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

by Dan Alatorre

  The young lady took the files, scurrying away.

  As the sound of ringing phones filled the air, Jaylee rushed to keep up with her boss. “I mean why do you work the phone bank? That’s entry level. You’re the assistant campaign manager. You should be—”

  “I’m an assistant campaign manager, not the assistant campaign manager. Cicely is an important part of the team.”

  “Some team. Everybody knows who does all the work around here—and it’s not Cicely.”

  “And as far as working the phone bank goes, aren’t I showing that no job is beneath me? Leading by example?” Bree grabbed the corner of a falling banner, sticking it back in place as she continued to the front of the lobby.

  Jaylee shook her head. “You really redefine drinking the Kool Aid. At least come with us for lunch. Cicely’s scheduled The Columbia for a photo op. Jimenez Juarez, the wrestler, is going to endorse the boss. And word on the grapevine is, Rex is planning to announce the promotion of someone to Campaign Chairperson tomorrow morning.”

  “You’re supposed to refer to Mr. Juarez only as Monster Mash, his professional name. And Cicely is better at the whole photo op thing than I am,” Bree said. “She’s photogenic.”

  “Stop that. You’re pretty.”

  “I’m pretty, all right—pretty busy.” Another volunteer thrust a contract in front of Bree. She glanced at it and signed without breaking stride. “Our campaign coffers aren’t going to fill themselves.”

  “Well,” Jaylee said, “a photo op creates buzz and gets us onto the front page of the Tampa Tribute. That can generate ten times the donations you can do on the phone in an hour.”

  “Which means if I stay and work the phones, we’ll have eleven times the money.”

  Jaylee put her hand on Bree’s arm. “At least say you’ll try to come by.”

  Bree smiled. “Okay.”

  Jaylee turned her head, looking at Bree out of the corner of her eye. “Okay, but . . .”

  “Okay, I’ll try to come by.”

  “No, there’s a ‘but’ coming.” Jaylee shook her head. “You’ll come by, but only if you . . .”

  Bree headed for the front door. “But only if I get all the signed photos mailed first and help the newbies reach our midday goal.”

  “Which means you’re not coming.” Jaylee put her hands on her hips, ending the chase across the campaign headquarters. “I knew it.”

  “Pretty and smart,” Bree said over her shoulder. “No wonder you’re second assistant campaign director.”

  “I’ll bring you some paella.”

  “No paella.” Bree turned to her friend. “But one of their tomato salads would be amazing.”

  “Bree!” Jaylee said. “That doesn’t even count as lunch.”

  “Maybe not when you’re twenty-seven, Skinny Minnie.”

  Jaylee rolled her eyes. “You’re not old, honey. And you look great.”

  “Thanks. Now go eat while I take care of the whale.” She flashed a wide grin, extending her arms to the VIP. “Dr. Aumental! How good to see you. I finished the book—it was amazing! Where do you get your ideas?”

  The little man blushed, staring at the floor. “Ancient folklore, mostly. From remote places around the world.”

  “My goodness.” Bree took his arm, escorting him to a chair at the front of the bustling headquarters. “That must be hard work, researching a book while maintaining a thriving medical practice.”

  * * * * * *

  Cicely Sinclaire led a group of four young ladies and two young men toward Jaylee. Stopping at the rear of the main lobby, Cicely folded her arms across her pink cardigan sweater. “Will Ms. Barclay be joining us?”

  “No.” Jaylee sighed. “Bree’s having pizza here. Says she’s got work to do.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  Glancing at Cicely’s sweater, Jaylee turned to view Bree’s. “Are you two trying to look like twins?”

  “What?” Cicely inspected Bree’s attire. Nearly the same shade of pink, but definitely not Gucci, as Cicely’s was. She turned up her nose. “Whatever. She looks good. I look good. But Bree should be at this lunch.”

  Jaylee chuckled under her breath. “Pink must be Addleson’s favorite color.”

  Facing the troops, Cicely swept her long, well-coiffed brown hair over her shoulders. “Remember, gang, in a tree-chopping contest, the winner will always be the one who takes breaks to sharpen their axe.” Brandishing the keys to her Mercedes, Cicely headed to the back door. “I’m sure her pizza will be amazing.”

  The staffers laughed, following her out.

  * * * * * *

  Rex Addleson burst through the front doors of his campaign headquarters. “Hello, everyone!” The fit, handsome candidate waved to the two dozen volunteers at the tables.

  A man at the rear of the last table waved back.

  “Oops—a new recruit.” Addleson beamed. “Welcome aboard. What’s your name?”

  “Tom Jessup, sir.”

  “Call me Rex. And welcome aboard, T. J. Now, does anybody know where I’m supposed to be having lunch today?”

  The group laughed, but Bree knew he was only half joking. She jumped up from the phone bank, rushing toward his office. “The Columbia, sir. Cicely left with her group. Will you need an Uber?”

  Addleson wiped his brow with a handkerchief, giving her his boy-next-door smile. The dimples and thick brown hair made him appear ten years younger than his actual age of forty-five. Especially when his hair was messed up from outdoor campaign stops. “What’s an Uber say about me, Bree?”

  She shrugged. “Man of the people?”

  He stopped, facing her. “Cheap and unorganized. Which I am, but we probably shouldn’t advertise that fact.”

  “Of course.” She looked down and knitted her fingers, heat rising to her cheeks. “Well . . . I could drive you. I mean, it’s my lunch break and all.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

  “It’s no trouble. My car’s right out back.”

  “Well . . . okay, then. Thanks.” He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, looking at the massive red, white, and blue wall clock with his picture on it in the lobby. “How late am I?”

  “Oh, everyone waits for the Governor, sir.”

  He grinned. “You mean Mayor.”

  “For now, sure.” Bree put her hands behind her back, gently twisting a foot into her office carpet. “But we have bigger things in mind for down the road, don’t we?”

  Addleson dabbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “You’re the best, Barclay. So—what’s the dress code for The Columbia? Do I need a tie?”

  “No.” She looked him over. Small sweat stains marked his armpits from a morning presentation at the port, followed by a tour of a donor’s fleet of crab boats. “A clean shirt would be a good idea for the afternoon, though. I have your white button-down Oxford in my office.” She exited the room, going into her small workspace. “And that nice bolo shirt. The beige one.” Stepping behind the door, she took the shirts off the hook and ripped away the thin plastic bag covering them. “Both of these are fresh from the cleaners.”

  Addleson rubbed his chin. “Probably a bolo for The Columbia, huh?”

  “Perfect. You, uh, can change in here.” She turned her head away and put her hand on the door. “I’ll step out. I need to make a quick call—we need more yard signs, and the delivery is late.”

  “Oh, please. I’m only changing shirts.” He undid a button. “I’ll be two seconds.”

  After a second button, Addleson leaned forward and pulled the dress shirt over the top of his head. The sight of his toned arms and firm torso sent a tinge of electricity through his assistant campaign manager.

  On the other side of the glass window, the phone bank ladies watched, smiling. Bree adjusted the blinds, shutting off her co-workers’ view.

  Addleson slipped into the bolo and buttoned it up. “What do we have scheduled for after lunch?”

  Bree stepped f
orward, straightening his collar for him. “Cicely has you doing a round table with the water utility employees.”

  “Yawn.” Addleson frowned. “And then dinner with Mayor Mills and the loyal opposition?”

  “That’s tomorrow.” She plucked a piece of lint from his firm, broad shoulder. “Tonight is cocktails with Mrs. Dilger at her home, where she will be introducing you to the Orange Blossom Club, followed by an evening call session back here.”

  He looked at his reflection in her office window, running his fingers over his hair and patting it down. “I’ll have to skip the call session. I need a strategy meeting with my campaign co-chairs.”

  “Mrs. Dilger is the campaign co-chair.”

  “I’m not talking about the honorary ones. I mean the real ones—you and Cicely.” Grinning, he tugged the bottom hem of the bolo and straightened it. “We need to look at online funding trends before I meet with Michael Mills and that snake oil salesman from across the aisle.”

  “Yes, sir.” Bree picked up her keys and headed to the exit. “Now, at lunch, be sure to mention the lobby area. They finished the restoration last month.”

  “Meh. Waste of money. From the pictures in the Trib, it still looks a hundred years old.”

  “Oh.” Bree stopped. “Let me make that phone call or we’ll never get our yard signs.”

  “Okay. I’ll, uh . . .” Addleson looked around. He was in front of the men’s room. “Probably couldn’t hurt to wash my face real quick. Get some of that dust off from the port. I’ll meet you out back.”

  * * * * * *

  Bree pushed open the back door, narrowing her eyes in the bright light. Addleson followed her.

  “And if anyone asks,” she said, “our fundraising is strong. As of this morning, our average donation is a fraction under five dollars—which shows you connect with the common man—and we are ahead of our quarterly goals by more than ten percent—which shows we’re dynamic.”

  He strolled through the parking lot, smiling at her. “I like that you always say ‘we.’”

  “Well, you always say it’s a team effort.” She stopped at her BMW and put on her sunglasses. “Cicely or Jaylee will give you a ride back.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “I promised the volunteers I’d get them pizza if we beat our midday record.” Opening the driver’s door, she climbed into the silver sedan and settled into the soft leather seat. “And Jaylee is bringing me back a salad.”

  Addleson sat, reaching for his safety belt. “You’re sure you don’t want to come?”

  With a press of a button on the dashboard, Bree’s luxury sedan came to life, emitting a low, throaty hum. “Of course I do. But there are other important things to be done as well. You’ll be in good hands with Cicely and Jaylee.”

  “You already beat the midday record, didn’t you?” He cocked his head, buckling up.

  “We did, but only because Dr. Aumental came by.” Bree put the silver sedan in gear, glancing at the rearview display screen on the dashboard as she backed up. “The volunteers don’t need to know that. And I need to see if they can do it on their own.”

  “You’re amazing, Bree,” Addleson said. “Always thinking. Okay, then. I’ll see you tonight after the cocktail party at Mrs. Dilger’s.”

  “Remember . . .” Bree pulled out of the parking lot, driving into traffic. “She lost her husband recently. And their two daughters, of course.”

  “That, I do remember.” He shook his head, sighing. “Tragic. I guess we share that in common, don’t we? The loss of a spouse.” He looked at Bree. “Actually, all three of us carry that with us, I guess. You, me, and Mrs. Dilger.”

  She nodded, rolling to a stop at the traffic light. “Does it ever get any easier?”

  “It does, actually. But if you loved them, it takes time.” Addleson stared out over the hood of the BMW. “Sometimes I think that’s why I got into politics—to keep busy, so I wouldn’t think about Shayna. That big house is so . . . empty.”

  “I know what you mean.” She held the steering wheel with both hands, her voice falling to a whisper. “That’s probably why I work so many hours on the campaign. I feel like it gives me a . . . a distraction, or a goal. No—it gives me a purpose.”

  “Okay, enough commiserating.” He sat upright. “I need to be full of pep for this lunch meeting. But thanks, Bree. For everything. Seriously.” He grinned. “You’re my right hand. You know that.”

  “Thank you.” She pretended to adjust her sunglasses so she could wipe the initial traces of a tear from her eye. “That . . . that really means a lot to me.”

  * * * * * *

  The servers at The Columbia maneuvered their way through the large crowd of reporters and spectators in their lobby bar, carrying silver platters of fluted champagne glasses brimming with bubbles. The aroma of savory Spanish herbs and spices filled the air. In the corner, Jimenez “Monster Mash” Juarez preened for the cameras as he signed autographs for his adoring fans.

  Frowning, Cicely Sinclaire put down her mimosa and glared at her diamond Piaget wristwatch. “Where is he?”

  “Addleson’s late? Shocker.” Jaylee kept her voice low, so the reporters wouldn’t hear. “Are you surprised?”

  “No. I called the campaign headquarters and they said he’d already left—Bree was driving him—but they left a while ago.”

  In the crowd, a smiling man waved at Jaylee. She sipped her cocktail, waving back. “I hope nothing happened.”

  “Hmm.” Cicely sniffed. “Have you seen the news? Maybe they stopped for gas and the sniper shot her.”

  Jaylee choked on her drink. “Cicely!”

  “Oh, it’s a joke. Everyone knows she’s only sucking up to get the job of Campaign Chair.” She swept her hair over her shoulder. “But as it happens, I have my eye on that job—I’ve earned it. I’m certainly not going to let some mousey little bitch steal it away from me.”

  * * * * * *

  The light changed and Bree eased the BMW forward. Blue strobe lights immediately flashed in her rearview mirror. A Tampa PD cruiser was behind her.

  “Oops. I’d better get out of his way.” She took her foot off the gas, looking to move to the side and let the squad car pass.

  Addleson peered over his shoulder. “Where’d he come from?”

  “I guess he was behind me at the light.” Bree frowned. “He must’ve gotten an emergency while we were waiting for it to change.”

  As she eased into the next lane, the cruiser stayed on her tail.

  “Is he pulling me over?” Bree gasped, finding a gap between parked cars to pull to the curb. “I wonder what’s up?”

  Addleson checked the time on the dashboard clock. “Hope this doesn’t make me too late for the meeting.”

  Keeping his sunglasses on, the officer approached the vehicle. Bree put her window down.

  “License and registration, please, ma’am.”

  “Of course.” She opened her purse and rummaged through it.

  Taking her ID, the officer stepped away and checked it, his eyes going back and forth from the ID to her face. Bree located the car’s registration and handed it out the window.

  “Ms. Barclay,” the officer said. “This is your car?”

  Bree nodded. “That’s right.”

  He bent over, removing his sunglasses. “Ma’am, have you been drinking today?”

  “What!”

  “Any alcohol in your system?”

  “No.” Bree’s jaw dropped. She stared straight ahead, her hands on the wheel. “Why would you ask?”

  Addleson read the young man’s name badge over his breast pocket. Garrison. He smiled. “Officer Garrison, I’m Rex Addleson. I’m a candidate for Mayor.”

  “Oh, yes, sir.” The officer nodded. “I thought I recognized you from the TV ads.”

  “Thank you,” Addleson said. “Well, we’re in a bit of a rush. I have a campaign stop at The Columbia today with Jimenez Juarez, and—”

  “The wrestler? Monst
er Mash?”

  “Yeah, that’s right!” Addleson flashed another big grin. “He’s meeting me to throw me his support. Anyway, we’re kinda running a little late, so . . .”

  “Oh, no problem, sir. Everything seems to be in order.” Garrison handed Bree her items. “Here you go, ma’am.”

  Shoving them into her purse, Bree glanced at the officer. “Why did you pull me over?”

  “Funny thing.” He pushed his hat back on his head. “I don’t mind telling you—since it’s you, Mr. Addleson. We got a report that this car was driving erratically after leaving a bar.”

  “This car?” Bree gawked at the officer. “We’re coming from Mr. Addleson’s campaign headquarters.”

  “And neither of you seem intoxicated,” Garrison said. “But it was this car. Silver BMW, with this license tag, swerving all over. The caller even said they’d witnessed the driver drinking heavily and that the car would be headed east on Kennedy Boulevard—and here you are. But you don’t look drunk to me. Some sort of mistake, I suppose.”

  “It was probably reported by the other campaign,” Addleson said. “I suppose now that I’m beating them in the polls, I’ll have to expect those sort of pranks. We were just talking about how our latest shipment of yard signs hasn’t shown up yet. The same people probably called the manufacturer and cancelled the order.”

  “Could be. Well, I’m sure glad I pulled you over. It’s great to meet you in person, sir.”

  Addleson nodded. “It sure is great to meet you, too, Officer Garrison.” He extended his hand; Garrison gripped it. As they shook, Addleson did his best one-on-one schmoozing. “I hope I can count on the support of you and our other heroes in blue during the primary. But right now, we’re running late. The press is waiting at the Columbia and everything. So . . .”

  “Can’t keep Monster Mash waiting.” Garrison stepped back, waving. “Okay. Y’all take care. Drive safely.”

  Chapter 9

  Carly stood in the entrance of Deshawn Marshall’s office, the phones still buzzing with excitement down the hall. She knocked on the door frame. “Got a minute, sir?”

  “Sure. Come on in.” Deshawn stopped typing on his keyboard and got up, taking off his reading glasses as he shut his office door. “Is this my first meeting with the new precinct sergeant?”