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

by Dan Alatorre

  “Good. Are you driving? What are you up to right now?”

  “Oh . . .” Bree idly tapped the steering wheel. “I’m just taking care of loose ends this morning. I was at the gym. Now I need to get home and straighten up the house, take out the trash, grab a shower . . . There are always a few things to be dealt with.”

  “Wow. Busy. Okay, well, don’t schedule yourself too much today. I want to be able to have a quiet lunch somewhere.”

  “Sounds amazing,” Bree said. “See you in a bit.”

  * * * * *

  As Bree rounded the corner to her house, she reached over to the passenger side visor and clicked the garage door opener. The overhead door was already three-quarters open when she drove into the driveway. A four-year-old brown Buick registered to Marla Palmer occupied one spot; Bree’s new, silver BMW would take the other.

  Not much longer and I can ditch that ancient, turd-colored relic.

  Taking cabs between homes had gotten old. Although Marla’s condo wasn’t far, the switching of cars for the last few months had added a necessary but complicated inconvenience to Bree’s life. Marla’s car could stay outside of Marla’s condo; Bree’s car would usually park in Bree’s garage. Whenever both vehicles were present, it was a little trickier. There were logistics to consider and schedules to maintain. Paying for the two properties used up most of her salary, but it was worth the price and money well spent.

  But the plan has worked so far. I’m on the ten-yard line.

  Pushing the remote again, the garage door lumbered shut behind her, casting the room in shadow. She stepped out of her car, eyeing Marla’s sedan, and smiled.

  Time to get to work.

  Gathering a box of clear plastic yard waste bags, Bree circled the Buick, patting its fender. “At some point, you’ll end up in a canal, you old hunk of junk. But today I have a job for you to do. Maybe your most important job ever.”

  Bree collected the other tools and set them on the floor behind the brown car.

  Canvas tent, Sleeping bag, rope, hammer, long-handled pruning shears, a tree saw . . .

  She glanced around the garage.

  Gardening gloves.

  Where are those?

  And what about a suitcase or two?

  Shrugging, she checked the time and grabbed her purse from the BMW, walking to the connecting door to the house. Inside, she lifted the Buick keys from the keyring and exited again, ready to pack the brown car and go deal with the situation at the condo.

  * * * * *

  At Marla’s, Bree sat in the Buick, scanning the parking lot before pulling in. There were few cars, and no one lurking around that looked like one of Rossi’s employer’s henchmen.

  But odds are, you wouldn’t see them, either. You’d just get killed.

  She reached under the seat and gripped the Glock 9mm. It would provide fifteen chances to defend herself before it was empty. If one of Rossi’s gang were around, they probably wouldn’t be expecting anyone to return fire.

  Especially someone who can hit their target.

  She checked the magazine and chambered a round. Letting the car crawl forward, she looked around the near-empty lot. Hedges could hide someone. A man could stand unseen behind one of the large oak trees. Several thugs could crouch behind the dumpster.

  Near the entry to Marla’s unit, several spots were available. Bree put the car in reverse and backed in, parking with her trunk as close to the front door as possible.

  Still, in broad daylight, it would be a tricky maneuver.

  Getting Rossi’s boss out of the condo would have to be a quick process. There wouldn’t be a lot of witnesses, if any, but not a lot of things are the size and bulk of a large, overweight man. The dead intruder was probably close to three hundred pounds, maybe more.

  The camping gear will help. Make a show of carrying out suitcases, in case anyone’s watching, and make the luggage seem heavy. Then wrap the corpse in the tent and get it into the trunk as quickly as possible.

  Between Rossi’s considerable upper body strength and her own ability, it should be doable. Not easy, but doable.

  And as a last option, there was the tree saw. It would add time, but the thug was already in the tub, so any mess from butchering would be easy to clean up—unlike the carpet had been.

  She checked the dashboard clock.

  Time to get moving.

  Entering the home, the acrid smell of bleach hit her nose, causing her to cough. Even with the air conditioning turned all the way down, the foul stench of cleaning solution lingered in the living room.

  You can’t exactly open the windows when you’re cleaning up blood and pieces of brain.

  She scrunched up her nose, trying not to inhale the bleach smell as she strolled into the living room. The oval throw rug looked untouched. The carpet appeared clean, and almost dry. The walls . . . were good enough for now.

  The blood splatter had gone farther than she expected, and it took forever to wipe it all up. The carpet had been an even bigger chore. A fresh coat of paint and a new living room carpet would help a lot, but that would have to be much later. Right now, if a police officer came in with luminol, the place would light up like a disco dance floor; but as far as any innocent visitors, it’d pass muster.

  Okay, checklist. Grab the dirty clothes and latex gloves, put them in a bag, stick them in the trunk of the Buick. Grab the smelling salts, wake up Rossi. After some explanations, he helps move the body.

  Put him back to sleep . . .

  Shower . . .

  Go accept my promotion.

  Bree beamed.

  What a beautiful day it’s going to be.

  She inspected her attire. Marla might need another change of clothes before the day was out.

  Add that to the list. Put spare clothes in gym bag.

  In the guest bathroom, she reached behind the items in the lower cabinet and located the box of smelling salts. Three capsules remained. One would be enough for today. Three might carry her through to the end of the plan.

  Taking one capsule in her hand, she dropped the others back into the box and put it behind the spare towels and extra toilet paper.

  She stood up, looking at herself in the mirror.

  Sleek. Slender. Firm.

  “What a long way you have come, Bree.” She giggled. “And Marla—thank you.”

  It was, after all, Marla who paid for the cosmetic surgeries—in a sense. Marla had been taking care of things with Bree for quite a while now, and as long as Marla Palmer kept paying her bills a little while longer, she could disappear one day and no one would care.

  But today, Marla had things to do.

  And what should the fair Miss Palmer be wearing when she wakes up Rossi?

  Bree stripped out of her jeans and blouse, finding a clean, oversized t-shirt in the dryer. She slinked down the hallway and gently opened the bedroom door, clutching the smelling salts behind her back. “Hey, baby . . .”

  Rossi was still out. His bare, muscular torso was uncovered, more or less the way she had left him. The room held a hint of stale beer. Her gaze went to the nightstand. His open beer from before was still there.

  Easing past the doorway, she walked to her side of the bed, sliding between the sheets and pressing her body next to his.

  Rossi was warm and firm, even when unconscious. The rising and falling of his chest, and the low rumble of his deep snoring, soothed her. She ran her fingers through his thick hair.

  Such a beautiful boy.

  It was a shame, what would happen to him. Almost as bad as what had already happened to him—or rather, what she had caused to happen to him in Atlanta and at Ft. Brannon.

  But the plan is to be obtained at all costs. She felt as though he might even understand. There are sacrifices for the greater good. As a former soldier, he’d get that.

  “I love you, Rossi. You know that, don’t you?”

  She squeezed him tight.

  Of course you do.

  Cradling her
self against his well-toned back, she lifted the capsule and held it in front of her face, examining it.

  Once I pop this open, it all begins and there’s no going back.

  She kissed his naked shoulder. “You can’t say it hasn’t been interesting, lover.” Snapping the capsule in half, Bree held the smelling salts under Rossi’s nose. “It’s go time.”

  Rossi’s head jerked with the first partial whiff. His second breath repelled him into the pillows. Coughing, he flung his arms wildly, rolling away from the smelling salts and falling off the mattress. The nightstand rattled; the lamp and the beer can fell over, and a low groan emerged from the floor.

  Bree shoved the smelling salts under her pillow and slid over to his side of the bed, clutching the edge of the mattress as she peered downward. “Oh, my gosh, are you okay?”

  Rossi lay on his back, his muscular arm covering his eyes. “Ugh. I feel so awful. My head—it’s insane. It’s like a vise.”

  “It’s the migraines, baby.” Bree’s voice was soft and comforting. “I remember, you used to get them before, too. When . . . back in the bad times.”

  He moaned. “That stuff you’re giving me is making me sick.”

  “It’s making you well, baby.” She scooted closer to the edge of the bed. “Are you okay? Are you hungry? You’ve barely eaten.”

  “I . . . I feel so lousy.”

  Bree admired his naked form, only waiting long enough to not seem like she was rushing things. “Baby,” she whispered, “do you remember what you did?”

  Rossi groaned again, putting both hands to his eyes. “I need to go. I . . . I have to get out of here. To work.”

  Biting her lower lip, Bree gripped the edge of the mattress. “We’ll—we’ll go, then. If that’s what you want. There’s just . . . I just need your help first.” She made her voice quiver. “Can you remember, the night I found you again? At The Sports Bank?”

  “Kinda, yeah.” Rossi grimaced, rubbing his eyes. “I remember.”

  “You were supposed to make a deposit—remember? For your boss?”

  “No.” He shook his head—barely. “I don’t do the deposits,” he mumbled. “I collect and hand off to Tommy or Ray.”

  “Right, right.” She nodded. “Think, now. On the night I found you, at The Sports Bank, did you make the handoff to Tommy? Or to Ray?”

  He was panting like he’d been running. “I don’t . . . I can’t remember.”

  “Baby, you’re scaring me.” She lowered her face to the mattress. “What happens if you don’t make your handoff?”

  “I always make my handoff.” He pushed himself up on one elbow, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her. He held a hand to his forehead, blocking the light. “That’s my job. Collect and hand off.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “To Tommy or Ray. But . . .” She bit her lip again, this time so he’d see it. “What if . . . you didn’t? What if you left with me that night, and didn’t make your handoff? What then?”

  His eyes met hers as he rubbed the side of his head. “If a guy doesn’t make his handoff, they’ll send a collector looking for him. The collector will stay after the guy until he tracks him down. Then he’d torture him until the mook tells them what he did with the cash, or where he hid it. After that, the guy goes away. They’ll find his body with no head and no hands in an orange grove outside of Plant City.”

  She gazed into his eyes and swallowed hard. “Baby . . . a man showed up here.” She put her hand to her mouth, to really sell the act. “Looking for the deposit.”

  Rossi took his hand away from his face. “No . . .”

  “He was a big man. Thick, with big arms and big hands—and a bad complexion. He was fat, but like he worked out a ton back in the day. And he was pretty tall.”

  “Turley. That’s Turley. He was here?” Sitting up, Rossi leaned close to her. “What . . . did he do? Did he—did he hurt you?”

  She worked up some tears and lowered her face to the mattress. “He hurt me, baby. He hurt me real bad. Like those guys at Ft. Brannon wanted to.”

  Rossi got up, his cheeks turning red. “That fat loser. I’ll—I’ll kill him.”

  “I knew that, baby. I knew you’d defend me.”

  “If he comes back, I’ll shoot him right between his ugly eyes.” He held his hands out, making fists and flexing his muscles.

  “I know, baby. And you did. You saved me from that—that monster.”

  Rossi stopped preening and looked at her. “What?”

  “You shot him, baby.” Bree sat up, trembling as she pushed herself backwards across the mattress. “He—he was grabbing me. I was dressed like I am now, in a flimsy t-shirt. He knocked on the door and when I opened it, he stared at me and practically started drooling. Then he grabbed me and shook me. He wanted the deposit, and I said I didn’t know what he was talking about. And then he got really angry.”

  “Are you okay?” Rossi crawled onto the mattress and put his hands on her shoulders. “What happened after that? Did he—”

  “You shot him, baby. You saved me from that gross, disgusting man because you shot him right in the back of the head. Do you remember? I was worried you wouldn’t remember like you couldn’t remember the other times.”

  Rossi slumped back onto the pillows. “I shot him?”

  “You saved me!” She sobbed. “He was grabbing me and looking at me. You know he was going to hurt me just like those other guys did in Atlanta and at Ft. Brannon. So you shot him right in the back of the head. There was blood everywhere.” She whimpered, a tear finally rolling down her cheek. “But—but I cleaned it up. I cleaned it all up like you showed me after we put him in the tub.”

  “I . . .” Rossi frowned. “The tub?”

  “I cleaned everything up, baby. No one will know. But he’s still there. He’s in the tub.” She took his hand, pulling. “Come look.”

  “Turley? He’s here?”

  “You said to get some stuff to hide him, so we could get him out of here, so I did. I did what you said. I got some stuff from my storage unit. Camping stuff and suitcases. We can wrap him in the tent and put him in the trunk and get out of here. I think we need to get out of here, fast, before anyone else comes.”

  Wincing, Rossi got up. “Show me. Where is he?”

  “O—okay. Don’t be mad at me.” She moved backwards, casting her eyes down and pulling him with her. She stopped at the bathroom door. “I love you. I did what you said. He’s here. See? Here, in the tub, like you said.”

  Pushing open the bathroom door, Turley’s corpse filled the small bathtub. One arm and one leg stuck out, but the thug’s fat carcass was there—less a massive, bloody hole in the front of his face, visible through the clear plastic yard waste bag that had been tied around his head.

  Rossi’s eyes went wide. “Oh, no.” The words were barely audible as they escaped his lips.

  “You saved me, baby. I was so scared, but you saved me.”

  “Oh, this is bad.” He grabbed the sides of his head. “This is really bad. Oh, we are dead. Oh, man. Oh, no.”

  “No!” Bree backed away, screaming. “Don’t say that! I didn’t do anything!”

  “Okay, okay.” He ran to her, hugging her. “But, we—we gotta go, baby. Right now. If Turley found us, the other guys will. We gotta go. We gotta go right now.”

  She sold the panic, the fear. She slid out of his grasp, lowering herself to the floor as she curled up into the fetal position. “But you said we need to clean up. You can’t go outside like that. You’re covered in blood from when you shot him. Look at your hands! Look!”

  It was just as before. Just like at Atlanta and at Ft. Brannon.

  Rossi held his hands up, staring at them.

  Any second now, he’d fully buy in. Just like the books said. Suggestive psychology was simple if the subject was dumb enough and the implementer was smart enough.

  Bree was certainly smart enough. And Rossi? She held back a smile.

  Such a beautiful boy with such a messed-
up head.

  He couldn’t process it fast enough, and he got overwhelmed. He went with whatever she said—whatever she insisted he said. He bought in.

  And after he bought in . . . not much else mattered.

  “Okay, we—” Rossi ran a hand through his hair, looking around. “We gotta go. We gotta get rid of him and we need to disappear. Fast.”

  “I’ll do whatever you say, baby.” Holding onto the wall, Bree staggered to her feet. “We can disappear. You’re in charge.”

  “Where’s the deposit?” Rossi glanced into the hallway. “There’s more than twenty grand in that bag. We can use it to make a fresh start.”

  She put her hands on his chest. “Let’s just get him out of here, like you said. I’ll help.” Pushing past him, she stepped up to the corpse. “Come on, I’ll help. Let’s get him out of the tub. I’ll go get the tent, and then I’ll help you get him out of here.”

  “Yeah. Get the tent. Get the tent.” Rossi’s face was blank. “We gotta get Turley outta here. Oh, this is so bad. Really bad. I—I gotta wash this blood off.”

  “Later,” Bree said. “Let’s move him first—like you said. We can clean up after. I got the tools you told me to get. We move him, and then we clean up after and hit the road. I know a spot to put him, too. A lake. It’s not far. There’ll be nobody there this time of day. We can put him in the trunk and roll the car into the lake. We’ll be done with him.”

  “Yeah. Get the tent.” Rossi put his hands on the bathroom counter, gasping. “I can move Turley. We gotta get rid of him.”

  “We will.” Bree walked away from the tub and stepped into the hallway. “I promise, I will get rid of every piece of incriminating evidence in this condo.”

  Chapter 34

  Lieutenant Davis stood in the hallway outside the conference room, wrapping up a call on his cell phone. Inside, the task force members sorted themselves into teams according to Carly’s strategy. She bounced from group to group, assigning support personnel from the officers who’d been loaned to Tampa PD for the massive manhunt, and ensuring everyone had the proper contact information to call in results as they obtained them. Special Agent Eicholtz was on the line to his superiors in Washington, to let them know what was headed their way; the sheriffs and police chiefs made calls to their peers, lining up additional support if necessary.