by Dan Alatorre
Addleson put his finger to the broken red plastic. “It’s an unusual shape. Round, like something poked into it.”
“Oh, glass and plastic can break in any weird shape.” Daly pulled out his citation book. “But, you folks don’t appear to have been drinking, so I’ll write you up a ‘fix-it ticket.’ That gives you sixty days to have the taillight repaired without incurring the fine.” He wrote out the warning. “Keep this on you. If another officer pulls you over before you get it fixed, show them this and you’ll avoid another citation.”
“Yes, sir, Officer Daly.” Bree took the ticket. “Thank you for the warning.”
“Yes, ma’am. Y’all have a nice day, now. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
Bree settled in behind the steering wheel of the BMW. As Addleson got into the car and reached for his seat belt, she turned to him.
So far, so good. Time to play the next card.
“Can I ask you for a favor?” Bree asked. “You said we could go to lunch late. Can we go back to the office for a second? I know I didn’t have a broken taillight this morning. I’m wondering if it happened at the office.”
“And if it did?”
“I don’t think it was an accident.” Bree shook her head, frowning. “A broken taillight and driving drunk? That is not a coincidence. But who even knew we were doing this today? I didn’t know we were going to the yacht club. I’m sure you didn’t run it by the Blumenthal campaign, so it couldn’t have been them.”
“I only mentioned it to . . . Cicely.” Addleson put his elbow on the armrest and rubbed his chin. “What are you thinking?”
“Just—I have a hunch.” Bree started the car and put it in gear. “Please? Do you mind? We’re right around the corner. Can we go back and check the parking lot?”
“Sure,” he said. “But for what?”
Bree spun the wheel, turning the car around. “The rest of my taillight.”
* * * * *
Lifting a piece of red plastic from the asphalt, Addleson held it to Bree’s broken taillight. “It fits perfectly. Like a missing puzzle piece. There’s nothing nearby that could have done this. Not from where the pieces fell.” He looked at Bree. “So, it was one of our people?”
“Not one of them. Cicely. Who else knew when we’d be going to lunch, or where? Munroe? He loves me. Jaylee? The volunteers? I hired most of them and buy them pizza three times a week. No, it was her. Cicely. She’s jealous over losing the job to me. She never liked me.” Putting her hands on her hips, Bree lowered her head. “What a cheap stunt.”
Don’t play it too angry. Be more hurt. Disappointed.
“Okay, you may be right.” Addleson stood. “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll have a chat with her. It’s sad, though. To act this way. I thought she’d be more professional. This is high school stuff.”
“Oh, she never liked me.” Bree looked away. “But I thought—well, it just hurts that she acted so gracious last night after dinner, and this morning at the meeting. But I guess it was all an act. To see this . . .” She pointed at the taillight. “Well, it just shows me. People like me, who’ve worked our way up . . . I shouldn’t have assumed I’d ever be accepted into that crowd. Some people have their circles, you know? I’m not a yacht club member, so . . .”
“No, maybe not. But I am.” Addleson folded his arms across his chest. “And I might have a little bit of money and a nice house now, but I worked my way up, too. My dad was a plumber for Ready Pipe. I started as a plumber’s assistant, put myself through college by going to school nights and weekends, and built a company with over a hundred employees before I branched into construction and started building commercially. I—well, you know my story. You’ve heard it a thousand times on the campaign trail.” He lowered his head, waving the broken piece of red plastic. “But I expected more out of Cicely. It might be best for her to leave the campaign if she can’t act like a professional.”
Bree tingled inside.
There it is. The next step in the plan, solidified like concrete. The last possible competitor, eliminated.
“No, I’ll deal with it.” She kept a straight face, jumping up and down inside. “I’m Campaign Chair now. It’s my responsibility. But—it’s still your campaign, Rex. What would you recommend?”
He stroked his chin. “If you think we should cut her loose, I’ll back you up a hundred percent. Everyone knows who does all the heavy lifting around here. It’s not her.”
“I’ll call her tonight after everyone’s gone home, so she’s not embarrassed.” And can’t cause a scene in front of my staff. “She can just say she decided it would split loyalties among the team to stay after I got promoted, but that she’ll still support us. That sort of thing.”
“That sounds perfect.” Addleson smiled at her. “You’ve already grown into the role.”
“Well.” Bree folded her arms the way he did, mirroring him. “An attack on the Campaign Chair is an attack on the campaign. I have to step up for my guy.”
“Sounds good.” He checked his watch. “Now, let’s see if Masterson’s boat will still serve us lunch.”
* * * * *
The waters of the Tampa Bay Yacht Club were filled with bright white boats and tall white sails. Watercraft of all kinds resided there—especially in the winter season—as long as they met one requirement. The owner had to be filthy rich, well connected, or both. Many a public servant was offered a membership upon taking office, only to have it revoked when they didn’t get reelected.
The massive glass windows from the second floor of the club lounge overlooked the bay in spectacular fashion. Giant white floating palaces spanned the horizon, parked edge to edge. As Addleson walked to the Thunder, Brett Masterson’s three-story, floating mini-hotel, he waved to a man in a crisp white uniform.
“Is that the captain?” Bree asked.
“That’s the dockmaster, Mr. Seagram. He runs this three-ring flotilla. Let me go say hi. Our ride is right there.” Addleson pointed to the impossibly white, pointy tip of a huge yacht. It was sleek and beautiful, like a cruise liner had gone on a diet to fit into its size zero wedding dress.
Bree took her phone out of her purse and snapped a picture.
“Ma’am, please come aboard.” A young man in a white, short-sleeved uniform extended his hand. “I’m Curio. First mate on the Thunder.” The metal gangway from the dock to the main deck was sturdy and short, but Curio acted as if the ship was rocking in a gale. She crossed easily. “More than one pretty lady has taken a tumble boarding us,” he said. “Usually after a drink, but why take chances?”
Bree beamed.
I like him already. Why take chances, indeed?
Addleson joined them a moment later, with the captain. “I’m Rugersson, miss,” the captain said. His words were thick with a Norwegian accent. “We have eight crew aboard today, and three servers for the chef. Perhaps you know him—Chico Fiero, from the television.”
“Chico Fiero!” Bree clasped her hands to her chest, nearly dropping her phone. “Oh, I’ve seen his show! This is crazy. He’s here to cook for us?”
“Technically, I’m a guest of Brett Masterson’s.” Fiero walked toward them, wearing his trademark sunglasses and Hawaiian shirt. His spiky hair was tipped in yellow and red, and he had a bottle of champagne in his hand. A petite brunette in a short-sleeved uniform followed him, with a silver tray and several glasses. “We were on our way to the Keys for some fishing,” Fiero said, “but he blew me off to go to New York. Now, I’m left with all these amazing lobsters Masterson flew in from Maine, that I’ll have to cook for someone. Any takers?”
The server poured Fiero, Bree and Rex a glass of bubbly before slipping the bottle into an ice bucket in the center of the deck and disappearing around a corner on the massive, shiny, white structure. Chico told them about several sports stars and celebrities who were to join him and Masterson on their fishing trip to the Keys—and who may or may not still show up.
Holding up his glass,
he toasted the couple. “But for now, it’s just you two, so I hope you’re hungry. I’m off to the galley to grill up some lobster sliders to go with this Perrier Jouet. There’s a smoked redfish appetizer over on the fore deck table, and some Almas caviar and Avandale leeks with sardines in white wine sauce. Help yourselves while I get busy down below.”
Addleson rested against the thick, white railing, the bay breeze lifting his hair.
Phone in hand, Bree went to his side and snuggled up. He put his arm around her.
“Rex, this is amazing.”
“You get used to it pretty fast.” He took a sip of his champagne. “Masterson sure knows how to have fun.”
“Mr. Addleson, sir?” The captain called down from the upper deck. “We’re ready to depart. With your permission?”
“Aye, aye, Mr. Rugersson.” Rex raised his glass. “Cast off. Full steam ahead.”
“Very good, sir.” The captain nodded.
“Bree, let’s enjoy the view.” He lifted his arm and turned around. The Tampa skyline rose tall over the flat blue water, shimmering in the midday sun.
She hugged him, watching the skyscrapers move along the front of the deck. “It’s . . . overwhelming.”
He gazed into her eyes. “So are you, Ms. Barclay.”
As she kissed him, the images of Rossi in the trunk, his dead boss, innocent Cicely causing a scene as she got fired, and each and every one of the victims that exploded in a violent spray of red and dropped to the ground in her crosshairs—it all faded from memory. The rush it gave her seemed so far away now. Like it existed in a different life. Someone else’s life.
And it does. Marla Palmer will deal with all of that soon enough.
Even if Rossi woke up, he was bound and gagged. He couldn’t get out of the trunk, so he couldn’t cause a problem.
Bree slid her fingers up Addleson’s neck and into his hair, pulling him closer and kissing him deeply.
Because Bree Barclay is an amazing, smart, professional woman who is moving up in the world. All that matters is this moment. Sealing the deal, so I can take the next step.
Addleson’s lips moved down her chin and along the base of her throat.
Her insides tingled, the ants crawling under her skin and up her spine. The way they did when a victim was in her crosshairs.
Moaning softly, Bree held her phone up behind his back and glanced at the time.
Her stomach lurched. It had already been over an hour, and they hadn’t even left the dock.
Rossi wouldn’t stay in that trunk forever. Was there a release latch inside the trunk? What would he do if he got out?
Her heart racing, she forced down the knot in her stomach.
Relax. Deep breaths. This is part of the plan, too. Focus. Addleson is no dentist. He’s no half-assed government contractor psychiatrist. Look at this yacht. Addleson has the connections to go all the way.
Seal the deal.
And then get back to the condo as fast as you can.
Rossi . . . isn’t an asset anymore.
Chapter 37
Lieutenant Davis straightened his tie, beaming at the large crowd of reporters in the police department lobby. His update on the sniper had been powerful and filled with . . . him. “Now, I’d like the lead investigator, Detective Carly Sanderson, to make a few remarks about the case.”
Deshawn leaned over to her, whispering. “I thought both of us were the leads on this.”
Straightening her index cards, she glanced at him. “Wanna give my speech?”
“Nope.”
“Crap. Then I guess I have to.”
As Davis stepped away from the podium, Carly approached. She lowered the microphone and stared out at the reporters. “I’m Detective Carly Sanderson.” She flinched. He just said that. Heat rose to her cheeks.
Another flop interview, coming up. Get it together.
She straightened her cards again, her fingers trembling. “I’m, uh . . . one of the leads on this investigation.” The reporters stared at her. She tapped the index cards on the podium, glancing at the notes she’d filled them with. “I’d like to take a moment to appeal to the sniper directly.”
Clearing her throat, Carly scanned the atrium. It was wall-to-wall reporters. Behind them, a lone camera had been mounted on a tripod. Its dark, shiny lens was pointed at her. Carly’s pulse throbbed. Three million people around the Tampa Bay area might be watching, or would tonight when they got off work.
But this is a message to one person.
Resting her notes on the podium, she tried to keep her quivering hands out of the view of the reporters.
Taking a deep breath, she looked at the opening line on the first index card.
“To, uh . . . to our sniper, I’d like to say this.” She cleared her throat and read the next line silently, then looked out over the reporters. “You have sent a very powerful message to this community. You’ve created a lot of fear, and you’ve inflicted a lot of pain. It’s my belief that you are in pain as well.”
She considered her tone and pace, trying for the right balance of empathy without sounding weak. “Please, talk to us. We will listen. I will listen.”
The words were correct, but the tone was flat. Unemotional.
Unconvincing.
There were no more words on her handwritten cards. The brief speech was over.
Her shoulders slumped.
That didn’t convince anyone of anything.
Lieutenant Davis walked toward her. She shifted on her feet, staring at the camera’s unblinking eye.
If there’s anything else you want to say, do it now—before another innocent victim has to die.
Like that young mother, when she was vacuuming her car . . .
What if it were your children getting the news her kids got that day?
A lump welled in her throat, tears coming to her eyes.
Carly looked into the camera. For the first time, it seemed to almost have a face. It was a sad eye, wanting to be talked to. A face of loneliness and solitude, rejection and embarrassment.
She blinked a few times to clear her eyes, addressing the solitary lens as if it were the only other thing on earth.
“I have children.” Saying it aloud, emotion swelled inside her. “I’d hate for them to suddenly learn their mother was never coming home again. But you did that to a family.” She picked up the cards and set them down again, shaking her head. “You destroyed the lives of little children . . . in a way you can never correct. And as a result, we—the society you so obviously despise—” She closed her eyes, imagining the kind of horrid, humiliating life that caused, or forced, the sniper to end up at this point. The hollow, dark loneliness filled her. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her chin. “We now have to hunt you down like an animal, when you could be so much more than that.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “And you will probably die as a result. Your death will be terrible. So terrible.”
The room was silent, every eye on her. Lieutenant Davis stood to the side with his arms folded, his gaze fixed on his detective.
Carly looked directly into the camera. “Or you can stop.”
The shiny, unblinking eye of the camera stared back at her.
“It can be better. You can be better. You have the power to stop what you’re doing.”
The room was silent.
Gathering up her index cards, Carly walked back to her chair and sat down.
Lieutenant Davis remained frozen in place.
Her hands folded neatly in her lap, Carly stared down in silence. Deshawn reached over and patted her knee, but said nothing.
There were no more words to be said.
The clapping started somewhere in the back. Maybe a reporter, maybe a stray police officer who’d worked a long shift and was fueling up for another. It didn’t matter. The applause swept through the group and grew louder, rolling like thunder and filling the atrium.
Dr. Stevens walked over to Carly as the clapping continued. The doctor looked at the det
ective, then smiled and threw her arms around her. “That . . . was brilliant!”
Davis slowly returned to the microphone. He held his hands up until the applause died down.
“Thank you,” he said. “That, uh, concludes our . . . update.” He stepped away, then turned and went back. “Our ‘working Christmas party’ starts at seven. It’s a . . . a working . . . party . . .”
No one was listening. Every eye was on Carly, snapping pictures and calling out questions, requesting interviews.
She stood, gazing at the crowd, her hands at her sides.
Davis turned off his microphone and walked away.
* * * * *
Deshawn and Dr. Stevens stayed with Carly until the last questions from the reporters had been answered, then they walked with her to the elevator.
As the doors slid closed, Deshawn turned to her, grinning. “What the heck was that!”
“Detective you were brilliant,” Dr. Stevens said. “Brilliant! The empathy, the emotion . . . and the pressure! Absolutely fantastic.”
Carly massaged her hands. “What do you think the killer will do now?”
“I don’t know. But something.” The doctor beamed. “Man, woman or child, there’s no way our sniper doesn’t end up seeing your speech. You were absolutely marvelous. We will definitely get a reaction—a big one—and we will get it soon.”
Carly winced, staring at the elevator doors. Then let’s hope it’s a good reaction.
* * * * *
After a shower, Sergio got dressed in his living room—Abbie had taken over the bedroom, the bathroom, and part of the kitchen.
Dressed in his one suit, he sat on the sofa, flipping through the news channels for updates on the sniper story. Beside him on the cushion sat a legal pad of notes Abbie had written down for him. He sipped a can of Coke and set it on the coffee table.
Abbie’s voice came from behind the closed bedroom door. “Are you going over my instructions?”