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

by Dan Alatorre

  Mellish clutched the thick HR manual and walked toward the light.

  Carly sat in front of her computer, a lone gooseneck desk lamp illuminating her small workspace. Still in her black and white party dress, she alternated between tapping the keyboard and scribbling numbers on a pad.

  Mellish cleared his throat. “Detective?”

  Carly looked up from her work. She had bags under her eyes.

  “Ma’am, I know you don’t need my help to prepare for your panel interview,” Mellish said. “And I certainly know you’d never accept an offer to help you cheat.”

  Carly sat back in her chair, reaching for her coffee. “I hope cheating isn’t necessary. What’s on your mind?”

  Jordan lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder. “Ma’am, what if the deck were stacked against you? Or, say . . . if the questions weren’t entirely random, but carefully selected.”

  “I assumed they would be carefully selected.”

  “They have been.” He nodded. “Very carefully selected. So when you get asked the questions tomorrow, keep that in mind. I’ll stop there. Saying more wouldn’t breach my ethics. I have none. But you do.”

  Carly took a deep breath, tossing her pencil to the desk. “I think a good night’s sleep is the best thing for an interview. I’ve been here a lot of years. If I don’t know my stuff by now, I never will.”

  “A good night’s sleep wouldn’t make a difference.” Mellish frowned, taking a step toward her desk. “Decisions have been made. But . . . the best subject matter to study may be slightly different than you intended.” He lifted the thick book and set it on the edge of her desk. “Maybe a look at the Human Resources manual would be a good idea tonight. A little light reading, maybe.”

  As she stared at it, he nudged it a little closer. “Understand, Detective, me giving you this manual—and you reading it—will in no way breach your ethics. Lieutenant Davis requested I have you review it, and the book clearly states on page one that the manual should be reread from time to time, especially before interviews.”

  Carly peered at the book. It was hundreds of pages thick. “Even though HR isn’t part of tomorrow’s topics?”

  “You know us HR people,” Mellish said. “Such sticklers for stupid, inane details. But they didn’t put that on page one of the manual.” He turned to the door. “Good luck, Detective.”

  Carly rocked forward. “Wait. Why are you doing this?”

  He answered without turning around. “Doing what, ma’am?”

  “Helping me.”

  “Oh.” Mellish looked down, straightening his shirt. “I’m just doing as the lieutenant ordered. But if you consider it help . . . then I guess my reply would be this. You’re a good cop, Detective Sanderson. So was your partner, Sergio. I’m not the only one around here that thinks so, either.”

  She stared at his sagging shoulders. “Jordan . . . thank you.”

  “Thank me by kicking butt tomorrow morning—before and after your panel interview. Read the manual, ma’am.” He walked out of her office. “And start on page one.”

  Carly reached across the desk and pulled the thick book toward her, opening the cover.

  The first page read with a standard, boilerplate phrase: This manual should be reviewed periodically by all personnel to maintain a good working knowledge of all rules and procedures, especially applicants seeking promotion to higher office.

  Below it was a small sticky note, with a handwritten message.

  “Section 21.7”

  Carly flipped through the thick book until she came to the designated section. There, a single headline of an otherwise dull subtopic had been highlighted: Reporting Of Incidents To Superiors.

  She fanned through the rest of the book. Nothing else was highlighted.

  Lifting the manual onto her lap, she adjusted the desk lamp and settled in for a long night.

  * * * * *

  Bree sat in her office, her phone to her ear, making calls to her updated “whales” list. As the new volunteers—almost all female—finished cursory instructions on how to record pledges, take credit cards, and press new donors for their friends’ names and phone numbers, they trailed past Bree’s office.

  “And this is the office of our Campaign Chairperson,” the trainer said. “Coffee and sodas are over there . . .”

  Bree waved as the newest crop of free workers passed.

  A few volunteers waved back. Several asked questions of the trainer as they took seats at the call tables, obviously disappointed that the candidate had yet to make an appearance.

  They weren’t disappointed for long. Rex Addleson strolled through the front door with the frail old money man Dean Munroe trailing him, smiling and shaking the hand of everyone in attendance.

  “Thank you for coming out.” Addleson beamed the million-dollar smile. “I want to spend time with each and every one of you tonight—because somebody has to show me how these phones work! Do you dial nine for an outside line? I have no idea.”

  The volunteers laughed.

  Addleson glanced to Bree’s office, giving her a wave. “Back there, with the phone surgically attached to her ear, is the hardest working lady in Florida politics—and she’s my right arm. Our Campaign Chair has almost single-handedly taken us to the top of every poll.”

  The volunteers waved and clapped.

  Munroe threw his scarf over his shoulder, wagging a thin finger at the candidate. “I’d like to think I had something to do with it. Money talks in politics, you know. The head of finance deserves a little credit.” The old man raised his chin in mock indignation.

  “Aw, Dean, you know we all love you.” Addleson rushed over and gave his money man a bear hug.

  “Mercy!” Munroe fanned himself as Addleson walked back to the call tables. The old man blushed. “That was worth the price of admission, ladies!”

  More laughter from the volunteers.

  The front doors opened again. A delivery person from Pizza Man entered with a stack of boxes.

  Munroe sagged into a chair. “Are we buying food again? You people are killing me. Whoever ordered this, please tell me you used my coupons.”

  “These are a donation, sir.” Jeff Hathaway, owner of Pizza Man stepped into the room. “And Mr. Addleson, my friend Chico Fiero from the Dinner Network says you’re the man, so I’d like to present your campaign with a check for ten thousand dollars.”

  Munroe sat up. “Have I mentioned how much I love your food, sir?”

  “The pizza is good . . .” Chico Fiero walked in, carrying eight large carryout cartons. “But I made some spicy Thai wings and some Cajun shrimp in case anybody wanted to mix it up a little.”

  Addleson came over and put his arms around the two men as volunteers snapped pictures.

  “Are we getting this out to the press?” Munroe tugged on Jaylee’s arm. “Pictures! Lots of pictures. Everyone, post to Instant Gram!”

  Jaylee giggled. “Instagram, Dean.”

  The old man threw his hands up. “Post there, too!”

  Amid the uproar, a slender, well-coiffed brunette knocked gently on Bree’s door.

  Bree raised a finger, trying to get the owner of a south Tampa air conditioning firm to increase his spend.

  When she looked up at the woman at her office door, a jolt went through Bree’s gut.

  Donna Crenshaw.

  Bree cupped her hand over the phone, whispering. “I’ll be right out—would you mind getting the door? Thanks.” She turned her face away quickly.

  Donna pulled Bree’s door shut as she went back into the hallway.

  Holding the phone with one hand, Bree rubbed her eyes with the other.

  What is Donna Crenshaw doing here?

  A hygienist at the dental office, Donna and Bree had worked together ages ago for about six weeks.

  But that was in Boca Raton. What’s she doing here?

  She moved. People move. It’s nothing. She’s not here to start asking questions about the dentist.

&n
bsp; Is she?

  No one from her past had come back to haunt her, until now. Her heart pounding, Bree scanned the latest volunteer roster on her computer. There was no Donna Crenshaw listed.

  Then what . . .

  She re-sorted the roster by first name. A Donna Meeker appeared. A click of the mouse brought up the ID that Jaylee had scanned for the woman. It was the former workmate.

  Bree winced.

  How did I let that slide through? Oh, I was on a yacht all afternoon!

  She gripped the phone hard.

  No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

  Easy. Take it easy. Maybe she doesn’t remember you. No, she came back here for a reason. Pretend you don’t remember her. That’s a start. It’s been a few years. Maybe she’ll go for that.

  And if she doesn’t? We can’t have people remembering names and faces from the past. Asking questions . . .

  Say you remarried and changed names. That’s probably what she did, otherwise her name wouldn’t be different.

  Bree nodded. That would be a start.

  From there, play it by ear. She’s a volunteer. We don’t have to let her come back.

  No one will remember a volunteer who didn’t return after one night. It happened all the time.

  Who registered her, anyway?

  Bree clicked the mouse. The volunteer’s contact page was started by Jaylee. The “available work days and times” had been flagged in pink, indicating that the volunteer had requested a specific date to come in, and it had been approved by a senior staff member. The comments read, “Donated $$$ and requests a seat by Rex for the Thursday call session. BB.”

  Bree pounded the desk.

  You idiot! You booked her yourself!

  She ended her call and leaned over to the small window separating her office from the main room. The blinds were usually open, but when she was calling whales, she often kept them closed, for privacy. Lifting the corner of the thin aluminum slats, Bree lowered her head to the window frame and peeked out.

  Addleson and the Pizza Man from TV were taking selfies with the volunteers. Chico Fiero was making the rounds with food boxes and getting his picture snapped with everyone, too. Even Munroe was kicking his heels up and frolicking.

  You did a fine job of networking on that boat, but it allowed a potential problem through that you’ll have to deal with.

  Her gaze went to the slender brunette. Phone in hand, the problem made a call while gazing at Rex Addleson and the celebrities.

  “Where’s my Campaign Chairperson?” Addleson called to Bree from the front of the office. “Come out here. I need you to say hi to a few people.”

  Bree ran her hands over her face.

  Ohhh, I really need to stay hidden in my office for a while. Why risk an encounter with the problem?

  She picked up the handset.

  Maybe I can get on the phone again and he’ll—

  “Come on!” Addleson waved at her, smiling. “Let’s get a group photo.”

  Setting down the phone, Bree got to her feet and slowly walked out of her office.

  The room was rowdier than ever, everyone clamoring for pictures with the celebrities and trying to make phone calls over the noise. Bree sluggishly meandered to the front of the room, putting on a smile for Addleson and his new friends as photos snapped. She ran her hand over the side of her red dress, avoiding any eye contact with volunteers. She’d get back into her office and stay there with the blinds shut until the night was over. Then, she’d delete the problem from the system and not have to worry about Donna Crenshaw showing up again.

  That wouldn’t be unusual, either. Plenty of volunteers had busy schedules and were often surprised when they showed up and were expected to actually work. Others arrived at campaign headquarters, discovered that asking strangers for money over the phone wasn’t for them, and declined invitations to return. Deleting one person and blocking their information from being reinstated wouldn’t be noticed. Not in a campaign as busy as this one.

  Bree smiled for the cameras.

  She is one little problem that will go away in a few hours, nothing more. Relax. You got this.

  “Okay, everybody.” Jaylee waved her hands. “Let’s take a quick break and then hit the phones.”

  Most of the volunteers stood up, stretching or heading for the refreshment table.

  Shoulders squared, smile frozen in place, Bree bolted for her office.

  “Excuse me.” Someone tapped Bree on the shoulder.

  She stopped, turning around. Donna Crenshaw stood in front of her, staring, her hands on her hips.

  Bree’s stomach jolted again. She put a hand on the wall as adrenaline surged through her system.

  “Don’t I know you?” Donna asked.

  “Um . . .” Bree cocked her head, trying not to react. “No . . . I don’t think so.”

  Be pleasant, as if she were a total stranger. Maybe wrinkle up your forehead a bit as you pretend to try to place her face.

  Donna put a finger to her lip. “Did you go to St. Andrews High School in Boca?”

  “No, no.” Bree’s pulse pounded. “My . . . my family definitely didn’t have the money for St. Andrews. You’re thinking of somebody else.” She stepped backwards into her office, grabbing the doorknob and bringing the door forward a few inches. “But thank you for volunteering for—”

  “You look so familiar.” Donna kept staring, shaking her head. “I feel like I know you.”

  Shrugging, Bree pushed the door a little farther to being closed. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. “I guess I just have one of those faces.”

  Donna put her hand on the door, smiling. “I used to work as a hygienist for Dr. Stanley in Boca. Did we work together there?”

  “I’m sorry.” The knot in Bree’s stomach grew. She went to shut the door. “I’m really busy . . .”

  “I’ll think of it.” Donna wagged her finger cheerily as she walked away. “I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”

  “Okay. Thanks again for volunteering. Let’s get back on those phones and make some money for our guy, right?”

  She closed the door and peeked out through the blinds. Donna went back to the call table.

  Bree put her hands to the front of her red dress as she collapsed behind her desk.

  Oh, what do we do about that? What do we do?

  She stared at the blinds. With them shut, no one could see in or out.

  Relax. She thinks she knows you. She’ll get busy and forget all about it. Stay out of sight for a few hours and you’re home free.

  Leaning over, Bree lifted the corner of the blinds again. Donna chatted with another woman.

  But what if she does remember? What if she figures out that we did work at the dentist’s office together? What then?

  In the lobby, Donna grinned and gestured in Bree’s direction. The other woman glanced toward Bree’s office as they spoke.

  Why am I so nervous? This is not like me. But I’ve never been this close before.

  She’s a problem. Deal with it.

  Think. There’s a way to get it all handled. You’ve been in tougher situations, like at Ft. Brannon. A few forged records, a misplaced file . . . after you got the base commander into the bedroom when his wife was out of town, then threatened to go to the general, the rest all fell into place and it all worked out fine. You were off the hook there, and you’ll be off the hook here. Adapt and overcome, but stick to the plan.

  Problems don’t go away by themselves. We just have to look for an opportunity to address the challenge. We have come too far to leave anything to chance. We’re too close. Too close.

  An opportunity always presents itself to the prepared.

  Think.

  Donna dug in her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She spoke to the other woman and gestured to the front door. The other woman shook her head and picked up a phone.

  As Donna walked toward the exit with her cigarettes, Bree lowered the blinds and sat back in her chair.


  An opportunity always presents itself to the prepared.

  Bree smiled. “I think an opportunity just presented itself.”

  Chapter 42

  Donna stood alone on the concrete walk that hugged the front of the little building that served as the campaign headquarters of Addleson For Mayor. A chilly wind carried the smoke from her lips as she inspected the glowing red tip of her cigarette.

  Wearing a long, white jacket and faded jeans, Bree rounded the corner from the back parking lot. “Aren’t you cold?” She wrapped her arms around herself.

  Donna looked over. “Freezing. I didn’t realize it had gotten so windy.”

  “It’s that time of year. Once the sun goes down, the leather gloves come out.” Bree walked up to Donna.

  “Did you change clothes?” Donna exhaled a stream of smoke. “Weren’t you in a red dress a moment ago?”

  “Oh, I keep jeans and flats in the trunk of my car. A t-shirt . . . I hate all that formal stuff I have to wear to the campaign events. I can’t get out of it quick enough.” She looked around, lowering her voice. “Hey, I’m, uh, sorry . . . about earlier. You did recognize me.”

  “I thought so!” Donna beamed. “Where do we—”

  “Boca,” Bree said. “The dentist’s office.”

  “That’s right!” Donna’s face lit up. “Marla Palmer. I knew I recognized you.”

  Bree winced—effectively, she thought, from Donna’s reaction.

  Time to sell the act.

  “I . . .” Bree looked down. “I don’t go by that name anymore. I was in a bad relationship, and there was a lot of abuse. Restraining orders, lawyers—so when I remarried, I took his name and changed my first name to my middle name. I kinda try to stay incognito now when I meet someone from . . . that other life. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, no, please don’t worry about it.” Donna gasped, putting a hand to her chest. “I had no idea. Honey, I did the same thing—well, I changed my last name when I married, I mean. I didn’t have any—”

  “You know, I’d kill for one of those.” Bree eyed Donna’s cigarette, pulling on a leather glove.