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

by Dan Alatorre

  But I should get another disposable phone, maybe two. Marla needs a new one and Rossi might, as well.

  It was a lot of juggling, but that was her forte. When Bree had called the cops to report her silver BMW being driven by a drunk, she couldn’t do it from her own phone. Every call to the police is logged and ID’d. Why take chances?

  And it had worked like a charm. Addleson never suspected Bree had called the cops on herself. The next time it would happen, he’d conclude it was Cicely being a sore loser, and jettison her from the team—eliminating any possible remaining competition. Even though Bree had already gotten the promotion—again, why take chances?

  It was a perfect plan, and Bree was executing it flawlessly.

  “Everything is coming together, Mrs. Mayor.” She tapped her nails on the steering wheel. “I am about to become the First Lady of Tampa, then the First Lady of Florida when we take the governorship, and then on to Washington, enjoying the accoutrements that surround the life of a United States Senator—rubbing elbows with the rich and famous, entertaining them in a beautiful, colonial D.C. home . . .” She sighed. “I am going all the way.”

  “What do you want with that?” Red-faced, her mother slapped the book out of ten-year-old Bree’s hands. “Get outside and play, you fat little turd. It’s a beautiful morning. Get some exercise. Make some friends, for once.”

  The thick book lay face down on the floor. Bree knew better than to try to pick it up or explain it was a school assignment. The bruises hadn’t healed from the last time she talked back.

  Instead, she sat on the dirty floor, adjusting her glasses and saying nothing, trying not to tremble as her mother towered over her.

  The thin, unshaven man who was this week’s boyfriend bent down and picked the book up. “Leave her alone. She’s fine. Kids should read.” He handed the book to Bree, the smell of beer on his breath.

  “Don’t tell me how to raise my daughter!” Bree’s mother yanked the book away and threw it across the room, screaming. “It’s all she ever does! She’ll never amount to anything, just like you. Get out!” She slapped him. The man turned away, curling up and fleeing the room as Bree’s mother rained fists onto his back. “She’s a loser. A fat, ugly loser!” Her eyes red, she lowered her tortured face to her child’s. “And that’s all you will ever be!”

  Bree held back the tears.

  “Get out!” Her mother slapped Bree on the side of her head. “Get out of here. Get out of my life, you loser!”

  The phone rang again, bringing Bree back to the present. She inhaled slowly to calm her racing heart. “That’s over now,” she whispered, nodding to herself. “It’s all over. She can’t hurt you anymore, and you are unstoppable.” She sat upright. “Bree Barclay, you are a smart, attractive woman. You are going all the way.”

  Lifting the phone, she let the last few remnants of tension fade before pressing the button and putting the phone to her ear.

  You are a talented professional. You are an amazing woman.

  You are Rex Addleson’s newly-promoted Campaign Chairperson, and soon you will be his wife. Act like it. The prize is within your grasp.

  Taking a final deep breath, she smiled. “This is Bree Barclay.”

  “Ms. Barclay, this is John Tyree. Lieutenant Davis of the Tampa Police Department gave me your number.”

  “Ah, Mr. Tyree.” Bree removed her sunglasses and pursed her lips, glancing in the visor mirror and running a finger over her lipstick to even it out. “You’re the one in charge of security at the debate site. What can I do for you?”

  “There are several concerns I’d like to discuss with you, ma’am,” Tyree said. “Is now a good time?”

  “Not particularly. I’ve heard rumblings that security is problematic for our event. We’ve spent a lot of money, Mr. Tyree. The city and the campaigns.”

  “Oh, I know, believe me. But that doesn’t really change things. Between you and me, I’d love to cancel the thing.”

  Her stomach jolted.

  “But as it stands,” Tyree said, “neither the city nor the campaigns want to do that.”

  Bree sat upright, clearing her throat. “I believe we need to show a presence of strength and not fear in the face of this . . . sniper situation. I know for a fact Mr. Addleson is not afraid to appear in front of his constituents. We are not going to give an impression to the contrary.”

  “Ma’am, you don’t need to sell me. I’ve already heard it all. I’m just saying we’re running the risk of getting somebody killed. It might not be one of the candidates. It could be people in the crowd. Common sense says we shouldn’t have an outdoor event while the sniper is still out there. But common sense isn’t pulling the strings right now.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Common sense rarely applies in a political campaign. Neither candidate wants to be seen as running away. But . . .” Bree chewed her lip. The risk of overplaying her eagerness to meet might backfire.

  Make it appear to be his idea.

  “But your point is well taken, Mr. Tyree.” Bree reached for her purse. “Perhaps we can meet—both sides, and the mayor, the police, you—and discuss things.”

  “Your candidate would be open to that?”

  “Absolutely not. Not officially or unofficially.” She found a small notepad and took it out, then opened the center console to dig for something to write with. A few teenagers sat at one of The Beanery’s outdoor tables with their coffee. Finding a pen, Bree closed the console and rested her elbow on it. “But . . . if the city were to ask, we’d listen and give it consideration. You’ve come up with a brilliant option, to put all our heads together and present a unified front with whatever solution is decided upon. Have you talked to Lieutenant Davis?”

  “He’s of the same opinion as you, for some reason. Unified front, strength, all that. Right now, the debate is slated to go on. But it shouldn’t. My recommendation will be to cancel.”

  “Understood. My recommendation is otherwise.”

  A white Ford Escape drove into the parking lot. Jeri Milner was behind the wheel.

  Slipping her sunglasses back on, Bree turned off the engine of the BMW and got out. She lowered her voice as she walked toward the outdoor tables. “Let’s agree to meet soon. I have time on my schedule tomorrow. Does noon work for you?”

  “Sure,” Tyree said. “I’ll call the lieutenant.”

  “I’ll call him. I have him on speed dial.” She took a seat closest to the rear door of The Beanery, leaving an empty table between her and the teenagers. Crossing her legs, Bree made a note on her pad. “I’ll be back in touch when I have a meeting time. Thank you—and remember, vote for Addleson.”

  Across the small parking lot, Jeri exited her vehicle. Bree sat upright and adjusted her sunglasses. She neither looked at Jeri nor looked away, simply posed herself as someone doing some work at a table.

  Jeri walked toward the coffeehouse, clutching her purse with both hands and looking around.

  Bree kept her gaze on the notepad. When Jeri walked past her, Bree turned and smiled. “Excuse me, Ms. Milner. Don’t we have an appointment?”

  Jeri wheeled around. “Bree? Good grief, I went right past you.” She leaned over, inspecting the simple disguise. “The hair threw me. If I didn’t know it was you, I wouldn’t know it was you.”

  “A minor change.” Bree lifted her chin and patted the back of her wig. “Makes quite a difference, huh?”

  “It does—if no one’s looking too close.” Jeri sat, putting her purse on the sidewalk next to her. “So?” She glanced around. “What’s the favor?”

  “No need to be so coy, sweetie. The chairperson of a campaign could be expected to meet with prominent members of the opposition on occasion.”

  “You got Campaign Chair! Congratulations. How did I miss that announcement?”

  Bree slipped the notepad and pen into her purse. “It’s not for public consumption yet. Rex is announcing it at the staff meeting in a few hours. Then, I’ll have to schedule a pres
s conference for the afternoon, I suppose. But in between, I have a question.” She took out a white envelope slid it across the table.

  Jeri went to take it. Bree didn’t let go.

  “We’ve been getting a lot of flak,” Bree said, “about stopping the outdoor debate at The Esturiano building.”

  “Us, too.” Jeri lowered her voice. “We got a call from the head of security about cancelling. What are you guys thinking?”

  “Of course, Rex Addleson has no intention of cancelling and looking like he’s scared. And I’m sure it’s the last thing a brave military veteran like your boss has in mind. But if we were both to agree to cancel—at the same time, with the press present and at the city’s insistence . . .” She lifted her pinkie finger off the envelope but held her grip with the remaining three fingers. “Would Blumenthal go for that?”

  Jeri stared at the envelope. “He wants out, period. He’s not up for getting shot. Blumenthal was ready to call Rex and offer to move it inside. We’re looking at the hockey arena.”

  Bree lifted her ring finger from the envelope. “And would he agree to a joint press conference where the city would announce the move and the candidates would agree?”

  “He would.”

  The middle finger raised. Bree’s index finger, pointing straight down, pinned the hidden cash to the tabletop.

  “Then, the favor I need is this.” Bree stared her friend in the eye. “An early leak—to the press. Let it slip to a reporter that Blumenthal would move the debate inside. The hockey rink is a nice detail. Be sure to add that in when the reporter calls for a routine update today.”

  Jeri shook her head. “I don’t have an update scheduled for today.”

  “You will.” A thin smile crawled across Bree’s lips. “Expect a call from Tiffany Tierson, Channel Thirteen News. And let it leak that your boss wants to cancel and go inside. Tiffany is a little thick sometimes, so make sure the bimbo writes it down.”

  “Easy enough,” Jeri said. “That’s worth a thousand dollars?”

  “It’s worth that and a lot more.” Bree lifted her hand. Jeri scooped up the envelope and stuffed it into her purse. “Make it happen,” Bree said. “Today. You might be looking at a nice Christmas bonus after.”

  Chapter 33

  Sergio parked and checked the address on the next ticket against the GPS display on his phone. It was the right house.

  Carrie Anne Donaway.

  As he reached for the key to shut off the motor, a chime came from the dashboard. The “low fuel” indicator light was on.

  I hope Tyree’s paying me mileage for all this running around.

  Scowling, he got out of his car and walked up the driveway.

  The Donaway residence was like a lot of other houses in the working-class neighborhood. A one-story home with an aging roof and a few stray weeds in an otherwise neatly-mowed yard. It was the overload of Christmas decorations that set this particular residence apart from the rest of the block. The entire roofline of the Donaway dwelling was trimmed in colorful blinking lights; the front windows were coated in fake snow, with a big plastic wreath in the center of each one. The palm trees at the front corners of the house were also wrapped with holiday lights, and giant candy canes lined the walkway up to the house. On the grass, reindeer and a sleigh spanned part of the yard, separating the four-foot high nativity scene from the giant, blow-up snow globe. Around the manger, sheep, cows, angels, camels and wise men looked on in reverence at the newborn child. The baby was already in the manger, so apparently strict adherence to ceremony wasn’t a big priority with the Donaways. On the front porch, a small pink bicycle with training wheels and a blue-gray hoverboard indicated that children also resided here.

  Putting a finger to the doorbell, Sergio pressed the button and stepped back. Somewhere inside the residence, a large dog barked. But if children lived here, the big canine would be friendly enough, as would its owners. This wasn’t the type of neighborhood to have aggressive dogs.

  Carrie Anne Donaway had been the lucky recipient of a parking citation at the flea market a few days ago.

  Possibly, when she was acquiring all this great stuff for her yard.

  The dog barked again, sounding larger the second time. The front door opened an inch. The big eyes of a small girl stared up at Sergio.

  “Good morning!” Sergio beamed. “Is your mom or dad home?”

  The girl’s face was frozen. “I’m not s’posed to talk to strangers.”

  She was roughly about five, with blonde hair and a few missing baby teeth. Sergio bent down, putting his hands on his knees. “You don’t have to open the door for them, either. I’m Sergio. I need to talk to Carrie Anne Donaway about a parking ticket. Can you go get her?”

  The door shut. A moment later, it reopened. A woman in a Buccaneers t-shirt and leopard yoga pants squinted in the morning light, her hair going in several directions. An infant rested on her hip, chewing a pacifier. The dog continued to bark, muffled through a closed door somewhere else in the house.

  “I’m not late with that ticket,” the woman said. “I have sixty days to pay.”

  “No, ma’am,” Sergio said. “I’m following up with you on behalf of the Tampa police department because the ticket was issued the same day of the recent—”

  The tiny girl appeared again, behind her mother.

  “Uh . . .” Sergio chewed his lip. “You were apparently at the flea market on the day one of the recent S-N-I-P-E-R attacks happened. I was hoping you might have seen something that could be of value in the case.”

  “No, not really.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I remember that day, though. My mom and I took the kids shopping for a few hours, getting some Christmas goodies—and got that nice souvenir from the city of Tampa when we came out. We didn’t hear about the shootings until later, and then we freaked out. To have been right there when it was happening, you know?”

  Sergio nodded. “Can you think back? Did you happen to notice anything unusual? Anything out of place that day? Maybe someone walking fast or acting nervous as you walked from your car?”

  “Not that I recall. We thought about it when we saw the news, but like I said, it was more like, wow, we were right there. It could have been us.”

  “Yeah, that’s scary to think about. Especially when you have little kids.” He glanced at the citation. “Now, your ticket was issued at 8:17 a.m. Would you have noticed any strange cars, or maybe a vehicle pulling away at a fast speed? Did you hear anything that could have been a gunshot?”

  “I’m sorry. Not on the way in.” The woman bounced her child on her hip. “And when we were leaving, I had my hands full, the baby was hungry . . . We were in a rush to get home. I wasn’t really paying attention to much else.”

  “Okay. Well, if you think of anything—no matter how small—there’s a hotline number.” He handed her a small square of photocopied yellow paper. The sniper hotline was printed on it, and he had written his cell phone number on it as well. “Maybe review that morning with the kids and your mother, or whoever else may have been with you, to see if anything odd sticks out to them. We’re interested in any details you think might be relevant, no matter how small.”

  “Okay. If I think of anything. I’ll call them.”

  “Thank you. Merry Christmas.” Sergio stepped off the porch.

  “Would you want to talk to my mother?”

  Turning around, Sergio patted his pockets for a pen. “Uh, sure. What’s her number?”

  Carrie Anne pointed to a spot on the floor behind her. “Kylie, grab me that crayon.”

  Sergio handed her another of the yellow squares. She scribbled on the back of it. “Mom lives over in Town N Country. Off of Hanley Road.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call her.” Sergio waved goodbye. “Merry Christmas.”

  He headed to his car, looking at the next name on the list. Lorne Dunefield, a few blocks away. The odds that any of these people saw anything and didn’t already call in was remote at best�
��but he needed to do everything possible to show he wanted to be a cop again more than anything else.

  Forcing a smile onto his face, Sergio started his car and put it in drive.

  Ten interviews down, a million to go.

  It was going to be a long day.

  * * * * *

  Bree held her phone to her ear as she drove. “Benjamin, it’s Marla Palmer. I’m gonna need another ID. Different hair again.”

  “Well, you’ve already done brown hair and curly brown hair. What do you want next? Blonde? Redhead?”

  “Let me think about that.” Glancing at the time on the dashboard display, Bree tapped her nails. “Do a full setup this time. Florida driver’s license, a few credit cards, and a disposable phone. And I’m gonna need another gun. One that’s untraceable. How long will all that take?”

  “A day. Maybe two.”

  “Okay. Let’s go redhead. Have it ready by tomorrow morning.”

  “That will cost you extra.”

  Her phone beeped with call waiting. She took the phone away from her cheek and read the screen.

  Rex Addleson.

  “Benjamin, I gotta go. I’ll be in your parking lot tomorrow by six a.m. The order had better be waiting.” She ended the call and switched over to Addleson. “Good morning, sunshine!”

  Addleson chuckled. “It’s a good morning because I’ve been thinking about you since I woke up, Bree.”

  She drove down the road. “Aw, you’re sweet.”

  “I was wondering, are you free for lunch today?”

  “Gee, I don’t know.” Bree grinned. “I’ll have to check with my boss.”

  “Pretty slave-driving guy, is he?”

  “Hard as nails,” she said, “but I might be able to sneak away. You’re still coming to the staff meeting, right? We could go right after that.”

  “I’m taking a conference call with Munroe and some out-of-state money raisers, first. Then I’ll head on in to the office. Are you excited about the announcement?”

  She tapped her nails on the wheel. “You have no idea.”