work tonight might guarantee her children and everyone else’s children in the city would finally be safe from the sniper.

  It’s worth the sacrifice. The boys understand.

  “I’m meeting with Dr. Stevens and the task force in a few hours,” Davis said. “They have some new analysis for us.”

  “New information?” Carly opened her eyes. “Can we see it now?”

  “You’ll see it later.” Davis went to a chair in the corner and set his folder on it. “Stevens is running it by some peers in Boston first, so you won’t be missing anything.”

  “Okay.” She headed for the exit. “Wait, what about your couch?”

  “Excuse me?” Davis said.

  “Could I use your couch to sleep on?” Carly faced the lieutenant. “Sir, my house is a good forty-five minutes away. That’s ninety wasted minutes, round trip. And my boys are out of school for winter break, so they’re home. With all the racket they make, I’ll be lucky to get a thirty-minute nap in. And I can shower downstairs in the locker room.”

  “Well . . .” Davis glanced toward his office. “I suppose I could work in here for a few hours. I’ll be overseeing the setup for tonight’s Christmas party later. I won’t need my office for that.” He took out a pen. “Sure, use my office. I’ll have Mellish keep it quiet for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carly turned to go. “And—should we really be having a party?”

  “It’s a party in name only.” Davis pulled a second chair over and took a seat, lifting the phone for the conference room table off the floor. “It’s a glorified refreshment stand in the lobby downstairs for all the people we’ve brought in from around the state, and some dignitaries. The Mayor says we need to show that the city isn’t afraid, and that we’re on this case around the clock. It’s a working party. No alcohol, lots of caffeine. Basically, it’s a meeting with better food. Cops will come in and out as they can, but we can use the opportunity to present the message to the public that we want to send.”

  “By ‘send the message,’ you mean reporters, right? And Mayor Mills came up with that all by himself?”

  Davis lifted his chin. “He may have had some help. What’s your point?”

  “No point, sir. Now, with your permission, I’d like to go fall asleep on your couch.” She turned to Harriman. “Mark, wake me in four hours.”

  He followed her out of the room, whispering. “Carly, your boys are home for winter break? That doesn’t start for two more days.”

  “It doesn’t?” She winked.

  * * * * *

  Sergio and Abbie approached the side entrance of the Centro Esturiano, to park in the rear. A news van was in front of the old building, with a reporter and a camera operator doing some sort of broadcast. As he got closer, he recognized Giselle Winsome holding the microphone. He put a hand to the side of his face and drove around to the rear entrance of the stately old building, where a Tampa PD squad car came into view.

  “This is interesting.” He adjusted his sunglasses in the bright morning light, pulling past Tyree’s plain but spotless white Ford F-150 pickup truck and a gaudy red pickup with gigantic chrome exhaust pipes and oversize tires. “We have a lot of company this morning.”

  “What, the cops? Or the news?” Abbie removed her oval-framed sunglasses and peered out the window. “Is that a big deal?”

  Sergio brought the vehicle to a stop and turned off the engine. “Shouldn’t be a big deal with the cops or the news, but lately it’s hard to tell with either one.” Unclipping his seat belt, he opened the door. “Why don’t you stay in the car until I see what’s up?”

  Abbie glanced around.

  “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure this place is safe for you. Tyree is former law enforcement, and—” Three men emerged from the side door of the Esturiano—a uniformed police officer, John Tyree, and the newly smooth-headed Lavonte Jackson. “That looks like our guys now.” Looking closer, Sergio recognized the cop as Mark Harriman. He turned to Abbie. “Yeah, you should be fine here. Just sit tight for a sec and let me make sure.”

  Glancing toward the three men, Abbie put her sunglasses back on and slid down in her seat.

  The news reporter had apparently wrapped up her segment. As the Channel Eight van driver started the engine, Giselle and the camera operator climbed into the van. Sergio got out of his vehicle, turning to Abbie. “If you’re really worried, there’s a gun in the glove box, okay?”

  “Guns make me nervous,” Abb
ie mumbled.

  “Me, too. But only when they’re pointed in my direction.” He shut the door and headed toward the others.

  The Esturiano parking lot was a crumbling mess of asphalt and weeds, becoming closer to gravel with each passing year that it baked in the Florida sun. As Sergio approached the three men, Harriman handed Tyree a thick manilla envelope.

  “Good morning, fellas.” Sergio gestured in the direction of the departing news van. “Busy morning out here. Anything I need to know about?”

  “Nah,” Tyree said. “The news people have been like flies around here, buzzing in and out. They’ve been harmless so far. Just adding filler about the debate—Will it happen during the sniper spree?—that sort of thing.” Tyree handed the envelope to Sergio and glanced at his sedan. “Looks like you brought a helper with you to work today.”

  “Yeah. Long story. What’s this?” Flipping the tab of the envelope open, Sergio peered inside. Several thick stacks of paper receipts were bound with rubber bands. “These look like traffic tickets.”

  “They are traffic tickets,” Tyree said.

  “Yeah.” Sergio looked at his new employer. “Why am I holding them?”

  Harriman put his hands on his hips. “One of the sniper shootings took place near the flea market out in Town N Country. Big holiday crowd, resulting in a ton of tickets from overflow parking. People were putting their cars everywhere, and Tampa PD was writing citations left and right. Every time someone left, somebody else pulled into their spot—again, illegally.”

  “Generating another ticket.” Smirking, Sergio took out one of the bundles and fanned through it.

  “What can I say? The city likes its revenue.” Harriman pointed to the envelope. “But all those people were coming and going around the time of one of the shootings. Somebody at City Hall thought that one of the shoppers might have seen something unusual. Maybe even the killer.”

  Sergio nodded. “It’s a good tactic. You farming them out because you’re swamped?”

  “Yep.”

  Tyree clapped Sergio on the shoulder. “Big Brass can handle things here for a while. We’ll split the stacks three ways and all make calls, and you and I will visit any of the locals we can’t reach by phone.”