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

by Dan Alatorre

  “Trust?” Carly grinned. “He likes these things. The most dangerous place in Tampa is between the lieutenant and a TV camera.”

  “Hmm.” Dr. Stevens looked over the notes. “What have you written so far?”

  “A preamble to the Constitution, an abbreviated version of the Gettysburg Address . . .” She slid the legal pad to the doctor.

  “Detective, forgive me, but if you knew the killer would be listening today, what message would you want them to hear?”

  “I’m not sure. That’s why I’ve had four false starts.”

  “I believe the killer is in pain,” Stevens said. “A killing based in rage might have multiple stab wounds, or many bullets. One based in insanity often has mutilation of the victims, or a number of people killed at one scene. This is done with precision, but the steady repetition indicates the killer endures a pain that isn’t going away. Whether emotional or psychological, this pain is very real to the killer. Perhaps the right message from you is one of sympathy. As the face of the investigation, you are in a unique position to make an emotional play.”

  “The basic ‘hostage negotiation’ stuff.” Carly sat upright. “I know you’re hurting. Please talk to us. We will listen. I will listen.”

  “You’re on your way.” The doctor nodded. “From our weaknesses come our strengths. The killer enjoyed notoriety when he or she was in control of it. Let the lieutenant discuss the amount of manpower and weaponry being utilized to locate one person. I imagine that would be quite unsettling to hear, if you were the killer. The thrill of the attention would be coupled with a dire wish to avoid the consequences. Talking may offer a kind of back door escape route our killer would like.”

  Carly wrote a note on the pad. “Unless our sniper wants to die, an escape route is the smart move.”

  “And our killer is certainly smart.” Dr. Stevens stood up. “The entire scheme has been very elaborate. I think dying is not on this one’s mind. A sniper looking to leave this world would likely stay in one place and amass victims until the police arrived and ended the killer’s life. No, I think the plan was something else.”

  “Do you ever wonder . . .” Looking up at the doctor, Carly laid her pen down and folded her hands. “I mean, when it’s over . . . do you ever get a chance to find out why they did what they did?”

  Dr. Stevens shook her head. “That will be someone else’s job. There will be no shortage of experts who want to get in the killer’s head and find out the reasons. I try to be satisfied that my efforts helped get them off the street.”

  * * * * *

  As Bree drove toward the Addleson campaign headquarters, she took a disposable cell phone from the glove box and dialed Benjamin.

  “Hello, my lovely.” Benjamin said. “Calling to place another order? At the rate you’re going, I’ll be able to retire early.”

  Bree steered through traffic. “I’m calling to take delivery of an order.”

  “But we have you down for tomorrow—you insisted we have your items ready by six.”

  “The other order,” Bree said. “I think it’s time.”

  “Oh, no. Well, I’ll miss you. You were a good customer. Am I dropping everything off at the condo, then? Both orders?”

  “That would be ideal.” The traffic light half a block ahead switched from green to yellow. Bree slowed the BMW, coming to a stop as the signal turned red. “The sliding glass door will be unlocked. Stick the freezer contents under the guest bed. If you see anything—or anyone—strange on the back porch, ignore it. I may be getting another delivery while you’re there.”

  “You know, the body in the freezer . . . it’s been eleven months. She’ll still be frozen tomorrow, even if I started thawing her now.”

  “I have that covered. Be sure to cancel the storage unit and junk that freezer somewhere that it can’t be found.”

  “We have delivery trucks headed to Miami once or twice a week, but sometimes the cargo never arrives. Someplace, around the swamps of central Florida, merchandise just seems to disappear.”

  “Sounds good. Because if it doesn’t disappear—you do.”

  “Just make sure you bring the cash—all of it. No more paying with favors like I let you with that dentist situation way back when. The ‘accidental overdose,’ remember? Or was he the suicide? I lose track of your ex-husbands.”

  “Me, too. Gotta go.”

  She ended the call and dialed another number, this time to Rafael.

  “Your fuses are all set,” he said. “I got two good ones and one fizzler. It’ll sparkle like the Fourth of July.”

  “Perfect.” Bree adjusted her sunglasses and checked the time on the dashboard display. “The gasoline, leave on the back porch, close to the sliding glass door. Can you cover the cans up with something?”

  “I’ll find a tarp.”

  “Everything else, throw it in a cardboard box and stick it on the kitchen table.”

  Rafael chuckled. “I definitely won’t throw it, but I’ll have it in a toilet paper case or something. It will look innocent enough.”

  “Then I guess that covers it.” Bree smiled. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Same here. I’ll have everything at the condo before sunup.”

  Ending the call, Bree powered the window down, pulling into a well-groomed subdivision. She rolled up to a small pond near a cute, wooden gazebo and tossed the phone into the water.

  A small bloop of a splash, and it was gone.

  When she arrived at the campaign headquarters, the lot was almost full.

  So many people here to wish me well in my promotion!

  She pulled up and backed into the spot farthest from the door, hurrying out and walking around to the rear of the car.

  Glancing around, she slipped a shoe off and smashed her taillight with the heel. The red plastic fell away, revealing the clear bulb inside. A few more taps created a larger hole and bigger pieces of red plastic on the asphalt.

  Perfect.

  After replacing the shoe, she gathered her purse and headed inside.

  * * * * *

  “Congratulations!” Jaylee threw her hands in the air as Bree entered the building.

  A group of volunteers cheered from the call tables. The main area of the office was strewn with red, white and blue crepe paper streamers, with a posterboard sign and a sheet cake that both read “Campaign Chairperson Bree Is Amazing.”

  “You guys!” Bree put her hand to her chest, gasping. “This is just . . . well, amazing! Thank you!”

  “You deserve it,” Addleson said, stepping out from his office. “Well done, Bree.”

  Her jaw dropped. “I thought you were coming later.”

  Addleson grinned. “Surprise.”

  “Cheers—with orange juice.” Thin, old Munroe rounded the corner, brandishing a paper cup. “It’s all we can afford.”

  “Oh, for—you guys are so sweet.” Bree grinned, taking in the compliments from the gathered well-wishers. The volunteers had all come in early, as well as the main staff, and apparently had all been told the news of her new position.

  Cicely stepped forward, a paper cup in her hand. “Bree, you got the top job, and I want you to know, you deserve everything that’s coming to you as a result.”

  “Cicely, thank you so much.” Bree faced the room. “Everyone, I absolutely appreciate this. So, help yourself to some cake and a glass of—of juice, I guess.” She winked at Munroe. “Cheapskate.”

  The old man beamed. “You better believe it!”

  “. . . and then let’s get to work,” she said. “We still have fundraising goals to meet and a primary to win.”

  “Oh, boo.” Jaylee pouted. “Spoilsport.”

  “Okay, okay—you talked me into it. You may celebrate me for . . . thirty-two more minutes. Then we need to get to work.”

  The group laughed as they lined up for cake and orange juice, stopping by to congratulate Bree one by one.

  Addleson held up his phone and lowered his voice.
“I just got a text from Channel Thirteen News, asking me if I have any response to Blumenthal saying he wants to cancel the debate and move it inside. Channel Eight and Channel Ten are both asking for a comment, too.” He looked at Bree. “Your thoughts, Campaign Chair?”

  Bree held her hands out. “Your reply should be, ‘I will be at the outdoor debate, with or without an opponent. Unlike Mr. Blumenthal, I am not afraid of my constituents.’ How’s that?”

  He smiled, typing on his phone. “Brilliant. It’s almost as if we rehearsed it.”

  “And tell them, if they want to come by for an in-person interview, you’ll be here all day. Let’s capitalize on this good news.”

  “Well . . .” Addleson sent his text. “They can come this afternoon. I have some special plans for lunch.”

  * * * * *

  Abbie fidgeted in the passenger seat of Sergio’s car. “I need clothes. Can we go by my place?”

  Sergio kept his eyes on the road. “No.”

  “How do I get dressed?” She held her hands out. “I can’t wear the same outfit every day. And it’s the one I was abducted in, so I’m hardly hiding very well. What’s the plan here? I can’t just hang out with you every day.”

  “Give me a little time, would you? I didn’t create this mess.” Sergio huffed. “Now, for clothes, I have some . . . lady friends who are your size. They can lend you something.”

  “You must be joking.” Abbie glared at him. “No. We’ll stop at the mall.”

  Sergio glared back at her. “We don’t have time for a shopping spree. I’m supposed to be doing good, hard police work, tracking down parking citations with a smile. That’s hard enough to do without having you upending me over some penny ante nonsense about Big Brass.”

  Opening her purse, Abbie removed a compact cosmetic case and looked at herself in the tiny mirror. “I’ll get a dress and a change of socks, nothing more. You’ll be with me. Nothing will happen. No shopping spree and no kidnapping part two.” She lowered the compact. “Fair? We didn’t say I’d be on lockdown, we said you’d protect me. I need to move around. Now, if we—”

  Glowering, Sergio slid down in his seat. “Okay, okay. The mall. One store.” He smirked. “A dress—and . . . socks?”

  “The dress is for tonight.” Lifting her chin, Abbie powdered her cheek. “The socks are for when you make me go back to that work site tomorrow. Lucky for me I keep some makeup in my purse. And as far as going to one store, unless it’s WalMart—which it won’t be—they won’t sell bras and panties. Or jeans. But since you won’t let me go to my place . . .”

  “Because it’s not safe. So . . . three stores. But no shopping spree. Seriously.”

  “Well, let’s just play it by ear, shall we?” She snapped the compact shut and dropped it into her purse. “Or are you in a big rush to get back to smiling and dialing?”

  “Ugh.” With one hand on the wheel, Sergio put his other elbow on the door frame and leaned his head against it. “I have to say, between dress shopping and interviewing flea marketers, I’m not sure which is worse. But since my goal is to show everyone how bad I want to be a cop again, I will get right back out there and knock on those parking citation recipient’s doors.”

  “Exactly.” She looked him over, frowning. “By any chance, do you own a nice suit?”

  “I can knock on a door in casual attire.”

  “For the party. Do you own a nice suit?”

  “Oh. I have the one from yesterday. It’s probably clean enough to wear again today.”

  She sighed, peering out the window. “Should I even bother to ask about a necktie?”

  “I have neckties.”

  “Really?” She turned around to stare at him. “Any that were purchased in this decade?”

  “I . . .” Sergio slouched lower. “. . . have neckties.”

  Abbie smirked. “We may need to add a fourth store to the list.”

  Chapter 36

  Bree led Addleson toward her car. “So? Where shall we dine for lunch? McDonald’s is fast, and it’s just around the corner.”

  “McDonald’s?” He winced. “Are you in a rush to get away from me?”

  Glancing around, Bree moved close to him and pressed her lips to his. “Just the opposite. I’m looking forward to spending a lot more time with you, Mr. Governor.”

  Addleson cleared his throat, his cheeks turning red. “You know, the way you keep saying that, you almost have me convinced I’m running for that and not Mayor.”

  She winked, unlocking the car. “Give me time.”

  As she drove across the parking lot, Bree smiled at Addleson. “I really should know which way to turn, shouldn’t I? Where are we headed?”

  He leaned back in his seat. “What would you say to the Tampa Bay Yacht Club? Not for a fundraiser—just for lunch. One of my donors is Brett Masterson. His one hundred-and-fifteen-foot cruiser is anchored there this week, and he got called away to New York on business, so he offered me the use of it. We’ll have a private lunch on the water, complete with a chef and full waitstaff. Maybe watch a few dolphins jump around, or see a manatee. Sound good?”

  “Well, yes. Of course, But . . .” A twinge of fear rippled through her abdomen. She glanced at the clock, forcing her smile to stay in place.

  The yacht club is a solid twenty minutes away this time of day, even without any delays. A cruise of the bay, even on a speed boat, will take at least two hours. If he’s talking about drinks and a chef, maybe three. Rossi will be awake long before then, and he’ll start making noise.

  Why didn’t I just kill him?

  No, it’ll work. The drugs will last. You’re okay.

  “That, uh . . . sounds amazing, actually. But really, we should stay closer to the office. I—well, we—have a lot of work to do. You haven’t won the primary yet. We don’t want to jump the gun.”

  “No, but I told you, Blumenthal backing out of the debate goes a long way to sealing the deal. When you work hard to achieve a goal, you need to reward yourself. Head for the yacht club. Let me show off my connections a little bit to my new Campaign Chairperson and girlfr— uh, well . . .”

  She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. “Were you going to say girlfriend?”

  “I, uh . . .” Addleson tugged at his collar. “I don’t know. Sounds kinda silly to say it out loud, especially at my age.” His gaze met hers. “But after last night, I . . . well, I guess I thought . . .”

  A wave of satisfaction swelled inside her.

  There it is. The next step. Everything is falling into place, so don’t jeopardize the goal. Take the lunch.

  “Rex.” Bree beamed, putting her hand on his. “Any woman would be proud to have you call her your girlfriend. Especially me—Mr. Senator.”

  Planting seeds.

  Addleson laughed. “Wow, we didn’t stay in the Governor’s mansion long!”

  Suggestive psychology.

  “Because I believe in you, honey.” Bree gave his hand a squeeze. “You and I are a team—and we are going all the way.”

  The inside of Bree’s car lit up with flashing blue lights. She glanced at the rearview mirror. “Oh, are you kidding me!” A Tampa police squad car was on her rear bumper, roof lights ablaze. “Again?” Bree huffed, shaking her head. “I’ve been pulled over more times this week than I have in the last ten years!”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Addleson patted her shoulder. “Just . . . take it easy and let’s see what the officer has to say.”

  “We didn’t make it three blocks this time. It’s ridiculous.” She looked at Addleson. “I hope this doesn’t make us late for our lunch. The yacht sounded fun.”

  “Oh, no. We’ll be fine. The boat leaves when we say it does. We can be as late as we want—and I’m in no rush.”

  “Great.” She managed a thin smile. Images of Rossi spitting out the gag and screaming for help filled her head. Neighbors breaking down the doors, cops filling the condo.

  The knot in her gut churned.

>   Why didn’t I just kill the moron?

  Because I still need him. Patience. He won’t wake up. The drugs will last.

  As the officer approached the vehicle, Bree lowered the window.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” He leaned over and nodded to Addleson. “Sir.” Pointing to the rear of her car, the officer narrowed his eyes in the bright sunlight. “Ma’am, I pulled you over because you have a taillight out. Were you aware of that?”

  She checked his name badge. Officer Daly.

  “No, sir. I had no idea about a taillight. To be honest, I thought you’d say you pulled us over because we’d been drinking.”

  Daly recoiled. “Excuse me?”

  “I mean, that you’d received a report that we’d been drinking.” Bree shrugged. “Or that I had been. The driver.”

  “It happened once before, Officer. I’m Rex Addleson. Someone from the Blumenthal campaign has been calling in to the police describing this car as being driven by a drunk driver. We get pulled over right when we leave the office. We just left—it’s a few blocks from here—and we haven’t been drinking anything but orange juice this morning.”

  “That is interesting.” Daly pushed his hat back on his head. “Because we did receive that call. The make and color of the car match, and the direction you were headed. But the taillight is definitely out.” He stepped away from the vehicle. “Care to take a look?”

  Addleson unclipped his seat belt. “Sure. Let’s see.”

  Bree reached for him. “No, we don’t—” Images of Rossi flashed through her mind, kicking open the trunk and running into the street. She squeezed her eyes shut, silently cursing. “Okay.” Exiting the vehicle, she walked to the rear to join Addleson and the officer.

  “So, you don’t recall hitting anything?” Daly said. “Backing up into something, maybe?”

  “No.” Bree put her hands on her hips. “Besides, the bumper would have stopped me from hitting something, wouldn’t it? Before it smashed the taillight?”

  “Maybe.” The officer’s radio squawked. He put his hand to his shoulder microphone. “Unit five twenty-seven is code four, engaged with the vehicle and passengers. No code fifty-one. Driver is clear.” He looked at Bree. “In a fender bender, things can break in ways you wouldn’t imagine. But anyway, it’s a citation and a fine for visible white light to show from a taillight when the brakes are applied. This here’s as bright as the star on a Christmas tree.”