by Dan Alatorre
The assassin scowled, sliding a finger onto the trigger.
Can’t throw lawn debris all over the pretty, overpriced cars, can we, jerk wad?
* * * * *
“Bucky!” Leaning out of the cab of the pickup truck, Levi held up his boss’ cell phone, waving it. “Bucky!”
John Buckman, the thirty-nine-year-old owner of the landscaping company, did not look up. He continued mowing, swerving around the car lot’s manicured plant beds.
Levi put the phone back to his ear. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Buckman. He can’t hear me over the engine noise.”
“Tell him to call me,” she said. “As soon as he can.”
“If it’s important, I can go get him.” Levi peered through the truck’s rear window. “But he’s already halfway down to the other side of the lot. Your husband, he drives that mower pretty fast.”
“No, no. It’s important, but don’t worry him. Our daughter called. She’s going to have a baby.”
Levi beamed. “As soon as he comes back, I’ll have him call you. He’ll want to know that. I won’t ruin the surprise, but as soon as he talks to you, I’ll be calling him grandpa from now on.”
She laughed. “Thank you, Levi.”
“Sure. Congratulations, ma’am!”
He ended the call, a wide smile on his face. Levi put the phone back on the dashboard and walked to the trailer. Bucky was all the way across the car lot, mowing close to the wooded section near the creek.
Climbing into the trailer, Levi selected one of the gas-powered weed trimmers and set it on the trailer bed. Unscrewing the gas cap, he peeked into the fuel tank and, finding it full, replaced the cap and grabbed the pull cord.
The first yank didn’t start the trimmer. Nor did the second.
When the third attempt failed, he kneeled down to adjust the throttle. Behind him, the big lawn mower’s distant engine grew louder.
With the throttle maxed, Levi gave the trimmer another try.
Nothing.
He stood up, putting his hands on his hips. “That’s why you had a full tank. Bucky couldn’t get you to run yesterday.”
The lawn mower engine stopped. Levi turned around. Bucky faced away from him, sitting upright in the seat, his face to the sky.
* * * * *
Sergio rolled over on his bed and picked up his phone to look at the time—again—making three checks in about fifteen minutes. He groaned, flopping back onto his pillows, and stared at the ceiling. It had been a long night. Sleep wouldn’t come, and the restlessness in his gut wouldn’t go.
Groaning, he threw back the sheets and rolled out of his bed.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the light, squinting against the sudden brightness. In the mirror, his wincing, shirtless self stared back at him. The reflection’s hair stood up on one side; his eyes were red and baggy from lack of sleep. The beard stubble was starting to look less stylish-sexy and more unemployed-homeless.
Sergio shook his head.
You’re not unemployed yet. Don’t act like you are.
Meandering across the small living room, he disappeared into his tiny kitchen, reaching into the cupboard for a drinking glass. The space on the shelf was empty. Leaning down, he popped open the dishwasher and pulled out the upper rack. His fingers located his favorite drinking vessel: a faded, white plastic tumbler. Carrying it to the refrigerator, he opened the door and stared at the cup in the light.
The logo had nearly worn off from use, but it was still legible—the steakhouse in Dallas where he and Carly ditched a “police fundamentals” recertification seminar and instead went for mid-afternoon happy hour. They sat on the veranda and drank for hours, telling stories and laughing, recalling bizarre cases and enjoying the pleasant fall weather.
Sergio rolled the tumbler back and forth between his fingers, sighing. A few droplets of lingering dishwater fell from the cup and onto the kitchen floor.
“Plastic drinking cups.” He grimaced. “What are you, five years old?”
He shoved it under the water nozzle on the refrigerator door, gulped down the contents, and went into the bathroom to get showered.
* * * * *
“Boss, your missus called.” Levi stepped onto the side rail of the trailer and jumped down to the parking lot, walking toward the cab of the truck. He grabbed the phone and headed toward Bucky. “She said she has some news for you.” Levi waved the phone back and forth in his hand. “I don’t know what it was, but she sounded awful happy.”
His boss didn’t move.
A few crows cawed from the tree line as Levi continued walking. “Maybe it’s good news. You expecting some good news, old timer?”
He crossed the short span of grass to the mower, holding the phone out for his boss as he approached. By now, Bucky would have normally remarked on the “old timer” comment, but he remained still.
Levi reached out to tap his boss on the back of the shoulder. “Bucky, you okay?” He stepped around the side of the mower, holding out the phone—and recoiled.
The phone fell to the ground. Levi gasped, backing away from the mower.
The chest of his boss was covered in red. Streaks of blood splatter dotted Bucky’s shoulders and neck. From the center of the man’s chest, the tan shirt was wet and red, growing darker and redder as the blood ran down over his abdomen and collected around the belt line. The legs of the green work pants were dotted with wet, dark red blotches; the top of the pants were soaked nearly black.
A drop of blood dripped from the front of the mower’s seat, splattering like a muddy raindrop on the chassis.
Levi stumbled backwards, gagging as he fell to the wet morning grass. He kicked feverishly, forcing himself away from the bloody mess that had been his boss. His guts churned as he fought the urge to vomit.
John Buckman’s head leaned back, unmoving. His eyes gazed upward, open and unblinking, at nothing. His jaw hung down like he’d thought of a question he intended to ask. His hands dangled in his lap, splattered red from the gaping hole in his shirt.
Without all the blood, he could almost appear to be taking a break.
Almost.
He was still. Quiet. Like he was sneaking a short rest at the start of a long day.
The sun twinkled as it made its way through the tree tops, lighting the cars that sped along Hillsborough Boulevard. Commuters, off to work, dashed along to make deals or type up reports.
A beautiful December day. The kind marketing executives referred to as a “chamber of commerce day.” Nothing but clear skies and cool breezes.
And in that cool breeze, Levi sat, trembling, his hand covering his gaping mouth.
A butterfly flitted past him, going across the edge of the lot and coming to rest near a shiny new sedan. It lifted its orange wings up and down a few times, then took flight again and continued its journey.
Sitting in the damp grass at the auto mall, Levi Hernandez choked back his tears. With trembling fingers, he picked up the phone to call an ambulance for his dead employer.
* * * * *
Carly pried her eyes halfway open as she lay on the couch. File pages littered the coffee table; notes and pads covered her like a blanket. She sat up, blinking, in an attempt to make out the time on the cable box display.
Seven twenty-nine.
Glancing at her bedroom door, she scowled.
I can’t believe Kyle left me to sleep on the sofa all night after he came home.
A short hum came from somewhere. She peered at the nearby end table, looking for her phone. Nothing but pens and a half-full wine glass.
The hum sounded again. Lifting her rear, she slid her hand along the couch cushions, to a lump at her thigh. She retrieved her phone and stared at the screen. There were three messages.
The first was from Kyle. The time stamp was from last night, around eight. Probably when she was in the shower. Frowning, she tapped the screen.
I was able to book a late dinner meeting with a client in Sarasota, so Bill green-lighted t
he team to stay overnight in a hotel there. I will drive home in the morning.
Before she could decide if she was mad or disappointed, her phone vibrated in her hands—this time with a new text from Deshawn Marshall. The screen banner indicated it was his third text in under a minute.
She propped herself up on her elbow and called him.
“Hey, good morning.” Deshawn’s phone was buffeted with road noise and static.
Carly returned his greeting and let him get on with the purpose of his early morning messages.
“I’ve got an update and a lead for you,” the sergeant said. “A witness mentioned seeing a white van flee the scene of one of yesterday’s shootings. I broadcasted that to the investigating detectives, and another witness at the same shooting remembered seeing a white van leaving the scene, too.”
Carly bolted upright. “I had a white van at mine!” She rifled through her notes, grabbing a legal pad and holding it up. “A woman at my scene told the officers she thought a white van left the area ‘in a hurry.’”
“We need to follow up on that, ASAP.”
She nodded. “White vans. They’re only the most common service vehicle on the street after white pickup trucks. But it’s something.”
“Here’s something else. We missed a shooting. Late yesterday morning, a shot was fired through a window of a Michaels craft store on Hillsborough Boulevard. Out near Bayport West, on the other side of Town-N-Country. The bullet hit the window and narrowly missed a cashier, but since no one was injured, the manager assumed the shot was some random juvenile mischief, so they didn’t think much more of it. The cashier went home after her shift ended, turned on the news, and flipped out. She called in to 911, screeching that she had almost been assassinated by the sniper.”
“Why are we only hearing about this now?”
“Another foul up. 911 dispatch misunderstood the woman and routed the call back to the black and white unit that responded originally. They were off duty by then, so dispatch left a message.”
“Geez!” She ran to the bedroom, pulling open her closet and tossing clothes onto the bed.
“When the officers got it today, they sent it over to me—by email. You should have a copy in your in-box by now. I forwarded it to you.”
“This is really starting to look like a clown show.” She grabbed a pair of shoes from the closet floor and walked to the bed. “We’re lucky we all aren’t getting fired.”
“We need to turn that impression around, and fast.”
“I’ll start sleeping with my phone not on vibrate.” Carly glared at the footwear in her hand. One of the shoes was blue with white polka dots; the other was black with a silver buckle on the strap. She threw them aside, groaning as she returned to the closet to dig for a pair that matched.
“I’m on my way to the station,” Deshawn said. “Pack a lunch, it’s going to be a long one.”
“Yep. I’ll be right there. I have to . . .” She glared at the empty bed. Kyle couldn’t take the kids to school if he wasn’t even home yet. “ . . . I have to wake the boys, get them dressed, get them fed, and get them to school.” She put her hand to her forehead. “And get myself dressed! Damn!”
“Don’t worry, I have kids, too. I understand. Get here as soon as you can.”
* * * * *
The young cashier at the Mobil gas station snapped her chewing gum and blew a bubble past her black lipstick. As the bubble popped and sagged onto her chin, a small, gray-haired man entered the store. She waved. “Good morning, Kedar.”
“Good morning, Miss Josephine.” Mr. Wallarah strolled past the green-haired cashier as another customer walked up to the register. Heading to the coffee station, he eyed the pastries warming under the heat lamps. Kedar pulled his wallet from his jacket and counted the few bills inside.
“Lottery ticket this morning?” Josephine handed her other patron his bag and receipt, leaning on the counter and facing Kedar. “It’s up to fifty million.”
The door jingled as the other customer left the store.
“I think no. No lottery for me today.” Kedar stared at the sugary breakfast delicacies. “But I may try one of these. Which do you recommend?”
“Not the ones marked ‘guayaba.’ They’re the brownish-red ones.” Josephine scrunched up her nose, her purple chewing gum protruding from the corner of her mouth. “I’d stick with peach or apple.”
“Ah. Guayaba is for the adventurous?”
“I don’t know.” Her gum snapped and popped with each motion of her slender jaw. Josephine stuck a tattooed finger into her mouth and stretched her gum into a long, purple string, then flicked her head back and slurped it in again. “Pat says the store in Ybor City moves a ton of guayaba, so she keeps ordering them, but here they only turn brown and get old. Maybe the Cuban coffee over there kills the taste of something.”
“Café con leche would kill me, too, I’m afraid. Well, I’ll pass on the guayaba, then. Apple it is.”
“And . . . a large coffee. Gotcha.” She sashayed to the register. “Anything else?”
“Not on my earnings, these days. The real treat is seeing you every morning, my friend.”
“Aww, that’s so sweet.” Josephine tapped the register. It beeped, and the drawer popped open. “Three fifty-five, Kedar. Business will pick up soon, though. People will be coming in from out of town for the holidays, or going up north to visit relatives. Lots of people around here ski . . . I told you, go to the airport on Fridays and Sundays. Big ticket fares are just waiting there.”
“Yes, but the weekends are for my family.” He handed her a five-dollar bill. “My son is graduating in May. After that, he will start a family—and who knows where his engineering degree will take him?”
“Okay.” She shut the register, handing him his change. “But if he moves away, you move to the airport.”
Kedar stuffed the dollar bill and coins into his pants pocket. “If my son moves away, my wife will move to wherever her grandbabies are, and I will surely follow.” He picked up his coffee and pastry. “Thank you, my friend. See you tomorrow.”
“Okie dokie. Merry Christmas.”
* * * * *
Kedar walked to his vehicle, placing his coffee on the roof of his cab and lifting the gas hose from the pump. As he filled his vehicle, Josephine arranged the rows of cigarettes behind the register, reaching under the counter to reload the empty slots of filterless Camels and Marlboro flip-tops. She popped up, setting the cardboard cartons on the counter.
Outside, Kedar fell face-first into the side of his car and slid to the ground.
“Kedar!” Josephine slammed open the counter door and raced outside.
The morning air was brisk on her tattoo-covered arms, but not as chilly as it was at five a.m. when she’d arrived. She sprinted across the parking lot. Other customers were fueling their cars nearby, but no one seemed to notice what had happened to the gray-haired man at pump nine.
Josephine rushed around Kedar’s car to the back end, worrying the old man might have had a stroke.
When she reached him, her jaw dropped.
Kedar lay face down, a massive wound in his upper back, his arm bent awkwardly behind his back. Blood oozed away from him like someone had spilled a bucket of red paint. His paper coffee cup lay next to him, making a tan puddle next to the red one.
“Oh!” Josephine’s hands flew to her mouth. She backed away, exhaling sharply, her eyes wide. Glancing around, she ran back inside and yanked the store phone from the wall, pounding out 911.
Chapter 17
Carly’s phone rang as she drove her rental car through bumper-to-bumper traffic toward the interstate. Grabbing the phone, she read the screen.
Deshawn again.
She fumbled for her earpiece as the phone rang again. Cursing, she yanked the cord from the phone and hit the speaker button. “Sir? What’s up?”
“Change of plans.” Deshawn sounded out of breath. Phones rang nonstop in the background. “We’ve had more shoo
tings. Lieutenant Davis is calling for an all-hands-on-deck meeting, with a press conference immediately after. How soon can you get here?”
She shook her head, clenching her teeth. If the on-ramp was any indication, the cars on the interstate were moving at half speed, tops. The fingertips of her hand turned white as she gripped the wheel. “I’m still about twenty minutes out.”
“Lights and sirens, lady. Get here in ten.”
“I’m still in a rental car! There are no lights and sirens.”
“Okay, I’ll let them know. Hurry.”
She ended the call. “I am!” Dropping the phone onto the passenger seat, she pounded the steering wheel. “Damn!”
* * * * *
Lieutenant Davis stood at the table near the podium, arranging some papers. Next to him, an overhead projector shined on an empty screen. A laptop rested next to that, along with a few colored markers. The room itself was nearly filled to capacity, mostly with police officers and detectives, but some administrative people were also in attendance. Representatives from HR had taken seats in the front row, as well as a few people from legal.
Deshawn didn’t recognize some of the faces in the audience. On the far side of the room, a group of four men and one woman sat together. They wore dark suits, sitting upright and rigid. The men’s haircuts were short, in an unstylish way; the woman wore her hair pinned up, tight against her head. They looked like a cluster of military officers, but without the uniforms.
Holding his notepad, Deshawn headed for an empty seat in the second row.
“Sergeant. I’d like you up here, if you don’t mind.” Davis pointed to the table. Dr. Stevens, a forensic psychologist who worked with the department on occasion, had taken one of the four chairs facing the audience; all the other chairs at the table were empty.
Deshawn walked around to the rear of the table, taking a seat next to the doctor. “Good morning,” he whispered.
She glared at him over her glasses. “Is it, Sergeant?” Folding her hands, she set them on the surface of the table and stared out at the audience.
Deshawn recoiled. Okay, then.
