Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  Tom sat in the Jeep looking out at the boats while Nick got into the rental. Sailboats and yachts and a few smaller fishing boats bobbed in Naples Bay. There was a tourist ferry chugging along in the near distance. One of these days he was going to have to get out on the water. Get his own boat. Maybe even live on it.

  He followed Nick to his home in Port Royal and on the way got an unexpected call.

  Blythe was curt, emotionally detached. “Thought you should hear it from me first. We’re going to arrest and charge Raymond T. Bosco with the murder of Carrie Hobson.”

  No surprise there. “When?”

  “In the next hour.”

  “Where?”

  “What does it matter where?”

  “Just Bosco?”

  “Just Bosco. Strictly a murder charge. Coby and I are working together on the other stuff.”

  “Who’s getting the collar? Tampa?”

  “I am, Lange. I’m going to personally arrest Raymond Bosco myself. We have eyes on.”

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t already run.”

  “This is why we do what we do, Lange. If we’d moved too soon, he might have. But he’s sitting tight.”

  Maybe that’s because he knows he’s not guilty of murder, Tom thought.

  But here came the barrage of evidence. “We’ve got Bosco’s blood type on Carrie Hobson’s clothing,” Blythe said. “We’ve got his fingerprints in her home. Derrick Massey, the landlord, admitted to us he’s seen Bosco at Carrie’s apartment. What’s more — we’ve found that Bosco had a key to Hobson’s apartment. We’ve got statements showing several large deposits in Eileen Gallo’s bank account, probably from money Carrie found in the baseboard and decided to keep.”

  “No. It’s from money she saved and money she made while hooking. That’s why—”

  “Stop it, Lange. Coby and Mandi will show how Carrie was an unwitting facilitator in the drug operation. She found out, confronted the situation, and paid for it with her life.”

  He felt the adrenaline crawling all over him and wanted to scream. Carrie hadn’t found money. Carrie was killed by someone else and then Bosco got his shit out of her apartment to protect himself.

  Blythe’s case sounded pitch-perfect, but it was bullshit. If Carrie had found the money in the wall, why weren’t her fingerprints on the baseboard? Had she used gloves? Doubtful. Where did Bosco kill her? If it was in the apartment, why hadn’t forensics found a spot of blood? Only on her clothes. Bosco was at the club working — time sheets showed it, and he was on video leaning out the door. With a cut on his hand he’d gotten from slicing limes — a story so dumb it had to be true. And he could have easily bled on Carrie by accident.

  “Most important of all,” Blythe said, almost gloating, “we have Bosco’s DNA on the victim. It’s over.”

  Or, the low copy number DNA could simply be wrong. Eleven out of thirteen STRs wasn’t an incontrovertible match.

  Just like Ward would surely say. But, the cops were going forward with it. The rest would be up to the lawyers now — plea deals or a trial.

  Tom turned down Nick’s quiet street, driving slow, waiting for Blythe to say more. He could sense she wanted to. She wanted to tell him, You had so much promise, Lange, or something to that effect. Let him know he’d screwed up. He’d let everyone down. But she didn’t.

  “You’ll need to be at the arraignment. I’ll let you know.” She hung up.

  Tom set his phone aside and pulled into Nick’s driveway. So much for heading to Tampa to get the sketch. The cops would be swarming all over Hush.

  Nick jumped from the rental and ran into the house, holding up a finger. He needed a minute to get his art supplies. Tom didn’t bother to tell him to stop yet, just nodded. He found the number for Jimmy Kendall, and called. There was no answer.

  “Shit.”

  He didn’t know where Jimmy was. They said Jimmy was an informant, and it was possible vice narcotics had tipped him off to Bosco’s impending arrest to keep Jimmy usable. He could be anywhere.

  Tom got out of the Jeep, started for Nick’s door and stopped.

  He had to let it go. He was about to be suspended. He was off the case. Blythe was compelling, the theory was sound, holes or not. Bosco had opportunity and, cooperating with Coburn and the statewide attorney, they would show motive through the drug stuff. Tom wasn’t omniscient. He might be wrong. And even if he was right, there was nothing he could do

  He found Nick in his studio, gathering his art stuff into a black bag.

  Nick glanced up. “Alright, I’m ready.”

  “Change of plans,” Tom said.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Tom shrugged. “You got anything to drink?” He wandered out of the studio, headed toward the kitchen, trying to escape the sense of defeat. Only after he left the room did he realize his brother was trying to be sober — there would be no consuming alcohol in Nick’s presence. Tom turned back to apologize.

  “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

  Nick was standing in the door, pissed off.

  “What’re you doing, Tommy. You giving up?”

  “Listen, Nick, there are things that—”

  “Look at you. Why’re you such a baby? I saw you on the phone — did your supervisor slap your wrist again?”

  Tom flinched. “Yeah, that was my supervisor. Letting me know they’re going to arrest a guy for the murder. They’re on their way right fucking now.”

  “One little thing, you know, you get one little road-bump, one little bruise of your ego and you just fold up.”

  Tom was baffled. “Road-bump? Nick, this is done. It’s out of my hands. There’s other shit going down, stuff you don’t know about. I decided, you know, I’m compromising an investigation like this. And I’m already in enough trouble. Alright?”

  Nick just stared. Every time they argued, Tom felt the fear kick in. Like they were going to fight. And they’d never fought, not really. But it was always there, this potential for violence. Just like their father.

  After a moment in their stalemate stare, Nick threw up his hands and pushed past Tom. “Alright. Whatever.”

  “Hey.” Tom made a grab for his brother, who jerked away.

  Nick disappeared into the other room.

  A pressure built within Tom.

  “I should’ve given you the money!” Tom called after Nick. He’d been thinking it for days but only in the deeper parts of his mind. No, he didn’t make much money. But he’d taken what little their parents had left to them and saved it. “I’m sorry . . .” he said quietly.

  Nick stayed hidden, unresponsive. Tom thought about following him but decided to just let things cool off. He felt angry at his brother — Nick was acting like Tom was chickening out or giving up, and maybe he was. Maybe if Jimmy saw the number and called back Tom would see if they could meet up tomorrow.

  In the meantime, he knew how to occupy himself. Maybe Tampa wasn’t the right move, but there were other things he could accomplish right here in Naples.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The sun had just set, turning the western sky purple. The District Medical Examiner’s Office sat beneath the swaying palms. Tom found the front door locked. He cupped his hands and peered through the glass — the lobby was dark, the receptionist gone home for the day. It was for the best — better no one knew he was here. The door to Ward’s office was open a crack, light spilling through. He’d seen Ward’s Rav 4 in the parking lot and figured the pathologist was around, working late.

  Working on Sasha.

  Tom headed back to the Jeep, and pulled out onto the road so he was partly obscured by a drooping willow tree but still had a good view of the Rav 4.

  He waited, cracked the window and lit up a smoke, wishing he’d brought a cup of coffee to go with it. After a few minutes he snubbed the smoke in the Jeep’s ashtray and called Alicia. As the line rang he thought about how much time he spent on the phone. It was no wonder outfits like Coburn’s based their
intelligence on cell phone surveillance. Life seemed to revolve around it.

  “Tom?”

  “Hey, Alicia, how you doing? Sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

  “I’m good. How are you?”

  She seemed genuinely pleased to hear from him. It edged out some of the guilt he was feeling. Just like with Nick, Tom felt like he hadn’t done enough. These people needed him and he’d turned his back. Some part of him thought that it was better this way — sometimes people had to take care of their own business — but it was still tough.

  “I’m doing okay,” he said. “How’s Gwen?”

  “She’s okay. A little bit sick, though. Got a cold or something. How’s the case going?”

  Tom leaned back, his gaze wandering over the Jeep’s ceiling. “Just about wrapped up.”

  “That’s great. Wow. You know I hear how these cases can go on for months. Years, even. You guys do good work.”

  “Thanks. You, ah . . .”

  “I haven’t seen Josh.” She picked it up before Tom could ask. “Not a text or a phone call, nothing.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “At first it freaked me out a little bit, to be honest. He’s sort of gone silent like that before. But, you know, it’s stayed quiet.”

  “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “Not since . . . you know, that night. After your place.” Tom thought there was a hint of embarrassment in her voice.

  “Well, that’s great.” He decided not to say anything else, or try convincing her to file the injunction. Things seemed to be working out. His talk with McDermott, while wildly inappropriate, had apparently worked.

  The conversation faltered. He realized that they barely knew each other — he didn’t even know where she was from. He thought about asking her to dinner, but hesitated. He wasn’t in any position right now, and probably she wasn’t either.

  He looked out the window and saw a figure moving through the parking lot. Ward.

  “Alicia, I gotta go, okay?”

  “Alright.” She sounded disappointed. “Be careful . . .”

  Ward was getting into his Toyota. Tom put the Jeep in drive. “I’ll call you.”

  Ward took off out of the parking lot and Tom had to quickly get up to speed, round the corner and floor it in order to keep on his tail.

  He caught sight of the Rav 4 at a stop sign, red taillights flaring in the dusk. Ward made a right turn. Tom reached the stop sign and hit the brakes, squawking the tires.

  Easy. Go easy.

  He made the turn and kept on Ward, moving slower, until they reached highway 41. Then Ward surprised him, turning left instead of right. Tom had been to where Ward lived in Central Naples the night before. That was north. Ward was heading south.

  Tom thought maybe the pathologist was going to get a bite to eat downtown, but then they passed Fifth Avenue and all the restaurants. Ward followed 41 as it curved east and drove over the bridge where Sasha had been found dead on the rocks. A crime scene van was still parked in the Tin City lot.

  Ward made a lane change beyond the bridge and gained speed. Tom kept a few cars between them. Now they were passing Lely, where Tom lived. Further southeast, away from the city, away from pretty much everything, toward Rookery Bay. Nothing beyond this point but swamps and alligators. Tom started to get excited. What was Ward doing way the hell down here?

  The Rav 4 came to a stop light. There were no cars in between them now and Tom grit his teeth as he slowly drew up behind the Rav 4. It was almost fully dark, and Tom had the headlights on. Ward wouldn’t be able to make out Tom’s face, and it was doubtful he expected a tail.

  The Rav 4 blinkered for a right hand turn. The traffic light changed green and Tom waited, letting the pathologist get ahead. Ward pulled onto Barefoot Williams Drive. Tom had never been down Barefoot Williams before, but knew it was one intersection away from the road to Rookery Bay.

  He fell back even further. They passed a trailer park, and then Ward made another right turn.

  The road was dark, no lamps, but the moon provided some light. The first couple houses were in decent shape, the properties well-tended. Further along, grass was overgrown and the yards got a bit junky. Tom passed a sign marked DEAD END.

  Ward drove to the very end, then seemed to make a turn directly into the jungle. Either that or he’d come to a driveway.

  Tom shut the headlights and pulled the Jeep to the shoulder, killing the engine. The silence was stunning, only the ticks of the cooling motor and the thrum of blood in his ears. He walked until he reached where Ward had turned.

  The home in the woods looked like a giant treehouse. A lamp-lit walkway revealed the creeping fig overtaking the walls and rambling front porch. Enormous trees flanked the home.

  The Rav 4 was parked in the dirt driveway. By now Ward might’ve gone inside but Tom stayed out of sight, waiting. He heard a sound like metal being dragged over metal, and then nothing.

  A light came on inside. Tom hid in the woods off the driveway. A second light turned on upstairs and Tom heard the muffled thump of footfalls.

  He wanted to check out more of the place but it was too risky with Ward there. And he didn’t have a shred of evidence with which to confront the pathologist. Maybe the ATM next to Hush would show Ward’s debit card, but that was a long shot and didn’t prove anything on its own. The video was unreliable — no jury would convict based on a blurry image. Ward’s past with the Tampa case, and Blythe, and the low copy number controversy was circumstantial. Coincidence, really.

  Tom didn’t believe in coincidence, but there was nothing he could do. Ward had a second home, so what? It was ramshackle and creepy, but not illegal, not signatory of criminal activity.

  Beneath the singing of the cicadas and the occasional whine of a mosquito, he heard something familiar, so blended with the nightscape he’d almost missed it.

  The sound of running water.

  He went towards the sound, back out of the driveway and toward the dead end. The road stopped at the woods, but beyond a shabby gate was a trail. Tom trotted back to the Jeep, passing the driveway, glancing at Ward’s house in the woods. He fished a flashlight out of the glove box.

  The trail wound through tangling vines and shrubs. Tom cut through the brush, sweeping the beam of light. He waved away clusters of gnats, thinking of the mosquitos buzzing in Rookery Bay.

  Thinking of the turkey buzzards circling high above Carrie’s bloated corpse.

  At the trail’s end was a creek, the brownish water slow and sluggish. He shined the light across to the other side. Nothing there but more woods.

  He remembered the map. There was every chance this creek connected up with Rookery Bay.

  He checked Google maps on his phone to confirm what his gut was already weighing in on: not only did this creek connect with Rookery Bay, it flowed into Stopper Creek, which was less than a mile away.

  “Holy shit,” Tom said in the darkness.

  He put his phone away and played the light beam over the water, his heart thumping. He thought about the tide ebbing and flowing throughout the day. Ramirez had said it was on an eleven-hour cycle. At the right time, a floating object, such as a dead body, could conceivably drift from here into the bay, pulled with the tide.

  He started back for the Jeep, moving faster, breaking through the brush like it was no longer there.

  * * *

  He eased his pace as he got back to Ward’s house, but he boldly headed down the beachy driveway, staying in the shadows, then made a wide circle of the house, mindful of his footing.

  Ward’s place was loaded with boat stuff. Two Grumman canoes — big old aluminum bastards — a small fishing boat with an outboard on a trailer, a wooden rowboat sitting on a rack. And then there were the kayaks. Three of them, propped against the side of the house, their primary colors pale in the moonlight.

  Tom’s heart beat harder. The dirt driveway where Ward parked the Rav 4 continued around the house and led to
a shed. Tom rejoined the driveway, tossing glances over his shoulder at the house. So far he hadn’t been spotted. He hoped.

  As he neared the shed he made out a large shape in the gloom. The shed was big enough to hold a vehicle, and it looked like there was one hiding beneath a large blue tarpaulin. Another boat, maybe.

  Maybe not.

  Palms sweating, head buzzing, Tom lifted a corner. The monstrous grille of the Lexus Sport Coupe was unmistakable.

  Tom pulled his weapon. His heart felt like it was going to rattle out of his rib cage but his hands were steady. He swallowed several times — no spit — and headed back toward the house. Suddenly one of the lights winked out and Tom froze. Had Ward seen him? He waited a moment, breathing, trying to quell the adrenaline. He didn’t want to kill Ward, he wanted him alive.

  The second light turned off, the one downstairs. A door opened and closed. It sounded like Ward was leaving.

  Tom sprinted round to the front of the house. As he ran, he heard the Rav 4 engine ignite.

  He could only watch as Ward backed the vehicle out of the driveway. Tom made a quick decision — rather than run after Ward with his gun out, which would do nothing but cause Ward to panic, he hid in the creeping fig so the headlights wouldn’t reveal him. Then he peered out through the vegetation as the headlights swung away, Ward put the car in drive, and took off.

  Tom ran to the road and watched Ward’s taillights receding in the distance. They brightened as he stopped for the intersection and turned left, out of sight.

  Tom hustled to the Jeep, knowing Ward would have seen the vehicle. Even if Ward didn’t know the Jeep was Tom’s, the pathologist would wonder who was pulled over on a dead end street at nine o’clock on a Saturday night. He’d be on alert now.

  Tom swung the Jeep around in the road and raced down the street. He stopped at the intersection and had to wait for a truck rumbling by before turning. He slammed his fist into the steering wheel, blowing the horn and cursing.

  Then he stomped the gas and floored it to the stoplight at 41, which was turning red as he arrived. He considered running the light, but Ward had a big head start. Tom came to a stop and shook his head, saying fuck fuck fuck under his breath.