Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  They’d been very careful to make sure all food coming into Heather’s hotel room was safe. No ordering take-out, nothing from outside the hotel, only food prepared in the kitchen downstairs, overseen by an agent. But now the agents were gone. Heather could order a midnight snack. Or the killer could try to get to her in another way.

  Because they seemed to be picking off everyone surrounding the case, anyone who knew or might’ve known who they were. And Heather Moss, whether she was aware or not, could be one of those people. She’d certainly been in close proximity to Declan. Tom believed in Heather, but she might not have told him every detail about her interaction with Declan, what he might have told her. The killer could still be after her.

  He reached the hotel, winded again. Instead of going through the main entrance he circled around to the rear loading dock and hurried up the ramp, shoved his way through a cluster of empty laundry bins. The door was locked. He used the key he’d been given by the hotel manager and slipped inside.

  At this late hour, the kitchen was semi-dark and quiet, redolent of spoiled food and grease. One man in a greasy apron was mopping an area near tall chrome refrigerators. He glanced at Tom, who had his badge ready. “Anyone order something for room 702?”

  The cook moved toward a huge, cast iron range dominating the room. A couple of yellow tickets hung over the line, rattling in the air sucked up a massive exhaust fan. “No, nothing for 702.”

  Tom pushed through another door and into a service hallway. From there he stepped into the stairwell.

  The door banged shut behind him, the sound reverberating. He started up. Stopped on the second floor when a door above him opened and closed.

  Footsteps scratched over the concrete stairs.

  Tom stayed pressed against the wall, breathing shallow, hearing his heart beat in his ears.

  Another door slammed. No more footsteps. He continued on up.

  Just before the fourth floor, he skidded to a stop when the door opened again. A man in a bathrobe held a bucket. The man went white as a sheet and stared down at Tom, half a flight below him, and at the gun in Tom’s grip.

  “Ice machine is out, uh, on my floor.”

  “Sorry.”

  The hotel guest moved down the stairs, grimacing as he passed Tom, spared one last nervous look before opening the third-floor door.

  Tom continued up. Reached the top floor and rounded the corner, found Culpepper still surfing the internet on his phone, oblivious to the chaos outside.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “We’re going?” Culpepper’s eyes got wide.

  “We’re going,” Tom said.

  He started into his room, and Culpepper caught up to him. “Hey — everybody got pulled this evening except me. We lost the wit-pro?”

  Culpepper looked Tom up and down, worry hardening his boyish features. “You’re bleeding, Lange. And you look like you just ran a marathon. What the hell is happening?”

  Tom noticed his pants were dirty, bits of mud and grass clung to his shoes. The bandage on his hand was flapping loose. “What’s happening is we were denied funding. And with the security detail gone, someone could move in on us.”

  “Who? Something happen out there?” Culpepper started away, as if to the windows at the end of the hallway.

  “Damien, the hotel isn’t safe. People know we’re here.”

  “You gonna call the ROC? Speak to Turnbull?”

  “Already did; he’s working on it. But his hands are tied. He’s got the assistant commissioner to deal with.”

  “I don’t get it. She’s clearly in danger.”

  “Exactly. And that’s all that matters.”

  Culpepper seemed to weigh all of this as his eyes wandered the hallway. Then he nodded. “Alright. Let’s get them out of here.”

  Tom clamped a hand on Culpepper’s shoulder. “Let me borrow your phone.”

  He slipped into his room and stripped out of his clothes, threw the filthy bandage in the trash, dressed in clean clothes, packed up his computer and a hold-all of files. Before leaving, he moved aside the curtain and looked out at the emergency lights blazing in the distance. He couldn’t believe Coburn was dead.

  He keyed in Blythe’s number.

  “Lauren?”

  “Tom? Whose phone is this?”

  “I’m getting Heather and the girls out. It’s Culpepper’s phone. He’s the only guy I got left.”

  “Now? You’re taking them now?”

  “Yes, now. I saw it, Lauren — black Tahoe, smoked out windows. Same as yesterday.”

  She was silent. Tom could hear radio chatter in the background.

  “Are you at the scene?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I got a partial on the plate — 18-E. Can you relay it to Machado, Pierce, get them on DMV? And meet me downstairs in ten minutes.”

  He hung up, left the room and set his bags down in the corridor. Culpepper opened up Heather’s room with the key card. He expected to find her sleeping, but as he moved into the space he saw her silhouette in front of the window. The girls were sharing one of the two double beds; two small unmoving lumps.

  She turned as Tom neared and went to him, quickly.

  “What’s going on? Everything alright?”

  “There was an accident. We gotta go.”

  “Why? We’re not safe?”

  He’d come into the room with all sorts of plans about what he would say to her, how he would motivate but not alarm her. As he looked into her eyes, shining in the semidarkness, those plans vanished.

  “No,” he said. “We’re not safe.”

  * * *

  Culpepper led the way to the elevators. Tom held Olivia, her head draped over his shoulder. She was asleep but stirring. Heather was beside him, Abigail passed out in her arms, the girl wearing footie pajamas.

  “We left all the bags,” Heather said. “Our things . . .”

  “We’ll get them later.”

  They waited in silence as the elevator rose to the top floor and the doors opened.

  “Let’s take the stairs instead,” Tom said.

  No one argued as they stepped into the stairwell and started down. The girls were becoming more awake with all the movement.

  “Mommy?” Olivia was bleary-eyed with sleep.

  “It’s okay, honey. Just a little adventure. Hang on tight to Agent Lange.”

  They rounded the flights down. Nearing the ground floor, Heather said, “I don’t understand. How could they just take away the security?”

  “We’re going to resubmit,” Tom said. “We’ll contact the U.S. Marshall Service. But, it’s going to take a little while.”

  As they poured out of the stairwell into the lobby, Olivia arched her head back to look at Tom. Then she looked around for Heather. “It’s night time.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You look sweaty.”

  “Guess I’m out of shape.”

  Tom moved them toward a section of couches and chairs near the front. The hotel security guard was watching, as was the lone clerk at the wide front desk. Tom set Olivia in one of the chairs, spoke briefly to the security guard, and told Culpepper to sit tight with the girls.

  Then he pushed through the front door and stepped out into the humid night.

  He scanned the parking lot for any potential threats. Over a hundred cars, impossible to discern a black SUV parked among them. He reached the Durango, the alarm chirped as he pressed the fob. He piloted the vehicle to the entrance, pulling right up to the doors with barely any room to spare.

  Culpepper saw him through the glass, got Heather moving. Heather still carried Abigail, who was awake now, too, and looking at everything with depthless eyes. Seeing Heather’s face released an unexpected memory — Tom and Nick as little boys, and their mother putting them into the back of the family Jeep in the middle of the night.

  The rear door opened and Tom snapped back to attention. He hopped out of the Durango, kept his eyes moving. Heather put Abiga
il in her car seat, while Tom helped Olivia into hers.

  “Where are we going?” Olivia asked.

  “I don’t know, honey.”

  A vehicle approached. Tom tensed, then recognized Blythe’s Crown Vic.

  He finished snapping Olivia in. Culpepper had moved to the front of the Durango, but now he approached Blythe’s car as it slowed. His hand rested on the grip of his weapon.

  “It’s okay,” Tom said to Culpepper. “She’s with us.”

  He turned back to Heather.

  “Where do you want me?” Their eyes connected across the back seat.

  “In between them. Get under those blankets, okay?”

  “Okay.” Heather grunted and squeezed into the Durango’s back seat. “Well, let’s see if Mommy’s butt can fit in here . . .”

  Despite the tension, the late hour, Tom felt his heart lift at her humor.

  With the three of them secured in the Durango, he closed the door and headed toward Blythe, who’d parked in front and gotten out.

  She looked ashen in the hotel lobby light, concern wrinkling her forehead. “What’s going on, Tom? What the hell happened? Why was Coburn here?”

  Tom moved them out of Culpepper’s earshot. The agent seemed to understand and repositioned himself beside the Durango, guarding the family inside.

  “Coby came to talk to me, Lauren. I called him.”

  “About what?”

  “To discuss Declan. Coby’s unit was hacked. Data on Palumbo’s crew, and data on Declan was stolen electronically.”

  “Declan? He said Declan was never under surveillance.”

  “Not directly, he said. But they had bulk data, collected from everyone in range of the StingRay used to watch Palumbo and Vasquez; to watch the track. And that info was used against Declan. My guess is someone executed him because the normal channels wouldn’t have worked.”

  “What? Who?”

  “I still don’t think Palumbo would be this elaborate. As for Vasquez it doesn’t make a lot of sense. Coby thought the timing was off. So, maybe other cops.”

  “Other cops?”

  “I said maybe, I don’t know. Or, some sort of para-law enforcement. Someone who wanted to take Declan down for the child pornography, but couldn’t go about it through the courts, the prosecutors, because of the privacy issue.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him. “Those are serious fucking allegations, Tom.”

  “I know they are. But this is coming from Coby. He was obviously blowing the whistle. What did the ME say?”

  “Well, he only just got there a few minutes before I did . . .”

  Tom waited. He knew Blythe had already assessed the scene on the highway and would have her suspicions. Lauren Blythe was not a time-waster. “He said it looked like Coburn had suffered some kind of attack. Like a stroke or a heart attack, lost control and collided with the other driver.”

  “He was killed the same way as Declan and Hamer. He was given potassium cyanide.”

  “How?”

  “I think his tobacco. We need to get his tin checked.”

  Her frown deepened. “Come on . . . This is . . .” She put her hands on her hips, swept the night with her gaze, said, “God dammit.”

  “It sounds like someone is picking off people who are close to this thing, or a part of it. Brian Hamer probably performed the hack. Heather Moss was the instrument they used to kill Declan, and Coby suspected it has to do with this theft of their surveillance information.”

  “All this for a small-town pedophile? Now who’s suggesting something overly elaborate?”

  “Well, Coby was working with CID, everybody hoping to make the case that Declan was involved with the Edgar Vasquez car accident. Maybe someone was pressuring Declan to talk, threatening to expose him unless he turned state’s on Palumbo.”

  “See?” Her eyes were sharp. “So we’re back to Palumbo again. Palumbo kills Declan so he won’t talk.”

  Tom shook his head. “But Coby didn’t say anything about evidence that Declan was really involved.”

  “Doesn’t mean he wasn’t. Declan was seen at the dog track all the time. His trade was auto mechanics.” She bit down on the words. “Fuck, Tom. This thing is a fucking merry-go-round.”

  “Nobody slashes brake lines, and you know it. Even if Declan messed with Vasquez’s car computer or something . . .” Tom trailed off, new ideas forming, then jumped back on track: “Either way, yeah, if we’re back to Palumbo, we’re back to it still not adding up that Palumbo would wait until Declan was in jail.” Tom glanced into the Durango, at the expectant faces of Heather and the two girls. “Lauren, I gotta get them out of here.”

  “You’re sure you saw the same vehicle.”

  “Same as the drive-by. Dark SUV. Did anything come back yet on the tags?”

  “Not yet, but, Tom . . .” She stuck out her chin, spread her hands. “What? You’re not going to tell me where you’re going? Tom, this isn’t . . .”

  He knew what she wanted to say, that he was doing an end-run around procedure. Not too long ago the shoe had been on the other foot. But he had no choice; at this point, it all had to be quiet, off the air, because who knew how deep this thing went.

  He avoided her glare and opened the door to the Durango. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

  Culpepper sensed imminent departure and circled round to the passenger side, got in. As soon as the door closed, Tom hit the gas.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Here it is,” Tom said. “Home sweet home.”

  He’d watched their backs every mile between the hotel and here and was as sure as he could be that they hadn’t been followed. They’d entered the gated community where he lived, the security guard giving them quite the look. Otherwise, middle of the night, not a soul around.

  “This is where you live?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “Which one? All the houses look the same.”

  “Livy . . .” Heather said.

  “Yeah, they do,” Tom said, pulling into his short driveway. And it was a good thing, too. Plus, he’d been in Bonita Springs so briefly he hadn’t even updated his address in the state bureau’s registry yet. The only people who knew he lived here besides Blythe were Katie Mills and Jack Vance.

  “They all look the same,” Olivia repeated. “Gnome sayin’?”

  Tom shared a glance with Culpepper. The agent formed a crooked grin as Olivia spelled out: “G-n-o-m-e. The ‘G’ is silent. Gnome sayin’?”

  He hit the button, the garage door opened and he rolled in, killed the engine, pressed the button again and the garage closed up.

  Safe.

  “Alright girls,” Heather said. She started unstrapping their harnesses. “Ready?”

  Abigail was fully awake. “Eddy!”

  Tom got out, circled round to Olivia and helped her out. She had rings of fatigue beneath the bright pools of her eyes. Tom thought she looked a lot like her mother. “You a spelling bee champ or what?”

  “No. I got third place in the spelling bee.”

  “Well that’s alright,” Tom said.

  Culpepper helped Abigail and Heather out the other side, then they made their way into the condo. Heather took the girls upstairs to get them settled back into bed.

  Tom went into the kitchen with Culpepper, got them a glass of water each. They listened to upstairs commotion — the patter of little feet down the hallway, the running of tap water, flushing of the toilet. The soft murmur of Heather’s voice and occasional chirp from Abigail.

  “Nice place,” Culpepper said.

  “I thought it was more than I needed.”

  “Well you never know when you’re going to have refugees staying over.” He drank the last of his water with a gulp. “Where do you want me, boss?”

  Tom collected the glasses and brought them to the sink. “You know I started up with the department six months after you, right?”

  “You mentioned while we were on GP. But you’re st
ill the boss anyway.”

  “Thanks for this, Damien.”

  He could still feel the adrenaline, like an electric current through his body. And something else, more than a mere sense of duty to Heather’s girls, an ache to keep them safe.

  Standing in the doorway, Culpepper winked. They’d kept the kitchen lights off, but the agent was faintly backlit by the lone illuminated lamp in the living room.

  “No prob,” Culpepper said. “I still have three hours on my shift. You want me right out in front of the door?”

  “That would be great; keep out of sight if you can.”

  “I’ll check in with you at six.”

  Culpepper was quiet as he stepped out of the condo.

  * * *

  Tom heard soft footfalls coming down the carpeted stairs. Heather walked into the living room, rolling the sleeves of her sweatshirt. Then she stopped and gave the wall a long look.

  “This is interesting.” She used a voice Tom thought was practiced in the art of keeping the girls asleep, somewhere in between normal volume and a whisper. She was gazing at his collage of photos and news clippings.

  “Let’s go in here.”

  He led her into the kitchen and offered her a seat at the table. Then he leaned against the sink counter. “Everybody okay?”

  “Took a little bit to get Abigail settled again. We had to go through the whole nightly ritual all over again — brushing her teeth, having a glass of water, sitting on the potty. I found a new toothbrush still in the packaging, hope that’s okay.”

  “Anything you need. You hungry? Want a drink?”

  “I can get it.”

  She rose from the table. He stepped aside as she picked up one of the glasses out of the sink and ran the tap into it.

  “Agent Culpepper and I just used those.”

  She took a big drink of water and smacked her lips. “Please. I pick boogers out of little girl noses with my pinky finger.” She finished the water, set the empty glass back in the sink. Then she returned to the table and sat down. “So. Agent Lange. What is going on?”

  “You can call me Tom, if you want.”

  “Okay, Tom. How bad is it?”