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

by Dan Alatorre

  “That’ll be great.” Davis kept his voice low. “And then I was thinking maybe an exclusive broadcast tonight, at the office party. A little behind-the-scenes thing, to show the public we are hard at work and not really having a party.”

  “I love that idea,” Giselle Winsome said. “We can do it as a live, one-camera panning shot, the way they do it when the national news goes on a remote overseas segment with the Army. Here are our troops in blue, working hard and fueling up as they track down the sniper, that sort of thing. Oh, and could I talk to a few officers? I know they’ll all be busy, but maybe just a few sentences from two or three regular cops working the investigation? The public eats that stuff up.”

  “Actually . . .” Davis glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve decided to break the investigation into teams so we can pursue several options at once, so maybe a quick word or two from some of the team leaders.”

  “Even better. That’s a smart strategy.”

  “Yes.” He grinned. “I’m very proud of it.

  “Oh, was it your idea? Very creative, Lieutenant. I’ll be sure to mention that in the segment.”

  “And of course, there will be a short interview with me beforehand, right Giselle?”

  “Of course, sir. And thanks for the tip about tonight. We’ll head over now for the update segment, and then we’ll see you at the party this evening.”

  * * * * *

  Davis entered the conference room, slipping his phone into his suit coat pocket. “Detective Sanderson, remember, we have a press update scheduled. Put together some notes, in case you’re asked to comment on the investigation.”

  Looking up from a laptop in front of the Miami police chief, Carly brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “Uh . . . yes, sir.” Her gaze went to Dr. Stevens. “Ma’am, may I speak to you for a second?”

  “Of course, Detective.” The doctor followed Carly to an empty corner of the conference room.

  “You know,” Carly said, “the idea of the press conference kind of bothers me. And not just because I hate speaking in public.”

  “You are worried about provoking our killer.”

  Carly nodded.

  “Don’t be. Your assessment of the killer is well supported by the data. If the sniper is in fact a female and passive-aggressive, then a public provocation will not draw her out. That’s too confrontational. Too direct.”

  Shifting on her feet, Carly massaged one hand with the other. “Yeah, but what would she do?”

  “A passive-aggressive female will ignore it—initially. She will continue with her game, but increase her resolve. Whatever her plan, she will stick to it.”

  “And if it’s a man?”

  “That is also supported by the data. Then, calling him out may elicit a reaction. Some sort of heightened act—so choose your words carefully.”

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Carly ran a hand through her hair.

  The D.C. snipers upped the stakes when they got provoked.

  Images flashed through Carly’s mind. Young children being shot by sniper fire as they exited a school bus.

  “But,” the doctor said, “various branches of law enforcement have used the tactic of a verbal public engagement with an unidentified serial killer over the years. The results have been . . . mixed. But it’s not untrod ground.”

  “It’s risky.” Carly sighed.

  “It is.” Dr. Stevens narrowed her eyes. “What does your gut say, Detective?” She pointed to the six options Carly had written on the whiteboard. “Which of your scenarios do you feel best fits our killer?”

  Carly studied the scenarios.

  Male

  Female

  A military person

  A civilian psychopath

  Terrorist

  Political. Someone who wants the debate stopped.

  Each option had merit; each had flaws. She considered which one best fit the killer.

  “If you have a hard choice between two options,” Sergio said, “flip a coin. Assign one result to heads and one to tails. If heads comes up and you wanna flip the coin again, it means you really had a stronger feeling for the option you tied to tails.”

  Carly eyed the six options. It was the same here.

  Which one, if removed, feels like a mistake?

  She pointed to the white board. “I think the sniper is a woman. The copycat thing, the smoke screen, the way the information all shouts. ‘Look here, look here.’ And—”

  “Detective.” The doctor smiled.

  Carly faced Dr. Stevens.

  “I think it’s a woman, too,” Stevens said. “Perhaps we should both go with our gut, as they say. In either case, when you speak at the press conference today, you may wish to let the killer know the vast resources that have been deployed to find them. That will simultaneously inflate their ego while also putting them under increased pressure. In my experience, people under pressure tend to make mistakes.”

  “I know what you mean.” Carly rubbed her tired, dry eyes. “Let’s hope the added pressure only causes the killer to make mistakes.”

  * * * * *

  Sergio’s phone pinged. As he drove, he checked the incoming message.

  A new batch of names and addresses from Tyree.

  Pulling to the side of the road, Sergio checked the dozen or so new locations to see if any were close by. A few were west of Town N Country. One was in south Tampa. Several were from surrounding cities like St. Petersburg and Sarasota.

  He chuckled to himself. “Freaking flea market really draws ‘em in. Who knew?”

  As he continued to mentally sort the addresses into areas, one appeared to be close by. A condo unit, in a neighborhood a few blocks away.

  Sergio yawned. “Okay, my friendly neighborhood flea market shopper. Here I come.”

  A chime came from the car’s dashboard. The “low fuel” indicator light came on again.

  Frowning, he glanced around. In the rearview mirror, the yellow clamshell logo of a Shell gas station shined in the bright sunlight.

  “Well, here I come, right after I get some gas.” Preparing to turn the car around, Sergio viewed the name on the screen. “Don’t go anywhere, Marla Palmer.”

  * * * * *

  Dropping the canvas tent on the bathroom floor, Bree unfurled it as best she could.

  “Okay, watch out.” Rossi went to the tub, sliding his hands under Turley’s thick shoulders, and squatting. With a groan, Rossi pulled upwards and outwards, heaving the fat man onto the canvas. After a tug and a pull, the corpse was more or less centered.

  Rossi stood, gasping, his big muscles bulging. “Help me drag him out.”

  Bree slid around to Turley’s feet. With Rossi pulling, they managed to drag the heavy corpse to the front door of Marla’s condo.

  Rossi folded the lengths of green canvas over his boss; Bree tied the cords to keep the cover in place.

  Squatting next to the body, Rossi pulled Turley’s top half forward and leaned it on his shoulder. “Get to the car and have the trunk ready.”

  She exited the condo, walking toward the Buick with determination, but not rushing. It was as if she were returning to work after running errands on her lunch break and had just enough time to squeeze it all in.

  Lunch! You’re supposed to be meeting Addleson after the staff meeting. You need to get to the campaign headquarters. What time is it?

  She put her hand to her pocket.

  No phone.

  Her stomach tightened.

  It’s inside, on the kitchen counter, where it won’t get any blood on it.

  Crap, what time is it?

  The bright afternoon sun illuminated the parking lot. No one seemed to be around. Putting her face to the window, she tried to read the display on the dashboard. Without the engine turned on, there was no display.

  She slipped her hands to her thighs, gripping them tightly.

  No, no, no. You’re fine. It’s early. You are getting a shower and heading to the staff meeting. You have time. You budg
eted time for a shower and a meeting, lunch . . . There’s plenty of time. You’re fine.

  Relax.

  She exhaled, glancing back at the condo and nodding to Rossi. A moment later, he lumbered out the door, sagging under the weight of the massive corpse. The green bundle made its way to the car, where Bree raised the trunk lid. With a grunt, Rossi heaved himself forward and dropped the body into the Buick.

  The rear of the car sagged, bouncing as the car’s suspension adjusted to the big man’s girth.

  Bree slammed the trunk shut, holding her breath.

  She stepped back, looking at the car. Aside from the rear of the vehicle sitting too low to the tires, it looked okay.

  Rossi whispered, “I’m going to wash my hands.”

  “What? No.” She grabbed his arm. “Get in the car.” Opening the driver’s side door, she sat behind the wheel and started the engine. “I have a friend with a garage nearby. We can stow this heap in it while we do the rest of the work. It’ll be totally private.”

  His voice was strained. “What if we get picked up between here and there?”. “My hands . . .”

  Glancing at the time, she shook her head.

  There’s not enough time for too many add-ons, baby.

  “It’s three minutes away.” She fastened her seat belt. “We won’t encounter any cops between here and there.”

  “But—”

  “Get in and let’s go.” Scowling, Bree slammed the car door.

  * * * * *

  As he pumped gas, Sergio took out his phone and searched the local news websites for updates on the sniper shootings. The screen lit up with an incoming call.

  Tyree.

  He tapped the green button. “What’s up, Johnny?”

  “Hey,” Tyree said. “I just got a call from Mark Harriman. There’s a press conference status update thing being held shortly. We need to have a presence at it in case any reporters bring up the outdoor debate, so we can insist the show will go on.”

  “Sounds fun. Have a good time.”

  “I’m sure I will. But our services are required elsewhere, too. The mayor is hosting a private meeting with the two campaigns about cancelling the debate. Since we’re overseeing security, we need to have a representative there—either you or Big Brass.”

  “You don’t trust him to do it?”

  “Would you?”

  “Fair enough.” The gas nozzle clicked, turning off. Sergio lifted it away from his car and put it back in its slot on the pump. “Okay, I’ll head your way after my next stop. It’s right around the corner. Man, this PR stuff is such a giant waste of time. I mean, yeah, the news should be updated so the public sees we’re after the bad guy, but pulling resources from the field just to look good in front of the cameras . . .” He frowned. “Now that I hear it out loud, I can guess whose bright idea that was.”

  “Lieutenant Davis, I’m sure,” Tyree said. “But since the police department is writing the checks, we have to go where he kicks us.”

  “You have to love the duplicity of being at one event where we say the show will go on and another event where we try to call it off.”

  “I guess that’s politics. Then there’s, uh . . .” Tyree cleared his throat. “There’s also the little matter of your friend, Abbie. I didn’t figure it would be a good idea for her to be alone. She probably shouldn’t be seen at a public press conference, and she wasn’t real eager to stay at the job site with Big Brass.”

  “No problem.” Sergio opened his car door. “She’s my responsibility. I’ll call her.”

  “She also mentioned she needs time to rehearse with you. Are you starring in the school play?”

  “That’s another long story.” Climbing into the car, Sergio reached for his seat belt and clipped it into place. “I’ll get Abbie smoothed out about Big Brass.”

  “Can you call while you drive?” Tyree said. “I have to leave for the mayor’s office soon.”

  “Yep.” Sergio started the car. “I’ll be there in twenty.” Ending the call, he switched the screen back to the list of parking citations. “Sorry, Marla Palmer. Whatever you were doing during the sniper shooting, I’ll have to hear it another time.”

  * * * * *

  As the garage door at Bree’s house closed behind her, she got out of the Buick and walked to the door leading into the house.

  Rossi followed. “Who lives here?”

  “I told you—a friend.” Entering the home, she headed toward the bedroom in the back. “Wash up in the kitchen. Towels are in the drawer by the sink. Whatever you touch, bring with you to the garage.”

  Rossi rounded the corner. A moment later, the sound of running water met Bree’s ears.

  Turning around, she went to the guest bathroom, kneeling and opening the cabinet. Behind the washcloths and extra toilet paper was the old brown bottle with its faded label.

  She picked it up and grabbed a washcloth.

  Tucking both behind her back, she returned to the garage and stood behind the Buick. She leaned over to the driver’s side and set the bottle next to the rear wheel, covering it with the little folded washcloth.

  Rossi appeared at the door, drying his hands with a dish towel.

  A white one.

  “What now?” he asked.

  Spots of pink now dotted the towel from where he did a less than adequate job of washing off the blood before drying his hands.

  She shook her head.

  Such a beautiful boy with such a messed-up head. I won’t be sad to see you go.

  “Help me with the body,” she said. “Then we dump it in the lake down the street—car and all. Make sure that towel gets in the trunk.”

  Walking toward her, he glanced at the dishcloth. “Oh. Sorry.”

  She opened the trunk and stepped to the side of the car. “Don’t worry about it. See if you can get him out.”

  “Out?” He reached into the trunk, grabbing the canvas. “Then what?”

  Bree unscrewed the bottle and splashed chloroform onto the washcloth. Holding her breath, she jumped up and wrapped her arms around Rossi, forcing the washcloth over his face.

  He reared back, banging his head into the trunk lid. Bree struggled to maintain her grip on him, pressing the cloth hard over his nose and mouth. Rossi twisted away, throwing her off. Staggering, he stared at her, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wavering. “Marla . . . What . . . what are you . . .”

  His knees wobbled as his eyes rolled back in his head. Rossi leaned forward, putting one hand on the side of the Buick and reaching out with the other. He stammered incoherently, swinging his arm wildly at her before collapsing into the trunk.

  Panting, Bree rested on the side of the car. Rossi’s torso rested on the body of his dead boss. Only the legs of the beautiful boy dangled out of the vehicle.

  Good enough.

  It might have been easier to kill you, but I might need you—baby.

  She put a hand on the rear of the Buick, leaning on it as she got to her feet. After pushing Rossi’s legs into the trunk, she grabbed some gardening rope from the garage tool cabinet and bound his hands and feet. The pink-tinged dish towel served to gag him. Splashing more chloroform into the washcloth, she held it over Rossi’s face and turned away, allowing him to inhale it for half a minute or so before tossing it into the trunk next to him.

  Bree stepped back and slammed the trunk lid shut, wiping her hands on her legs.

  The clock on the wall indicated she still had just enough time for a shower before her meeting, and then a quick lunch with Rex Addleson.

  She headed into the house.

  As long as we stay close to the office and don’t order too many appetizers, I should be back before sleeping beauty wakes up.

  Chapter 35

  “Are you coming to get me?” Abbie said. “It’s very boring here and I actually have work of my own to do.”

  “Sorry, you should have thought of that before you got abducted.” He put on his sunglasses. “I understand you feel less tha
n comfortable around Lavonte.”

  “He is a drug dealer and he’s connected to the men who want me either working for them or dead. I’d say that warrants a fair amount of apprehension.”

  “I told you, counselor, he’s okay. He’s not selling drugs anymore. He’s with us.”

  Not referring to the police department when he said “us” sent a twinge of guilt through him. Or possibly a twinge of his new reality. It had a bad taste.

  “My hero. You delivered me from active kidnappers in a drug ring to . . . a different part of the same drug ring. He’s despicable.”

  “This is just a wild guess, but when you defend someone, do you find it better if at some point you and they start to trust each other? I mean, I’m trusting you, aren’t I? Maybe give me a little slack on this one. Tyree says Lavonte’s reformed. Harmless.”

  “He . . .” She lowered her voice. “He brought a fast-food cheeseburger to eat. For breakfast.”

  Sergio shrugged. “So he’s not as health conscious as you are.”

  “He ate the whole thing with his mouth open.”

  “Or as well mannered.”

  “Then,” she said, “he tried to recruit me to sell vitamins in a multi-level marketing program.”

  “Hey!” Big Brass shouted in the background. “Them vitamins are legit.”

  Abbie huffed. “Are you hearing this? It’s drugs. He’s still with the drug ring. I’m not safe here.”

  “Okay, okay.” Sergio put his hand to his forehead, pressing the gas pedal. “The cavalry is on the way.”

  * * * * *

  Carly sat at the empty conference table, crossing out notes on a legal pad. The five other teams had been assigned temporary workstations in the detectives’ offices upstairs, and had moved out a while ago. Carly preferred the momentary quiet of the empty room.

  Dr. Stevens walked past the doorway, then stopped and peered in. “Are you still worried about speaking to the news media?”

  “I haven’t been very good with interviews lately.” Carly set her pen down. “I don’t want it to get out of hand.”

  “And why should it? Don’t you trust Lieutenant Davis?”