by Dan Alatorre
“We play Roblox.” Isaac turned away. “Nobody plays Minecraft anymore.”
“Well, go play that, then. I’m going to . . .” She glared at the box as he left the room. “I’m going to see if I can read witness statements while I soak in a warm tub with a glass of wine.”
* * * * *
In her bedroom, Carly stood at the foot of the bed and undid her belt with one hand, tossing it onto the mattress. She sat on the side of the bed—her side—and put down her glass of Pinot Grigio, placing her right toes to her left heel and launching her shoe toward the dresser. After repeating the action for her other foot, Carly untucked her blouse. Reaching for her buttons, her eyes drifted to the nightstand.
Somewhere, a family is crying their eyes out because a loved one isn’t working late, they’re never coming home again.
Somewhere else, a family is watching the sun set without their sister or mother.
South of there, a beautiful young woman had been killed on a bus stop bench—and why? What had she done to deserve having her life taken from her? Nothing. She was neither taller or shorter, fatter or skinnier, than any other person that could have been sitting there. But she was there. That was her sole qualification to the evil killer who stole her life away from everyone who cared about her.
The files were people. They deserved Carly’s best efforts—and they’d get them. Not for a promotion, but because she believed in doing things the right way. By the book.
Her mind raced.
Remember to check with ballistics on victim three. And have Sergio check to see if there were any similarities in clothing or occupations.
She reached for her phone, but stopped herself. There was no Sergio this time. It was a habit to call him in the evenings, to discuss cases and possibilities, theories . . . and life in general. Cop life, especially. Corpses with bullet holes in them don’t make for good dinnertime conversation with the family.
Sighing, she picked up the phone and called Kyle. When there was no answer, she let it roll to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I was hoping we could talk . . . we haven’t really done that in a while. I’ll be up late working on a case, so—call me when you get in. Love you. Bye.”
She ended the call and stared at the screen. Flipping to the text app, she reread his brief message from earlier.
I’m not coming to lunch today. Meeting with Carson McLain. I’m sorry.
Carson McClain. The law firm that, when couples counseling hadn’t fixed things, was a friend’s suggestion. A trial separation.
She’d been resistant, because an object put in motion tends to stay in motion—and she didn’t want to end up in some of the places that object might go. But it wasn’t solely her decision. Kyle’s hiking trips with their sons were getting more frequent, as were his late hours and overnight travel. And the way the sniper case was going, it wouldn’t allow for free time in the near future.
She set her phone on the bed.
The light from the lamp cast a long, wine glass-shaped shadow onto the top of the nightstand. Inside the still, gray lines, a yellowy oval of wine shimmered in the light.
Beneath it were the carved edges of the drawer, and the keepsake items contained within. A tiny seascape painting Isaac made when he was five. Cards from Ethan, with coupons for hugs and back massages. The tennis bracelet Kyle had given her when he asked her to marry him.
And a few other things.
She gently grasped the flowery brass knob and slid the drawer open, removing a small picture frame with no picture inside. The top of the frame displayed a smiling cow. On the bottom, in cursive, was the name of the restaurant.
The frame had gathered no dust in the drawer. She slid her finger across the top edge and down the side, its smooth, polished wood soft on her fingers.
“Do you remember,” she cradled her wine glass, resting her elbows on the steakhouse table. “When we were at that crime scene where the body had been in the trunk for like a week in the middle of August?”
“Man, do I.” Sergio frowned, wrinkling his nose. He swallowed a bite of steak and took a sip of his beer. “The smell—that car stunk from a hundred yards away.”
She gazed at him over her glass. “I got some stuff on my blouse, remember? On the cuff. It reeked. You let me borrow one of your workout shirts. I remember it smelled like you.”
“It smelled?” Sergio sat back. “I’m pretty sure I gave you a clean shirt.”
“You did. But it smelled like you.”
He returned to his steak dinner. “Coming from my trunk, I was just glad it didn’t stink like mildew. I have no idea when I put it in there.”
It was an afternoon filled with wine, laughter and reminiscing.
Her thoughts went to another text. The one her partner—and not her husband—had sent before this morning’s interview.
You’re awesome. You’ll make us all proud.
Carly stood, shoving the picture frame back under a stack of faded Mother’s Day cards. She pushed the drawer shut again, going into the bathroom and turning on the shower.
Chapter 14
Rex Addleson’s home wasn’t the biggest house on Bayshore Boulevard, but it would have been the biggest house in a lot of other neighborhoods.
Bree slowed her BMW as she approached the residence. She’d been there before—many of the best fundraisers take place at a candidate’s home, where tier-one donors feel as if they can get to know the person and not just the media presence—but she’d never been at Addleson’s for a dinner that was comprised of so few participants.
The antique-style lamp post on the edge of the manicured lawn shined light over the tall red oaks, trimmed like massive, green candlesticks, that lined the perimeter. A single Christmas wreath on the front door was the sole decoration on the exterior of the stately mansion.
Addleson’s blue Range Rover was parked in the driveway, a few feet from the garage door. Cicely Sinclaire’s convertible Mercedes was on the driveway between the Range Rover and the street—an arrangement that left about six feet of driveway for Bree’s vehicle, and would leave her tail hanging out into the street. She could risk a ticket or find a spot around the corner somewhere. Most of the prime real estate along Bayshore was a no-parking zone.
Which Cicely knew when she parked just far enough away from Addleson’s car to not leave space for the night’s other guest.
Bree drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, glaring at the Mercedes.
Fine. You win, Cicely.
Driving around the corner, Bree peered up and down the street for a gap in the No Parking Zone signs. A block away, she found one—and another car she recognized. Dean Munroe, the campaign’s head of finance, was here. She parked next to his Lexus and prepared to get out of her car, pulling her suit coat tight to her neck to brave the cool night air. The wind from the bay was unrelenting this time of year.
Her phone rang. The screen said Tiffany Tierson, Channel Thirteen News.
A fake name for a fake reporter.
Bree narrowed her eyes and mashed the button. “Tiffany! How nice of you to return my call. And after only eight hours, when I said it was urgent! I feel so privileged.”
“Ms. Barclay, if this is about the fundraising story, we had several confidential sources, and they all said the same thing—”
“Then pick up the phone and get verification from the source.” Bree clutched the phone tight in her fist. “Or is that too much trouble? Do I need to tell you how to do your job? You’re supposed to be a reporter.”
“My sources said you missed your fundraising goal for the quarter.”
Bree shook her head. “Then your sources were plants, propped up by Blumenthal’s campaign—wasn’t that obvious? Because we met our fundraising goal—and we reported it, which you’ll see officially from the Tampa Chief Accountant’s office on Tuesday. But by then you’ll have had this incorrect story out there for almost a week, helping Blumemthal’s campaign lie about us. Here’s a tip. Don’t report propaganda put out
by a rival campaign, come talk to us and get the truth.”
“Ma’am. I—”
“No, no, no.” Bree raised her voice. “Don’t ma’am me. This is important. Maybe you don’t know, but staffers on different campaigns sometimes talk to each other—they may be friends because they worked on the same team in a prior election or could work together on the next one, you never know. So a friend over there called me when he overheard your conversation with Blumenthal, and if I hadn’t happened to hear about this little mistake of yours, there’d be big trouble. Now, unless you’re actually on Blumenthal’s payroll, you have no reason to not call me. Just call! I answer day or night. Or return a call. Do your job!”
“I think this call is a bit inappropriate.”
“Ugh!” Bree shook her head again. “You got played, Tiffany! It’s the oldest game in politics. Get your head out of your butt!”
“Okay, that’s it. Goodbye, Ms. Barclay—”
“If you want to go, fine. But think about this.” Gripping the steering wheel of her parked car, Bree gritted her teeth and lowered her voice. “You can run with the story you have, or you can amend it—because on Tuesday the truth will come out and it’s going to look like you didn’t do your job. Which you didn’t. And then, when Channel Eight and Channel Ten ask me what happened, I’ll be forced to tell them that we tried to give the right information to Tiffany Tierson at Channel Thirteen, but you weren’t interested. Meanwhile, you will have royally embarrassed your network. Now . . .” Bree took a long, slow breath. “Which version of the story sounds like the one where you get to keep your job?”
“I, uh . . .” Tiffany cleared her throat. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Barclay. I—I should have called you. And—and I will in the future, I promise.”
“Hey, there we go!” Bree said. “Now, go fix the freaking story.” She ended the call and dropped the phone into her purse, leaning forward to check her makeup in the rearview mirror. “I swear, I have to do everyone’s job or it doesn’t get done.”
Addleson’s porch was dark red brick, matching the rest of the mansion’s exterior. Bree leaned into the doorbell, listening for the Big Ben chimes. On the other side of the beveled glass panels, a gray-haired figure approached.
Munroe yanked the door open, throwing his hands in the air. “Hello, Bree darling!”
“Hello, yourself.” Bree gave the finance manager’s bony old frame a hug. “And Merry Christmas. Where have you been hiding?”
“Oh, everywhere.” He wrapped his thin arm around hers and clasped her hand, sashaying Bree down the long hallway to the living room. “It seems campaigns run on cash, dear. I have to constantly play money vampire and suck the wallets of the many millionaires around the state who want to see our boy get elected.”
Bree chuckled. “Well, keep it coming. Hooray for your sharp fangs.”
“Sharp fangs, sticky fingers . . . grabbing babies’ candy—I do it all.” He lowered his voice. “And speaking of sharp fangs, watch out for the cat in the Gucci sweater. Rowr.” Munroe stopped a few feet away from Cicely.
“Be nice.” Bree patted the old man’s hand, whispering. “She’s done a lot for the campaign. When we win, it will have been a lot of her connections that got us over the finish line.”
Munroe winced. “Bree, you know I love you, but you have a blind spot the size of a Sunday frittata. You think too much of people. Most folks will walk right over you if you give them the chance.”
“Then we’d better not give them the chance.” Cicely approached, holding up a fluted champagne glass. Rows of bubbles raced along the sides of the Baccarat crystal. “It’s better to win and apologize than not win.”
“It’s better to win by playing the game hard but fair,” Bree said.
“See? We both agree it’s better to win.” She turned to Munroe. “Dean, where’s our host?”
He put his hand to his chest. “Why, I thought you never let him out of your sight, darling.” Sauntering along the coffee service table, Munroe flipped a hand in the general direction of the home’s second story. “He’s in his private office with Michaels and DuBoise.”
“More poll information.” Cicely frowned. “It never ends.”
“Oh, but it does.” Munroe picked up a flower-rimmed porcelain cup and hoisted the antique silver pot, pouring a steaming cup of coffee for himself. “It ends on election day, dear—the only poll that matters.”
“Well . . .” Bree sidled to the window, looking out over the pool. “He must have good news, or he wouldn’t have called us all here.”
“He has news, all right.” His pinky finger extending outward, Munroe raised the cup in front of himself and pursed his lips, gently blowing on his coffee. “Maybe some of it will be good. I simply can’t bear the thought of any more bad news on a day like today. Did you see what this sniper fiend has done? Positively barbaric. I was practically afraid to get out of my car tonight.”
The doors to the private office flew open. “Ladies! Gentlemen! Thank you for coming.” Addleson bounded down the curved staircase. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’ve been tied up with the poll ghouls.” Smiling, he glanced over his shoulder at the two ladies trailing him. “No offense to Gwen and Ellie.”
Addleson’s pollsters were a young pair of data miners who employed a handful of techies. The two ladies wore more black than Johnny Cash and had shorter haircuts, but dressed as stylishly as the models gracing any New York magazine cover. Together, they managed to keep the entire Addleson campaign executive staff on edge. They descended the stairs behind the ebullient candidate.
“I had intended,” Addleson said, “to celebrate with a few members of my executive staff tonight because we were ahead in the latest reports. Things may have changed.”
Ellie put a hand to her black turtleneck sweater. “So, no filet mignon?”
“Filet mignon! Goodness no, Rex!” Munro grabbed his chest and put his forearm over his face, making an exaggerated grimace.
Addleson laughed. “Grab a drink while I show the ghoulies out. We’ll talk strategy over dinner.”
“No, no. I’ve got pockets to pick.” Munroe set down his coffee and headed for the door, plucking his coat from the back of the sofa. He wrapped a scarf around his neck, throwing the tails over his shoulder. “You youngsters can strategize all you want. The west coast is open for business for two more hours. That could mean a hundred thousand in delicious donations.”
“Well, off you go, then, Count Dracula.”
“That’s Count Drainyourwallet, if you please, darling.”
Addleson patted the old man on the back as he walked outside into the chilly breeze. “Drive safe, Dean.” As the pollsters exited, he shook their hands. “Ms. Michaels, Ms. DuBoise, despite the news, it’s always a pleasure.”
“You’re doing fine,” Gwen said. “It’s probably a blip—but we thought you should know about it.”
Ellie nodded. “A trend starts with a blip, sir. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Addleson smiled. “I’ll work on the messaging. I suppose if I do a better job campaigning, you’ll have better numbers for me, so I’ll try that strategy. Okay?”
After receiving their goodbyes, he shut the big door behind the pollsters and walked down the hallway, rubbing his hands together. “Okay, you two. Now the real work of the day begins.”
Cicely sipped her champagne. “What did the goth twins say?”
“It’s a mixed message.” Addleson went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Taking out a can of Diet Coke, he popped the top and took a long drink. “The updated numbers indicate that the voters are very comfortable with me—I seem friendly, competent, and approachable. People can envision themselves sitting with me over a beer or at the kitchen table to discuss the issues of the day. That’s all good.” Addleson took another gulp of soda. “So, voters would be comfortable with me appearing on TV in their living rooms each night during the news broadcasts, but overall I don’t appear as strong as my opponent. His military experi
ence gives him a kind of gutsy factor I don’t have.”
Cicely rolled her eyes. “He was a truck driver for the Army!”
“He was five miles from the front lines in Iraq.” Addleson wagged a finger at her. “Let’s not downgrade his image, let’s upgrade mine.” Setting down his soda, he placed his hands wide on the marble countertop and leaned forward. “Now, how do we fix that?”
“Gutsy?” Bree put her hand to her chin, tapping her lips with her finger. “They specifically said that?”
“That was the gist of it.”
Cicely huffed, heading back to the champagne bottle. “Maybe we can find an orphanage that’s on fire and you can run in and save some children. Geez, what do people want? Brains, competence, creativity—not to mention a success in business and friends on both sides of the political aisle—that’s not enough?”
“It might be.” Addleson put a hand in his pocket, staring at the ground as he carried his Diet Coke to the cocktail table. “We can’t afford to leave anything to chance. Meanwhile, the outdoor debate situation is turning into a mess.”
Stroking her chin, Bree strolled across the room and gazed at the swimming pool. The calm water reflected the lights from the house next door, slowly moving up and down in gentle waves. “Whether the new information from the pollsters is accurate or not, I’d rather address any potential issues before they start cutting into your lead. What’s messing up the debate?”
“Dean says the city has asked the campaigns to pay for most of the added security,” Addleson said. “And the bids are insanely high now, thanks to our friendly neighborhood sniper. We don’t have that kind of cash. We have just enough money to fund a campaign, not to pay for an army to secure a pep rally.”
“Nothing but good news today.” Cicely took another sip of champagne. “No wonder everyone else left.”
The caterer came out of the dining room. “Sir? Dinner is ready whenever you and your guests are.”
“Thank you, Charles.” Addleson drained his Diet Coke and tossed the empty can onto the counter. “You and your chef can go. I’ll clean up when we’re finished.” He turned to his guests. “Ladies, if you still have an appetite, let’s see if we can rescue my campaign while we eat.”
