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

by Dan Alatorre

  “Could be. I put my name in the hat a minute ago.” Carly sat, crossing her legs at the ankles. “I can’t believe Breitinger’s being forced out.”

  “It’s crazy, but I guess there had to be repercussions—the department transferred in a serial killer. For something like that, heads are gonna roll. Rollins in HR got whacked. A few others. It was coming, but it’s ugly to see.” The sergeant took a seat. “The rest of us need to keep our heads down and work hard or the axe will find our necks, too. Especially after these shootings we’ve had today. But . . .” He placed his glasses on a stack of papers by his computer. “You never like to get an opportunity because a friend and mentor got shoved to the exit, you know? But I guess I shouldn’t be unhappy that a promotion exists for me now—and for you.”

  “Yeah . . .” Carly patted the arms of the chair. “It’s hard to know how to feel. It’s an amazing opportunity, and Lieutenant Davis is pulling for me. I told him I wanted to go for it, and I really do. I think in the long run, it’s best for me and my family.”

  “Good.” Deshawn grinned. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Well, I don’t have the job yet.”

  “You do as far as I’m concerned.” The sergeant tapped the desk with his index finger. “And that means we need to start getting you used to some of the ins and outs of the position. Like reading case files that other detectives are putting together, instead of your own. Deciphering the hieroglyphics that pass as handwriting on field notes for some of our uniformed officers.” He set a large brown file on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “This is some preliminary stuff from today’s shooting at the gas station in Town-N-Country. You’ll be the lead investigator on it, but right now you’re out of the loop—like a sergeant would be when the case starts. Without looking at the file, what would be the steps we need to be working on?”

  “Well . . .” Carly eyed the thick folder. A few hours had passed since the shooting had been reported, so the responding officers’ reports would have been collected by now, as well as some follow-ups by the investigating officers. Maybe some witness interviews—but the news hadn’t reported much in the way of witnesses, which was odd in its own right. She sat upright, looking at Deshawn. “Assuming the case detectives have assigned field officers to do interviews for witnesses in the area, and sent a request for ballistics to run the bullets through the computer to look for a match, we ought to contact the detectives on this morning’s other two shootings to eliminate the possibility of this being done by the same person or persons.”

  “Good. Here you go.” He set two other thick files on his desk. “What else?”

  “Three shootings in one day would make me think it could be some sort of gang initiation, but gangs prefer the cover of darkness. They don’t usually operate in the morning.”

  “That’s still worth checking out,” the sergeant said. “Newbies seeking initiation into a gang won’t be keeping gang-time hours yet.”

  Carly brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. Gang initiates are getting younger and younger. Grade schoolers were recruited as early as nine and ten years old. The Tampa city council had assembled a task force to look into that a while ago . . .

  “We should cross check for truant kids, then,” she said. “Especially the habitual ones. Schools haven’t started their Christmas break yet.” Carly chewed her lip. “Gangs tend to be territorial, and they stay close to home, so the schools nearest to the shootings would warrant a visit. Talk to some teachers. They’ll know which kids skip a lot and they might have a feel for which troublemakers are ripe for recruiting into gangs. I guess that means a call to the principal, to get permission . . .”

  “What about drugs?”

  “It’s unlikely a morning shooting would have a drug connection, but we’ll certainly check it out. Meanwhile, we need to make sure the families have been notified so the news isn’t how they learn their loved ones were killed.” She peeked at the wall clock next to the sergeant’s bulletin board. “Tomorrow’s duty roster will be posted soon. We need to pull it and see what personnel we might need to move over to the investigations. Then, we can—”

  “You keep saying ‘we.’” Deshawn tilted his head back, peering down his nose at Carly.

  She nodded slowly, looking away. “Yeah, I do. Force of habit after four years.”

  “There’s no Sergio on this one, Carly.”

  “No . . . not on this one.”

  “But everything you’ve said sounds like a good start.” Deshawn picked up a cardboard box, standing to load the three case files into it. “And since this will be a lot of material, you’re going to need some help.”

  “Oh, I can manage.” Carly stood. “I’ll call Mom and tell her to pick up the boys because I’m working late again. I’ll start reading these now, and I can finish getting caught up tonight at home.”

  Deshawn put his hands on the box, shaking his head. “You’re thinking like a detective. Think like a sergeant.”

  Dropping her hands to her sides, Carly stared at the thick files. Three cases. Each could go off in ten different directions. One person can’t investigate all that; things would get missed. Possibly, important things.

  She shifted her weight on her feet. “I might be able to read everything and get caught up, but it would be better to share the workload—kick ideas around with others, test theories.” Her gaze lingered on the files. “Two pairs of eyes always catch more . . .”

  “Right.” Deshawn moved behind his desk and sat, sliding his reading glasses over his nose. “You start with the preliminary findings reports, then think about what the assignments should be. You know most of the officers. Assign people who can handle what you’ll be giving them. But as an acting sergeant, stuff will be coming in all day with your name on it—emails, phone calls—but you’re not working all three cases, you’re working one and being read into the other two. If it gets to be about six p.m., just take the files home and finish reading them there. Remember—you need to contact the duty officer tonight by ten. I’ll let her know to expect your call.” He glanced at Carly. “I realize you’re in some awkward territory for the next thirty days, operating without a partner while we add to your workload. But that’s not your fault—Sergio got himself suspended. You didn’t do that.”

  She looked down. “I know.”

  “Hey, you feel bad about it. Of course you do. So do I. We’re human. And guess what? The higher-ups know his suspension is an added burden for you right now, but here you are. Consider it a test. You wanted a shot at making sergeant. You got it. The chance to have more time with your boys and Kyle is in your reach, Carly. This case won’t secure the promotion for you, but messing it up will definitely distance you from the opportunity.” Deshawn lowered his voice, patting the stack of brown files in the box. “Trust your gut. You’ll be fine.”

  Carly winced, clearing her throat.

  My gut hasn’t been my strongest asset lately.

  “I should, uh . . . delegate some of this,” she said. “Share it with another investigator. A detective.”

  “Well, we’re a little short of those right now, since we’ve got a crazed sniper popping civilians all over town, but . . .” Deshawn stepped around the desk to his bulletin board. Colored note cards were pinned there, in columns. “We might be able to arrange a plainclothes officer to work with you. One who’s got experience on the street and wants to make detective. How’d that be?”

  “Okay.” Carly scanned the colored cards. “Did you have anyone in mind?”

  “Maybe. What about Mark Harriman?” Deshawn folded his arms and faced her. “He works hard, and he helped you and Sergio on the Seminole Heights serial killer case. And he’s almost as ambitious as you are.”

  “Harriman’s a good choice.” She stood, lifting the box. “Looks like I’ve got some reading to do until my . . . my temporary partner gets here.”

  “Speaking of partners—how did Sergio take it when you told him you were going for the promotion?”


  “I . . .” She set the box on her chair. “I haven’t told him yet. I wasn’t sure how. I mean, he’ll be happy for me, but I know he’ll wonder . . . I didn’t want it to seem—”

  “Like a reaction to him putting your car in the bay.”

  Carly nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Is it?” The sergeant lifted his chin.

  “Sergio is . . . he’s . . .” She swallowed hard, peering out the window. “Sergio’s been a great partner. At times, he is absolutely the best cop I’ve ever seen. He’s gutsy, he’s got great instincts—I admire that about him. Then he does some boneheaded thing like he did this morning, and . . . I know this suspension, that he did it to himself. But . . . we’re close. He’s like a best friend and a confidant, a loyal, smart, funny guy . . . He’s always been there for me, and . . .” She huffed, her mouth hanging open. “Sarge, I know he broke protocol, but do you think they’d really fire him?”

  “Depends on what the review board says. Right now, it doesn’t look good for him. How are you holding up about it? Having second thoughts about going for the promotion?”

  “No. But it . . . it hurts to see a friend getting hung out to dry.”

  “Partners become like family,” Deshawn said. “We spend a lot more time with our work mates than we do our real families.”

  Carly looked down, sliding a finger across the top edge of the cardboard box. “My dad used to say, ‘Nobody fights like family.’ I never saw my dad and mom fight.” A short laugh escaped her lips. “Sergio and I have had a few doozies, though.”

  “Well, whatever happens, I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Deshawn said. “He’s a survivor. He might take the opportunity to straighten up.” He bent over and picked up the lid for the file box, handing it to her.

  She put the cardboard lid on the box and pressed it into place. “He loves being a cop. If he gets fired, he’ll be devastated.”

  “Yeah, he will. He’s got a lot on the line. Possibly losing his job, and losing you as his partner when you get promoted. You know, if it’ll help your situation, I could tell him. I could accidentally let it slip about you putting in for sergeant.”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll tell him.” Her eyes stayed on the box. “It needs to come from me.”

  Chapter 10

  The woman pushed open the door at The Sports Bank, the chilly night air following her as she stepped inside. The bar was warm and fairly empty, with a thick haze of smoke covering the ceiling. Rows of TVs hung from the walls, displaying various professional sports games, along with a few horse tracks and a Las Vegas poker game. Patrons in dark corners hovered over their drinks, watching their respective game or race carefully. In the far corner, a faded plastic Santa held up a beer, smiling and waving his mechanical hand to the bar’s occupants.

  As the woman stood inside the entrance, more than a few eyes fell on her. She raised her chin and scanned the room.

  An attractive blond man sat at the bar. He held a betting newspaper, eyeing the basketball game on the TV in front of the bar’s massive, holly-trimmed mirror. His loose t-shirt and faded jeans still managed to show off his well-toned physique.

  Tugging down on the front hem of her North Face jacket, she swept a curly brown strand of hair from her cheek and sauntered toward him. “Hey, hot stuff. I thought I’d find you here.”

  The man at the bar set down the daily odds sheet and turned to her. “Marla Palmer. Wow, bring it in.” He stood and gave her a hug. “Long time. You changed your hair. It’s darker. And curly. I like it.”

  “Yeah. So—how you doing?” Marla slid onto the stool next to him and rested her elbow on the bar. “Anything you wanna tell me, Rossi?”

  “About what?” He waved to the bartender. “Tio, a drink for my friend, please.” Rossi faced Marla. “What are you having?”

  Her eyes stayed on his. “Would a place like this serve Stella on draft?”

  “It would.”

  The bartender stepped over to them. Flashing a dazzling grin at Marla, the handsome blond man ordered. “Two Stella drafts, Tio. Thanks.”

  When the bartender moved away, Marla leaned close to her friend and lowered her voice. “Come on, Rossi. You know why I’m here. The news. The big story had a familiar sound to it, the way it all went down.”

  He folded his newspaper and set it aside, laying a pen on top of it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Marla looked around. “The shootings,” she whispered. “Three people were killed this morning, all shot by a sniper. It’s been wall-to-wall coverage all day.” She peered at the TV screen over the mirror. “Well, everywhere except this dive, I guess. The sniper did a bunch of hit and runs. One shot, one victim.” She sat upright on her stool. “Don’t pretend you don’t know about it.”

  “I don’t.” Rossi frowned. “I was out all day, hiking. Then I grabbed a nap and took a shower—and then I came here.” He picked up the pen and lined it up straighter on the newspaper, then nudged the edge of the newspaper a few times until its length was perfectly perpendicular to the long countertop of the bar. “Bad luck for the victims, though.”

  Tio returned with their drinks. As he set the two foamy drafts on paper coasters, Marla scanned the room again. A cigarette butt dangled from the lip of a wrinkly-faced woman in the corner, puffing away as she repeatedly pressed the buttons on some sort of video slot machine. No one in The Sports Bank seemed to be paying any attention to Rossi; a few of the less subtle male customers were still paying attention to Marla.

  After the bartender moved away, she took a sip of her beer and set the glass down. Rossi folded his arms and rested his elbows on the countertop, slowly turning his drink on its coaster.

  “You know,” Marla said. “There’s a style attached to shootings like this. A kind of signature. If I can recognize it, others will. Come with me and we can talk about it. The shootings.”

  Rossi’s gaze stayed on his coaster. “What for?”

  “Because I know your style!” she hissed. “I’d never rat you out, but you might wanna get out of the public eye for a while and lay low until we can get you some cover.” She took a deep breath and looked around the bar again. “You sure can’t be here.” Sliding off her stool, she gently placed a hand on Rossi’s arm. “Come with me. Let’s get out of here. We can drink at my place.”

  “No need.” He pulled away, his hand trembling. “I told you, I didn’t do anything like that. I was hiking.”

  “And you took a nap. Yeah, you mentioned that. Nice story.”

  “Listen.” Rossi’s voice wavered. “I never—”

  “I know, I know. You never.” Marla narrowed her eyes. “Not at Ft. Brannon and definitely not in Atlanta. Look, I’m your friend, but I know what I know. We both do. We can go somewhere quiet and . . . and you can tell me what happened. I think—you’ve been quiet for such a long time, so I thought you’d kicked it.” She sighed. “We can get you an appointment to see the shrink at the VA. What was her name?”

  “No.” Rossi recoiled. “Not Masterson!” He looked away, bringing his arms in close to his chest. “I’m not ever talking to that . . . that witch again.”

  “Okay, okay, not her. Someone else.” She softened her tone. “Or just me. What about that?” She reached out and ran a finger along the hair over his ear. “How’d that be? Come talk to me about it. You’ll feel better. You always feel better after you get something off your chest, right?”

  He looked away, rolling his shoulders and wiping his hands on his thighs. “I . . . I don’t know. I was feeling good when I came in here, but now I feel a little empty inside.”

  “I’ll help you.” Her voice was soft in his ear, her full lips inches from his cheek. “Let me help you.”

  She put her hand on his arm again. He was trembling.

  Taking her car keys from her pocket, she gently eased him up from his stool. “You can trust me. You know that.” Marla pulled a few bills from her pocket and set them on the bar. “Let’s get out of here.”


  She guided her silent friend outside, across the chilly parking lot and to her brown Buick. As she drove, she slid her finger over the screen of her phone and managed to open a browser to the local news. The sniper story was front and center.

  She started the video and handed Rossi the phone. Its screen illuminated his side of the car, casting Rossi in a dim, blue-white glow. Outside, silhouettes of small houses and big trees went by.

  After viewing a few versions of the story, Rossi’s face was drawn and still. His eyes stayed on the phone long after the last video stopped playing.

  Marla kept her voice soft. “Did you use tarot?” She shifted in her seat, her gaze moving from the road to Rossi’s vacant eyes. “The cops aren’t saying, but I’m just asking you. Will they find tarot cards at the scenes?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” Rossi shook his head and stared out the window. “I’m telling you, Marla, I didn’t—I couldn’t . . .” His voice broke. “These people are strangers to me. I don’t know any of them.” He turned to her with tears welling in his eyes, his voice a whisper. “Why would I attack strangers?”

  She took his hand and held it. “I know what I know, baby. At Ft. Brannon, you weren’t friends with those ROTC trainees. You just threw a tear gas grenade into their tent. They were strangers.”

  “That—that was different.” He sniffled. “I—I . . . I needed help. Back then, I needed help. But I’m okay now.”

  “Shh.” She ran her thumb over the top of his quivering hand. “Such a beautiful boy with such a messed-up head.” She squeezed his fingers. “Look at me. I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

  He looked down, picking at his nails. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  “Where were you today?” She eased her foot off the gas pedal, braking gently as they approached a traffic light. When the car stopped, she glanced at him. “This morning, between eight and eleven?”

  The street light on the corner showed more detail in his face. In the bar, he’d appeared refreshed and alert. Now he was starting to look tired.