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

by Dan Alatorre

  Chapter 5

  At the front entrance of Channel Eight studios, Carly handed her visitor’s pass to the receptionist. Nausea lingered in her abdomen.

  “Happy holidays, Detective,” the young lady said.

  “Thank you. Same to you.” Carly forced another smile and pushed through the doors, walking into the cool air outside. She squinted in the bright sunlight. Glancing up and down the street, she checked for her husband’s car and pulled her jacket tight around her. Gloom settled into her chest.

  Worst interview ever.

  She closed her eyes and put her hand to her forehead, shaking her head.

  “Detective!” A uniformed police officer waved his hand at Carly from a patrol car. “Detective Sanderson!”

  Carly faced the young man.

  “The lieutenant sent me to pick you up.” The officer opened his door and stepped out of the vehicle. “He’s been trying to reach you for a while, ma’am.”

  Carly winced.

  He saw the interviews. Geez, I did even worse than I thought.

  “I’m supposed to give you a ride to the station right away, Detective. I was told you didn’t have your car with you.”

  “That’s right.” Carly nodded. “Seems everybody provides transportation when they want to rip you apart.”

  The officer cocked his head. “What’s that, ma’am?”

  “Nothing.” She walked to the car and got in, reading the young man’s nametag.

  Officer Willis.

  Carly dug her smart phone out of her purse and slid her thumb over the screen. It remained dark. “Crap, I turned my phone off for the interview.” She frowned. “You said the lieutenant has been trying to reach me. Lieutenant Breitinger?”

  “No, ma’am. Lieutenant Davis. He and Ms. Michaels sent me.”

  Another jolt went through Carly’s insides.

  Lieutenant Davis and the head of PR. Terrific.

  Carly put her hand to her forehead again.

  The whole department must have watched from the station. Oh, am I in trouble.

  She put her hand to her abdomen. “How did Lieutenant Davis know I’d need a ride?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that, ma’am.” Officer Willis made a right turn. “I was only told you’d need a ride. But you know how Lieutenant Davis is. He always seems to know everything before it happens.”

  “Hmm.” She held the side button on her phone until it lit up. Two text messages appeared. The first was from Sergio.

  You don’t need me to wish you luck, dude. You’re awesome. You’ll make us all proud.

  She managed a smile. A warm feeling suppressed the knot in her gut.

  The next message was from her husband.

  I’m not coming to lunch today. Meeting with Carson McLain. I’m sorry.

  Dropping her hands to her lap, Carly leaned her head back and squeezed her eyes shut.

  Carson McClain.

  She faced the window as the knot in her gut returned.

  * * * * *

  At the station, Carly made her way to the elevator, the noise of an especially busy police headquarters lobby behind her. More people than normal were answering phones, and the office had a strange vibe to it. No one was making eye contact with her.

  Carly boarded the elevator, using the opportunity to square her shoulders and straighten her jacket. She pressed the button to the third floor and massaged her hands as the doors eased shut in front of her, closing out the noise and tension of the downstairs headquarters.

  When the elevator doors opened again, Lieutenant Davis was standing in the small lobby. Tall and square jawed, he was dressed in a navy blue suit with a silver tie that accented the tiny bit of gray around his temples. The suit wasn’t standard attire, but it wasn’t all that unusual, either. Meetings downtown and TV appearances sometimes required clothing other than a dress blue police uniform, and during the six weeks since Sergeant Davis had been promoted to lieutenant, he always seemed to be on TV somewhere.

  “Detective Sanderson,” he said, walking over to shake her hand. “Don Davis. I appreciate you coming so quickly.”

  His grip was firm but not too firm. His starched white shirt cuffs emerged gracefully from his suit sleeves; his nails appeared to have been recently manicured.

  The pleasant demeanor he displayed in his TV interviews was noticeably absent.

  “Yes, sir.” Carly nodded. “You sent a car.”

  “Yes, I did.” Davis pointed down the hallway. “Let’s talk in the conference room. My office is being set up for a meeting and it’s probably best if our conversation remained private.”

  She followed him down the corridor. The third floor had the same stressful vibe as the lobby. More phones were ringing nonstop, and they were being answered by people with stressed faces.

  “You may have noticed,” Davis said, moving briskly down the hallway, “the office is a little hectic, Detective.” His tone was firm and flat. Tense, bordering on angry.

  Carly’s heart sank. “Yes, sir.”

  The lieutenant stopped at a glass door and pushed it open, turning to her. His face was stern. “Coffee? Water?”

  Carly peeked inside. The conference room was dark and empty.

  The execution chamber.

  The knot in her gut swelled. “Sure.” She nodded, dropping her hands to her sides. “Water’s fine. Please.”

  Davis reached to the wall switch and snapped on the conference room lights, turning back to address a uniformed officer at a desk. “Mellish, would you bring some water for Detective Sanderson?”

  “Right away, Lieutenant.” The young officer got up from his work station.

  “And the personnel file for Detective Sanderson, please.” Davis held open the conference room door and stood to the side.

  Carly passed him, stepping toward the long table in the center of the cold room.

  “Anywhere’s fine, Detective.”

  She eased herself into a seat next to the head of the table, so the lieutenant could have the power chair. The leather was cool on the backs of her legs. Under the table, she massaged one shaking hand with the other. “I’m very sorry about the TV interview, sir. Well, interviews. They . . . seemed to have a line they wanted to push, and I—I couldn’t . . . untangle myself from it.”

  Mellish entered the room and handed the lieutenant a file folder. Davis opened it and unbuttoned his suit coat as he sat down, scanning the summary page. “Yeah. The department didn’t have our finest hour this morning.” He turned a few more pages, then glanced at his watch—but not at Carly. “I’ve asked Human Resources and Public Relations to join us. They should be here shortly.”

  Carly slid down a little in her seat.

  The whole building is on fire with complaints about my awful interviews, so he’s going to rake me over the coals to save face. He’s summoned an entire firing squad.

  “You should have prepped better,” the lieutenant said, his face rigid. “That won’t happen again. Not on my watch.” He raised his eyes to meet hers. “Which is part of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Carly squirmed. “I’m not good at the whole interview thing, sir. In fact, I suck at it.”

  Davis raised his eyebrows.

  “Pardon the expression.” She cleared her throat. “It’s . . . I get terribly nervous in a TV interview. The lights and cameras, knowing there’s a big audience watching . . . That’s more my partner’s forte—Detective Martin. He handles the spotlight better than I do.”

  “Detective Martin.” The lieutenant rubbed his chin, returning his attention to her file. “Yes, Sergio can certainly draw attention.”

  “Anyway, I know I got off track in the interviews, but . . . it’s as though they were asking the questions and putting words in my mouth for the answers. I know some of my explanations came off as less than complimentary to the department, and I’d like to apologize for that and see if there’s some way we can make a correction to the record.”

  “A correction?”
Davis sat back and folded his hands on the table, glaring at her. “Maybe you can pen an Op-Ed for the Tampa Tribute.”

  “I was caught totally off guard.” Carly pulled at her collar. “They said they had all the releases signed, and that it’d be good PR for the department, so . . .” Slipping her hands under the table again, she massaged them to stop them from shaking. “But I should’ve asked permission first.”

  Davis exhaled sharply, shutting the file folder. “Detective, would you say you like being a cop?”

  Carly’s insides jolted again. She sat up straighter. “Yes, sir. Very much so.”

  Getting up from his chair, Lieutenant Davis stepped to one of the large glass windows and twisted the valence rod. The venetian blinds cranked open, making the tall buildings of downtown Tampa visible through the slats.

  “We have a big problem here.” He slid his hands into his pockets and looked over his shoulder at Carly, scowling. “The department finds itself in a very tough spot this morning. We’ve been embarrassed to the very core, and I will not allow this to have happened without the people involved being held responsible—to the fullest extent possible.”

  Her gut wrenched.

  They’re firing me.

  Davis walked away from the window, waving his hand in a karate chop motion through the air. “It’s like the city of Tampa—and, specifically, Tampa PD—has been plagued with chaos from within! A serial killer, hired within these very walls, allowed to terrorize our streets.” He shook his head. “And now, the absolutely unforgivable insanity that unfolded this morning—completely out of control. We’re running the risk of becoming a national joke. Well,” he growled, returning to the window. “People will be held to account. Changes will be made. I’m going to see to that.” Davis folded his arms and stared toward the skyline.

  “Yes, sir. I fully understand.” Carly cast her eyes downward, clasping her hands under the table. The tidal wave was coming right at her, and there was nowhere to run. “I’d like to say again how sorry I am, and that—”

  “So, Lieutenant Breitinger is going to step down.”

  Her stomach lurched. Oh, no. They’re cleaning house.

  Davis turned to her, resting his rear on the windowsill. “The Mayor’s on the way over to make it official. Jack Breitinger will take early retirement from the force, and since we like to promote from within, we’re going to ask Deshawn Marshall to serve as acting lieutenant. Technically, that’s a placeholder position until a replacement can be found, but the sergeant is a shoo-in for the job, and I don’t see anyone else getting it. That means his current position will need to be filled—an opening at the sergeant level. An opportunity for you, Detective.”

  Carly blinked, her head buzzing. “Excuse me?”

  “We’d like you to consider taking the sergeant’s position, Carly.” Davis moved away from the window, resting his hands on the back of the chair opposite her. “Deshawn mentioned a while ago you might be interested—that you were getting some complaints on the home front about how many hours you were spending in the field. I get it. This job’s a time eater, and the family can suffer. I don’t mean to pry into your personal affairs, but a promotion might offer a nice solution. More money, steadier hours . . . and the department gets to move a rising star up the ladder.”

  “I, uh . . .” Carly shook her head. Rising star. “Wow.”

  Davis grinned. “Caught you off guard, eh?”

  “Ha. You have no idea.” She took a deep breath, the knot in her stomach settling. “The, uh . . . the sergeant was very kind to think of me in that regard. And, yes, my kids probably wouldn’t mind seeing a little more of me. My husband and I . . . it’s kind of like you said. We’ve, uh . . . been having some of those conversations.”

  “The standard fare,” Davis said. “About how they never see you, you’re married to your job—that sort of thing. It happens to every cop, eventually.” He patted the back of the chair. “Well, this might be fewer hours and a more regular workload for you. Plus, a pay raise never hurt spousal affairs.”

  “I suppose not . . .”

  “As for your TV appearances this morning, forget about it.” The lieutenant waved a hand, coming back around to the head of the table and sitting in his original seat. He put his elbows on the surface and clasped his hands. “Talk show hosts have a way of making the conversation say what they want, and if the host doesn’t do it, the producers change it in the editing room. You do an interview about the weather and they re-splice it so you’re confessing to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln. I’ve seen it happen, so forget any missteps you made on the morning shows. That’s not your fault. You’re not used to it. Like I said, someone should have prepped you better. But you’re an up-and-comer in the department, and everybody can see that. This promotion will be our opportunity to utilize your assets sooner rather than later. What do you think?”

  Her mouth hung open as she searched for words. “I suppose the right thing to say is, I’m flattered to even be considered.”

  “See?” He banged the table and pointed at her, smiling. “You’re already turning into a diplomat. That’s what we need. Now, you haven’t gotten the job yet—there are a bunch of interviews and some tests—but I think we should start the process. That’s why I asked HR to come up. Get the paperwork going.”

  “Thank you, sir. And, I know I’d be a fool to even hesitate, but . . .”

  “Then don’t hesitate.”

  “No, no, I’m not. But . . .” She chewed her lip. “It’s a big decision. Can I have a little time to think about it?”

  “Of course!” Davis rocked back in his chair, beaming. “I come on too strong sometimes and want to forge ahead with everything. Sure, talk to your husband and family. Maybe get some input about the job from your sergeant.”

  “I’d like to do that. Thank you for considering me for this opportunity, sir.”

  “Thank Deshawn. He’s the one who put your name on the list. It’ll be your job to keep it there, but confidentially, you’d be my pick, Detective.”

  Officer Mellish came into the room with a bottle of water and a coffee cup. “Sir, Ms. Canding apologizes for the delay. HR is pretty swamped right now.”

  “No problem.” Davis nodded. “What about the other item I asked about? The one down the hall.”

  “It’s wrapping up as we speak,” Mellish said. “And your next . . . appointment is in your office.”

  “Ah. Duty calls, Detective.” Standing, Davis straightened his suit coat. “Pardon my rudeness. But I think we were wrapping up anyway, weren’t we?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked to the door, adjusting his shirt cuffs. “Oh, by the way—your partner happens to be here, if you want to pop in on him.”

  Carly spun around. “Sergio’s up here?”

  “He should be finished soon.” Davis straightened his tie. “Go say hi. Then afterward, get with Canding and get started on that paperwork.”

  Carly opened her mouth to speak.

  “Kidding.” The lieutenant smiled. “Take some time, talk to your husband. Give me your answer when you’re ready to commit—to the new heights of your career.”

  The officer held the door open as the lieutenant exited. Mellish took a step into the room. “Did you want to wait here until Detective Martin is available, ma’am?”

  “Uh, yes, please.” Carly stood, lowering her voice. Her head was still humming. From thinking she was getting fired to getting offered a promotion. Quite a morning.

  The sound of phones going ballistic swept into the conference room.

  “Jordan.” Carly leaned toward Mellish, lowering her voice. “What’s going on out there? I’ve never seen the phones so crazy.”

  The officer shifted on his feet. “Well . . . while you were doing your TV interviews, we had three separate reports of shootings on Tampa’s west side—among other things.”

  “Three shootings. Wow. Yeah, that’d mess up everybody’s day. All on the west side, too?” She pushed
a lock of hair behind her ear, then glanced at Mellish. “But why is Sergio up here?”

  Tugging his collar, the young officer looked up and down the hallway. “I, uh . . . I should be able to take you to Detective Martin shortly. It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  Mellish backed away, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Carly swiped upwards on her phone as she paced around the conference table. The local news would almost certainly have updates on the shootings Mellish mentioned.

  As her screen lit up, the text message from her husband appeared again. She read it a second time and let out a long, slow sigh, then swiped upwards to close the tab.

  A news app opened with a tap from her thumb, displaying two images, one inset into the other. The larger picture showed a gas station. A white sheet covered a body on a stretcher as it was loaded into the back of an ambulance. The headline read, “West Side Shootings.” The smaller image displayed a tow truck at the edge of a pier, hoisting an orange car from the water like the proud winner of a fishing competition.

  Behind the car, wrapped in a blanket, sat Sergio.

  Carly gasped. Her eyes darted to the orange vehicle. Stretching the image on the screen, she held the phone close for a better look at the tow truck’s catch.

  That’s my car.

  The headline under the picture said, “Officer Wrecks Car Into Bay.”

  Carly stormed to the conference room door and threw it open, glaring up and down the hallway. Her gaze went to Mellish. “What room is Detective Martin in?”

  The officer jumped up from his desk, holding his hands up. “Detective, please—”

  “What room!”

  Mellish stepped back, lowering himself into his chair and pointing down the hall. “Three thirty-one.”

  * * * * *

  Sergio slumped forward in his chair, putting his elbows on his knees and folding his hands. His head hung low, the words from the lieutenant still hot on his ears.

  “A week ago, you were one of the heroes who took down the Seminole Heights serial killer, Sergio. Firing you today would give the entire department a black eye, so I can’t do that right now—but I can drop a thirty-day suspension on you. These shootings on the west side might knock your little swimming exhibition off of page one, but you’d better believe your superior officer will be going over your insubordinate actions—and the full disciplinary board will review his recommendations. Thirty days from now, you’d better be prepared for the axe to fall.”