by Dan Alatorre
“No kidding?” Sergio winced. The thought of what life after Tampa PD might be like hadn’t fully crossed his mind. Odd jobs for a paycheck might be the new normal, but he hadn’t done traffic ticket work in years. Even if a case required it, that was low-level work that was delegated out to rookie cops in their first months on the force.
On the other hand, Abbie said to act like you want to be a cop again, and to mean it.
This is the first opportunity. And Harriman isn’t here by chance.
Shrugging, Harriman looked at Sergio. “We wanted to use private investigators for this. People who know police procedures in case they stumble onto something.”
“This gives you a way to be on the sidelines but still helping out,” Tyree said. “And it keeps the folks in uniform free to work higher priorities.”
“No, hey, this is great.” Sergio smiled, waving the envelope. “I mean it. It’s not exactly kicking down doors and chasing after the sniper, but . . . I appreciate the opportunity. I’m all in.”
“Lieutenant Davis and Detective Sanderson want them tracked down ASAP. I was up all night pulling the copies for you. Now, it’s only a matter of sort, call, or knock. You’re allowed to say you’re contacting them on behalf of the Tampa Police Department in connection with the sniper shootings.”
“That’ll sure get their attention.” Sergio patted the envelope. “Well, it’s not glamourous, but it’s cop work. I’ll take it.”
“Good,” Harriman said. “It’s a big help.”
“Hey, Mark—can I ask a favor? The kidnappers I laid out at Café Cubano yesterday—any word on that situation?”
“I can tell you what we know so far, which isn’t much. The kidnappers were Paul Morton and James Mariano. They’re being held without bail, for now.”
Big Brass shifted on his feet.
“We’re still tracking the third guy, the doorman,” Harriman said. “No name on him yet, but it’s probably Pedro Nucci. They’ve been known associates in the past. Looks like he went into hiding. That’s about it.”
“Okay, Thanks.” Sergio held up the envelope. “And thanks for this. It’ll be nice to work twenty-four seven, considering I might be out of my job with Tampa PD in a few weeks. Hey, speaking of which, the lady in my car needs to lay low for a few days, so she’s hanging with me. Okay if she helps make calls?”
“She needs to lay low?” Tyree looked toward Sergio’s car again. “Everything okay?”
“Problem with an unhappy former client,” Sergio said. “She’s going to head out later and go to an out-of-town friend’s place.”
“Well . . .” Tyree held up a stack of parking citations. “If she has nothing better to do, she’s welcome to help out.”
“I didn’t say she has nothing better to do,” Sergio said. “But for now, she needs to maintain a low profile. It’s probably better if you don’t know.”
Tyree winced. “Okay. Then I don’t want to know. Just don’t get yourself in any more trouble. You can’t afford to right now.”
“Good. Come deputize her into the firm.” Sergio headed to his car.
“I’m off to the station.” Harriman walked toward his vehicle, waving. “Keep me posted with any progress. And thanks, guys.”
As the squad car departed, Tyree and Lavonte followed Sergio to his car. Lavonte thumbed through a few of the citations. “A lot of these people are from out of town.”
“But a lot of them aren’t,” Tyree said. “We’re on the clock as soon as we start smiling and dialing, Big Brass, so get to it. You can call people while you’re waiting for trucks to arrive.”
“And a cat.” Sergio stopped at the passenger door of his car. “If a kid named Alejandro shows up with a cat, be nice to him.”
“What?” Lavonte frowned. “I ain’t no pet sitter. Let Alejandro and his cat play somewhere else.”
Sergio tried the passenger door handle. It was locked. On the other side of the window, Abbie stared out at him through her big oval sunglasses, shaking her head and pulling the collar of her shirt over her mouth.
He leaned toward the glass. “Hey, these guys are cool. Come on out.”
“No,” Abbie said. “No, no, no.”
Digging into his pocket, Sergio pulled out his car keys. “Sorry, guys. I guess she’s a little PTSD’d.” He put the key in the lock and opened the door. “I said, it’s safe. What’s with you?”
Abbie held up a pistol with both hands. “I said no. Get back.”
The men stepped back and raised their arms over their heads.
Stepping out of the vehicle, Abbie stood with one hand holding her shirt over her face. The other had Sergio’s gun in it, shaking.
Lavonte moved behind Tyree. “You know, ma’am, you don’t have to make phone calls for us if you don’t want to.” He nudged his boss. “Tell her, Tyree.”
Abbie’s voice quivered. “I’ll—I’ll . . . Hand me your car keys and . . . and . . . I’ll . . .”
“Take it easy, take it easy.” Sergio held the keys out. “I told you, these guys are okay.”
“Not to me, they aren’t.” Abbie waved the gun. “Turn around.”
“Oh, for—” Sergio rolled his eyes. “How am I supposed to hand you the keys if I turn around? Now, just stop this nonsense. The gun’s not even loaded and the safety’s still on.”
She turned the pistol sideways, glancing at it. “It is?”
Sergio’s hand darted forward, latching onto the barrel of the gun and jerking it away from her. “What has gotten into you?”
Lavonte peeked out from behind Tyree. Ducking, Abbie put her hands over her face and turned back to the car. Sergio popped a full clip of bullets from his weapon and checked the chamber, ejecting another.
Abbie’s jaw dropped. “It was loaded!”
“Of course it was loaded.” Sergio frowned, handing the gun to Tyree. “It wouldn’t be much good if it wasn’t. What were you thinking, pointing my own gun at me?”
“Nice friend you got there, Sergio.” Tyree chuckled, tucking the gun into his belt. “No wonder her client was unhappy.”
Abbie bent over and lowered her head to get into the car.
“Hold on, you.” Sergio put his hand on her shoulder. “What gives?”
She twisted away, her shirt slipping away from her face. “I just want to go. Now, please. Can we just go?”
Lavonte popped his head up. “Hey, I know you.”
Sergio glared at him. “What?”
Lavonte pointed at Abbie. “Her. That chick used to buy from me at Maxx’s.”
“What!” Sergio recoiled. “She bought drugs at your gym in Lakeland?”
Abbie kept her head down, reaching for the door handle. She pulled the collar of her shirt up again, hiding her mouth and chin.
“Big Brass don’t never forget a customer.” Lavonte walked forward, looking at Abbie. “You be rollin’ in that sweet little yellow ride. What was that thing? A Mazda? And your sister’s some hotshot attorney in Tampa. I packed you up a big ol’ mess of Adderall.” He grinned at Sergio. “Your girl a speed queen, baby!”
“No!” Abbie pulled on the door, banging it into Sergio’s hip. “Can we just go?”
Sergio didn’t move.
“Rain Wilder!” Lavonte snapped his fingers, grinning. “That’s it. Wild Thing, we called her. I told you, I never forget a face. At least, not the face of a regular customer. And Wild Thing was reg-u-lar!”
Tyree glared at Sergio. “Wanna tell me what’s up?”
“Rain’s her sister.” Sergio hooked his thumb at his defense attorney. “This is Abbie. She’s the attorney in Tampa.”
Lavonte shook his head. “She was the buyer in Lakeland, my man. Adderall and Modafinil. Big Brass always remembers the five-star patrons. Girl be punctual as a church bell.”
Tyree put one hand on his hip and pushed his hair back with the other. “Ma’am, the police are gone. Maybe you’d like to take a moment to explain what the situation is.”
Folding his a
rms, Sergio glared at her.
Abbie let go of the door and put her hands in her lap, slouching down in the seat. “Okay, okay. I’m Abbie Wilder. I’m the attorney in Tampa. And the drugs weren’t for my sister. They were for me.”
Chapter 30
Lieutenant Davis entered the conference room. Harriman and a few others were in the chairs, pushed to the walls, making calls and updating reports on the various sniper cases.
“Harriman. Where’s Detective Sanderson?”
Harriman pointed. “Still asleep in your office, sir. Do you want me to go wake her?”
“Uh, in a minute.” He stared at the table. Index cards and sticky notes filled the surface. “Let’s clear the table off. The task force is here and we’re going to need to use this room. Every square inch of the building is filled with cops from all over, updating cases and following up on leads.” He glanced at the other officers. “Fuentes, Pritchart, lets . . . carefully take all of Detective Sanderson’s cards and put them on the wall. Keep the order exactly the same. Mellish will give you some push pins. Harriman, get these chairs back to the table so our guests can sit.”
* * * * *
Harriman knocked on the Lieutenant’s office door. “Detective Sanderson? You awake?”
No answer.
He knocked again, and when there was no reply a second time, he cracked open the door an inch. The room was dark, for midday. The shades had been pulled and the desk phone silenced. On the long, vinyl couch, Carly lay sprawled out on her side, with one arm tucked under her head. She drew deep breaths, her chest rising and falling slowly.
Harriman cleared his throat. “Carly. Wake up.”
“Huh?” She opened her eyes, sitting upright. “Yep. I’m ready to go.” Glancing at Harriman, she inhaled deeply and blinked a few times. “What’s up?”
“You’re needed in the conference room. The task force is ready to meet.”
“Okay.” She stretched and rubbed her eyes. “Man, that was a quick couple of hours. Let me go splash some water on my face. Can you grab me a cup of coffee? Or a shot of adrenaline?”
“Sure,” Harriman said. “By the way, your notecards were moved to the wall, but they’re in the same order, so don’t freak out when you come in.”
She nodded. “Got it. I’m not sure how much help they were being, but thank you. See you inside.”
* * * * *
The task force members included an FBI special agent, several sheriffs and police chiefs from around the state, and a small delegation of military officers from MacDill Air Force Base. A folded paper placard in front of each attendee displayed their name. On speakerphone, Dr. Stevens’ Boston colleagues had gathered in an office on their end.
Lieutenant Davis sat at the head of the table, arranging several whiteboard markers. Behind him was the whiteboard enclosure cabinet; directly across the room from him was the wall with Carly’s index cards. Dr. Stevens sat on Davis’ right; an empty chair and a full coffee cup were on his left.
Carly took a seat and shuffled through the handouts as the introductions were made. The pages displayed historical data on psychopaths. Psychological charts. Bureaucratic gobbledygook. She sighed, setting the pages down and staring at the wall of cards and sticky notes.
The answer is there. Or, with a little more input, it will be.
Lieutenant Davis asked the Boston psychologists to start the meeting with their assessments. As they walked the task force members through the handouts, Carly’s mind stayed on the index cards.
More input. Meaning, more murders. More innocent deaths, so we can figure out the rest of the sick riddle. Someone has to die for me to do my job because I can’t figure it out from the ones who already died.
“As you’ll see at the bottom of page one,” the Boston spokesperson said, “the aggregate data clearly indicates you are dealing with what we refer to as an organized offender. His actions are premeditated and carried out in achievement of a fixed goal . . .”
Some man with a big gun and no value for human life. Some . . . maniac . . .
From her seat, Carly stared at the cards. The sticky notes, lining up in rows under each victim, spanning the wall in neat rows.
“. . . the database in Quantico,” the spokesperson said, “where our esteemed colleagues at the FBI work hard to continue to develop profiles, some of which have shown to be extremely accurate in certain cases . . .”
Carly scanned the cards, rising from her seat. Each sticky note under each victim, forming yellow and blue and green lines that stretched across the wall.
Where are your clues leading?
Lieutenant Davis glared at her. “Detective, do you have a question?”
Putting a hand to her mouth, Carly focused on the colors. “No. That’s not right.”
Straight lines.
Even rows.
Each color represented under each victim.
Carly stood. “This is wrong.” She glanced at Lieutenant Davis. “The cards. They’re wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Detective.” Davis huffed. “I asked the officers to keep them in the exact order, but we can fix that later. We’re in the middle of an information exchange.”
Harriman looked at Carly and held up his phone. “Ma’am, I took a picture before we moved them. That’s how they were.”
She walked toward the wall of cards, shaking her head. “No, no, no. It’s backwards. We have it all backwards!”
Davis winced. “We’ve brought in experts and asked for their input. Let’s not waste their time.”
“No, sir—it’s not that.” Carly waved her hand at the wall of index cards. “It’s a smoke screen. The cards are fine. We’re doing it backwards. Or, we should be doing it backwards.”
Straightening his tie, Davis stood. “Detective Sanderson . . .”
Carly turned back to the wall, her hands at her sides, her eyes darting back and forth over the rows of colored sticky notes. “Yeah. I understand it now. It’s all a distraction.”
Dr. Stevens leaned over to Davis, lowering her voice. “Perhaps the detective should get a little more rest, Lieutenant.”
Davis frowned, staring at Carly. “Uh, Carly . . .”
She scanned the cards.
Yellow, pink, blue. All in nice little rows.
So smart.
She turned to face the group. “Uh, it’s a . . . it’s misdirection, like stage magicians do at a theme park.” She walked forward, raising her hand. “They wave a magic wand and raise it over their head, to get you to look at it while they pull a rabbit out from a drawer in the table and make it seem as if it suddenly appeared.”
“I’m sorry, Detective,” Davis said. “I’m not following.”
“The cards, sir.” Carly held her hands out. “The colors. They’re saying, look here. Focus here. Look at this. But what they’re also saying is, don’t look at that.” She wheeled around to face the cards, her jaw hanging open. “The clues are misdirection. They’re what the sniper wants us to believe, so that’s not the truth. And when you stand back and look at it. What’s it telling us?”
“Good grief.” Harriman set his notepad down. “I get it.”
Davis sat down, his face turning red. “Well, someone better explain it to me.”
“Absolutely. Sir, our victims appear to have nothing in common. A stay-at-home mom, a retired carpenter, a lawn service owner. If the killer is trying to make it appear random, then it’s not random. That fits with what the Boston experts just said. If the killer is trying to make us look over here, then that’s the one place we don’t look.”
One of the sheriffs threw his hands out. “So where do we go? What should we be looking at?”
“The opposite.” Carly read his name placard. Sheriff Dawson. She walked across the room, her speed and intensity increasing. “What’s the opposite of random, Sheriff Dawson? Specific. What’s the opposite of . . . all over the place? A specific location. There’s something specific that we’re not supposed to see. Something obvious, mayb
e.”
“Christmas?” Dawson said. “Make a bigger headline by killing people on the eve of the biggest holiday of the year?”
“Maybe.” Carly nodded. “Let’s keep going. What else is going on? Somebody help me out here.”
“People at airports,” a police chief said. “Travelers, at airports.”
She noted his name. Chief Sanchez, from Miami. “Okay, good. More.”
Harriman sat up. “The debate. It could be the mayoral primary debate.” He glanced around at the people at the table. “It’s a big event and it’s on the complete other side of town.”
“I like it—and it fits.” She gave Harriman a thumbs up. “The killers are shooting regular people. What’s the opposite of a regular person? The leaders of the regular people. The politicians. So, the debate is a great option. Nice job, Mark.”
“What happens if we cancel the debate?” Davis said.
Harriman answered. “Would he want that, too?”
“I don’t know.” Carly brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Maybe that’s a win-win for him. Get some additional victims or shut down the debate and show how powerful he is. That fits with the ‘I am god’ thing. Let’s note that and circle back around to it. What else do we see?”
Sheriff Dawson set his pen down. “Maybe it’s just terrorism to disrupt the debate.”
“Then why not shoot at the politicians?” the chief said.
“Yeah, why not?” Dawson faced the array of cards. “I don’t know. Too hard, maybe? But what he’s done has already made life impossible for himself.”
“Has it?” Carly asked. “We’re running around like crazy. He’s not. He’s following through on what he started. Whatever the plan is, he’s still moving toward it.”
Davis frowned. “So, what about ‘I am god?’”
“That’s copycat.” Carly waved her hand. “Part of the smoke screen.”
“Can you be sure?” Davis said.
She chewed her lip, pacing back and forth. “I . . .”
“If we find tarot cards at the other scenes, we have a big indicator, right?” Harriman stared at his notepad. “But why play that game? Because it is a game. The killer is a psychopath who believes he is smarter than the police, so he’s taunting us. We will find other tarot cards, and then—”