Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  Franco glanced at Lamotta, who answered. “It’s right around sixty grand.”

  “And that’s with the vig running for the past year?”

  Franco got a quizzical look. “The vig? No, that would be illegal, Agent Lange, you’d be talking about a loan shark, extreme high interest rates, extralegal activity. This is all above board. Our interest rates are all in accordance with the criminal usury statutes. Really, this is just a matter of time — our bank will soon make its claim against your brother’s estate and this will all get sorted in probate court.”

  “But you were letting Nick pay off the debt by other means,” Tom said, the nerves really starting to throttle him. He could feel the men close behind him, Lamotta’s staring eyes, but he stayed fixed on Franco.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Franco said. “All I know is that you’ve gone out of your way to come here and talk about repaying your brother’s debt, but we don’t work that way. Again, that would be illegal.” Franco stood up, the palms blowing around out the window as fresh rain swept through. “Now, we’ve shown you every courtesy, gone out of our way to talk to you, respectfully, but the rest of this will be handled in probate court.” He turned away.

  “You mentioned Declan had a problem. Was gambling all you meant?”

  Franco sort of froze, then slowly turned his head back to Tom. “Well, I would say his other problem is that he’s dead. Otherwise, Agent Lange, I don’t know, nor do I give a fuck.”

  One of the men grabbed Tom’s shoulder. The touch jacked his pulse but he got up out of the chair, looked Franco in the eye, said, “Thank you.”

  The men led him out of the room, Franco staying behind in front of that big window, the storm starting to whip again. They moved outside, Tom drenched in seconds, hustled to the car, and they threw him in the back, rather roughly, he thought.

  Driving away, Tom said to Lamotta, “I never asked about Edgar Vasquez.”

  “Guy, I’m tellin’ you . . .”

  “You’re telling me what? You gonna sit there and deny that Palumbo was romancing Vasquez, but Vasquez gave him the cold shoulder, and oops, his car goes speeding up, slams into a semi, kills him and his wife?”

  Lamotta just stared in the mirror. Tom didn’t speak again until they were back at the track, fifteen minutes later.

  “Come on, Lamotta. I know you, you got almost twenty years in this shit, and what’s with this guy? Franco’s been here, what? Two years? And he’s Palumbo’s number two guy all of a sudden, living in his house, acting like he runs southwest Florida. If you want to talk, Rodney, now’s your chance.”

  Lamotta’s forehead wrinkled. “Get the fuck outta the car.”

  One of the men opened the door from the back seat, left, yanked Tom out. As soon as he had solid footing, Tom grabbed the guy, whipped his arm around behind his back and shoved him against the car. Pulled his gun out a split second later, jammed it in the guy’s ribs. Lamotta and the other guy banged out of the car, came running around, but Lamotta stopped the other henchman from doing anything. “Whoa, whoa,” Lamotta said. “Hey, Lange, what the fuck.”

  The man Tom had pinned grit his teeth and moaned as Tom applied upward pressure on the arm, edging it to the breaking point. Tom leaned toward his ear: “What’s your name?”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah? Fuck me?” Tom stared at Lamotta, who was keeping his distance. The other guy had his gun out, pointed down. The rain blurred everything out, warm and soaking. Tom let go of the guy, took a couple big steps back. The guy turned around, rubbing his wrist. He grinned at Tom, a humorless expression that deepened the lines around his eyes. “You’re fucking pathetic. That’s what you got, tough guy?”

  Tom took off his shoulder holster. Let it drop. Pulled out his badge, held it up for the men to see, tossed it aside.

  “Come on,” he said to the guy he’d antagonized. “Come on, motherfucker. Any of you. Fucking come on. I’m not a cop. Right now I’m nothing.”

  Tom heard footsteps. He quickly moved toward the main concourse just in time to see two more men come running out from under the green awning. They slowed when they saw what was going on.

  Five to one, Tom thought.

  Those odds were just fine.

  * * *

  He drove too fast, blood still running from his cut eye, but that jumbled mix of anger and frustration that had been building the past two days — the volume had been turned down. At least for now.

  Fuck it. He didn’t care that Palumbo’s men might have killed him. To feel that way was scary, dangerous, but true. Ben Franco had acted coy, but Tom doubted Palumbo’s number two guy actually knew anything about what happened to Declan. Or, maybe he did; maybe that bald creep was making moves to impress Palumbo, or even to supersede him. If so, Tom thought he’d stirred things up enough so that if anyone in Franco’s cohort was texting and emailing him, the communication would start to reflect what had happened, one way or the other.

  Make them think you’re crazy, unpredictable. It was one thing Jack Vance had taught him when they’d spent time together, discussing the job. Do right by your co-workers, be straight, but the bad guys shouldn’t know whether you were coming or going.

  Sane or insane.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SUNDAY

  He was staring up at the ceiling through a blurred, puffy eye, alone in his bed, sorting through his various aches and pains. He looked over to the side Katie had slept on, as much as three or four times a week for the past few months. No one there.

  His phone rang. Tom checked the time, not yet seven a.m.

  “Director Turnbull. Good morning.”

  “Lange, we caught a major break. I’ve been working with County VNB, Coby’s unit. The death investigation has allowed a few things to open up.”

  Tom sat up, bright bolts of pain in his head and neck. “And?”

  “Turns out Coby has been working with a C.I., a guy named André Rapp. Normally that would be protected information, but these are special circumstances. Rapp was busted a few years ago for possession of a controlled substance with intent to distribute. He’s tied to the Palumbo family. He did two years at Hardee and Coby turned him into a C.I. Reporting on other members of the Palumbo family, what they were doing in there, all that. He gets out and Coby keeps working him. But a week ago he stole a car.”

  “A Chevy Tahoe.”

  “2010 model, took it from a Costco shopping center. Coby found out, went to check up on Rapp at his apartment in Immokalee.”

  Tom got dressed as he listened. Jeans, plain black t-shirt, shoulder holster.

  “So Coby knew. About the Tahoe — he linked it to Heather Moss and our investigation.”

  “It seems so.”

  “Tried to handle it himself by talking to Rapp?”

  “You’re going to get him,” Turnbull said. “Blythe will meet you with a team at the ROC in a half an hour.”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  * * *

  Tom manipulated the Kevlar vest, trying to make it more comfortable as the SWAT vehicle barreled down the highway. Blythe sat in the back seat with him, her body rocking with the movement of the vehicle, her lips a thin line. She was wearing her own bulletproof vest.

  There were five other SWAT members in the huge vehicle, something that looked like it belonged in the military; half tank, half van. The driver turned off the highway onto a residential street, regained speed. Tom looked behind them — a second SWAT vehicle followed.

  He checked his weapon for the third time, making sure the magazine and chamber were clear of debris.

  “Relax,” Blythe said without looking. Then: “You going to tell me what happened to you?”

  “No.”

  She tilted her head back and stared up at the ceiling. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  A voice up front said: “Here we go.”

  Tom blew out some air and closed his eyes a moment. He felt the vehicle slow. When he looked, he
could see the apartment building; white stucco with rusty water stains beneath a downspout on the corner. Four stories, an exterior stairway that zagged back and forth up one side.

  The vehicle jerked to a halt. The doors all opened at once, the team spilled out into the late morning. Blythe squeezed past Tom and he stepped out last.

  SWAT was fast, already moving up the stairs like Special Forces on a raid. Blythe ascended the stairs after them, and Tom followed. He noticed a child, too young for school, standing with his scooter over by the dirty pool opposite the parking lot. The little boy was staring at the men and women in black clothes streaming up to the third floor, now gliding along the balcony, everything quiet, just the whisper of clothing and subtle clacking of body armor.

  Tom hustled to the floor, came around the corner just as two SWAT used a battering ram on apartment 3-F. The door burst open and they poured inside.

  “André Rapp! Florida State Police! We have a warrant!”

  Tom braced himself and stepped through the door, yanked off his sunglasses. More shouts and commotion. A black streak as a SWAT member moved between doorways, checking rooms, the tip of his Colt M4 Carbine leading the way. The apartment was unkempt: a derelict couch faced an enormous flat screen, the TV canted at an angle, a crummy particle-board table sagging beneath it. Hot, stolid air, like Declan’s place, smelling of burnt eggs.

  “Here! Here!”

  Tom darted around Blythe and entered the room where the SWAT member had gone. André Rapp was on his bed, just a mattress and a box spring. He crossed his arms across his face as the SWAT team surrounded him, weapons trained.

  Blythe nudged past Tom, holding out the warrant. “André Thomas Rapp?”

  The guy looked pale for a Floridian, like he’d been holed up in this apartment for too long. His ginger hair was long and frizzy, tied back in a loose ponytail. When he spoke, Tom saw a missing tooth on the lower deck.

  “Jesus, guys! Jesus! How many of you are—? Jesus!”

  “Are you André Rapp?” Blythe stopped right at the foot of the bed.

  “Yes! Yes. Christ. I didn’t do nothing. What are you doing in my house?” He stayed supine, holding up his hands. “You guys scared the shit out of me.”

  “Mr. Rapp, we have a warrant for your arrest.”

  “For what? Jesus! For what? I told you, I didn’t do nothing. I’m clean.”

  “We’re going to need you to come with us,” Blythe said.

  Tom looked around the gloomy bedroom. No windows; the only light came from a fish tank in the corner. Clothes littered the stained carpet. A chintzy desk and a cheap chair occupied one corner, a few papers scattered about.

  “Get him up, please.”

  Two SWAT members did as she asked and hauled André Rapp out of bed. He raised his arms over his head. He was wearing a tank top and an ugly pink pair of shorts, no shoes, and stunk like he hadn’t washed his ass in a few days. They walked him out of the room, Blythe reading him his rights.

  “Let me get my sandals!” Rapp whined. “Jesus!”

  Tom hunted in the mess and found a pair of battered sandals, kicked them over to Rapp. The man stared at Tom’s cuts and bruises, and Tom stared back. Rapp stuck his feet into the sandals and the SWAT jerked him away.

  Tom lingered in the room. No computer in here, nothing remotely techy or sophisticated. He pulled open a couple dresser drawers. “Got a weapon here . . .”

  He quickly snapped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled out the handgun. Looked like a Beretta 9mm. Tom brought it into the living room. They were just about to drag Rapp out the front door.

  “This yours?”

  “Hey! Hey, yeah, that’s mine. It’s totally legal, man.”

  “You’re a felon with a handgun license?”

  “Ah, man. I got the papers for it.”

  “Let’s go,” Blythe said. “Move.”

  Rapp was hauled outside.

  Tom moved through the rest of the apartment and found Rapp’s phone charging in the kitchen. The screen was cracked and there was some gummy substance on the corner. He set down the gun, picked up the phone and swished through the log.

  Nothing. No texts on Rapp’s phone like the ones Tom had received. He left the phone, put the gun back in the drawer and headed out.

  The day seemed brighter after the semidarkness of Rapp’s apartment. Tom descended the stairs as SWAT loaded Rapp into one of the vehicles and slammed the door.

  Blythe was standing on the asphalt, looking at the cars parked in the lot. The slots were numbered, the white paint faded. Tom caught up to her and walked along the slate of cars until they came to an empty spot that corresponded to Rapp’s apartment.

  No stolen Tahoe.

  He started to say something but she stalked back to the waiting SWAT vehicles. “Let’s go talk to him,” she said over her shoulder.

  * * *

  “This is bullshit,” Rapp said in the interrogation room. “What about my human rights, man?” He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of one hand, shackled to the other in front of him. “I mean, coming into someone’s home like that? What if you gave someone a heart attack? How is that even allowed in our society?”

  “You go to a judge,” Blythe said. “The judge signs off on a warrant.”

  “I mean, Christ. It’s just not right.” He gaped at Tom. “Happened to you? I hope that was from the last guy you steamrolled.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you stole a car,” Tom said. He stood by the wall though Blythe had taken her seat across from Rapp.

  “I didn’t steal no car,” Rapp sniveled. “Prove it. Where is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter where it is. We know you stole it.”

  “And we know you’re working for Mario Palumbo,” Blythe said.

  “Who?” Rapp’s head whipped back and forth, looking at the agents.

  “Come on,” Blythe pressed. “Let’s not do this. We know you sold meth for Palumbo for years before you got sent up. We know that you turned into a C.I. once you were at Hardee. You reported to Sergeant Danny Coburn.”

  “I don’t know who that is, man. I don’t know nothing about any of what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re in deep shit,” Blythe said. “Grand theft auto, violation of your parole, and that’s just to begin with. You’re going to go away for a long time. Maybe the rest of your life. Unless you cooperate. How many phones you got?”

  Rapp looked wounded. Even a hardened criminal was vulnerable to the sting of Blythe. He averted his eyes and seemed to shrink a few inches.

  “How many . . . what? Phones I got? One. What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He shook his head and pooched out his lower lip in self-pity. “This system is bullshit, man.”

  Rapp continued to pout and stare at the table. Tom thought the man was lucky if he had an IQ of a hundred. If he’d managed to rehabilitate his right to own a gun it was doubtful he’d done that on his own, let alone be manipulating cell phones.

  “Once again for the recording,” Blythe said. “Where were you on the morning of the 23rd, at eleven a.m.?”

  “I told you, I was out looking for work. I stopped and saw Bobby Olcheck at the garage in Immokalee. He’ll consolidate that.”

  “You mean corroborate.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “You were nowhere near the county jail, or Bonita Springs . . . ?”

  “Look,” Rapp said, trying to get fierce. “I wasn’t anywhere near the jail, or Bonita Springs, and I wasn’t anywhere near Orangetree two nights ago. That’s a fact.”

  Blythe tilted her head. “You want to get real, André? You want to just stop this shit and get real with me for a minute? You’re not fooling anyone. I told you we know you were a civilian informant. So, what happened? Why’d you boost a Chevy Tahoe, why are you running around in it, showing up at all these crime scenes? Why are you shooting at a woman and her kids in Bonita Springs?”

  Tom saw something change in Rapp. It was subtle
, like a psychological mask removed. He leaned toward Blythe, his jaw twitching.

  “You think I’m afraid of you? Why don’t you get real for a second, cop. You think I give a shit about going back inside? At least in there I have some chance at protection.”

  “From whom?”

  Rapp glanced at Tom, and rolled his eyes like Blythe was stupid.

  “From Mario Palumbo?” Blythe asked. “Because right now, it looks like he put you up to this. Right? So I wouldn’t be so sure of how protected you’d be inside. People in jail are dying. So, time to help us, André. Help us put this guy away and stay alive. What did he do? He threatened you? Told you to go after Heather Moss? To poison Sergeant Coburn? We know Coburn met with you two nights ago, just before he died. His movements are tracked, André. He was at your place. When he turned his back, you laced his can of tobacco with potassium cyanide. We’re going through your apartment, your trash, we’ll find the dropper, or whatever you used. Because he’s dead, André. So add to your charges murder one. Killing a cop.”

  Blythe turned on her heel, her face red. “I’m fucking done with this guy.”

  For once, Tom thought, the emotions had gotten to Blythe, too. Coburn was a friend. She couldn’t help it. He did nothing to stop her, and when the door slammed behind her he faced André Rapp.

  “You ever heard of Howard Declan?”

  “Who?”

  “How about Heather Moss? Know who she is?”

  Rapp stared back, his mouth hanging slightly open. Something was working through his mind.

  “You know the name, at least. That’s the woman you shot at, André. And her two little girls. You’re lucky you didn’t hit them.” Tom reached out and clicked off the recorder. “Or I’d jump across this table and beat you half to death.”

  Rapp’s lower lip trembled, but Tom didn’t think it was because of the threat. “He told me not to kill anyone.”

  “Who? Who told you?”

  “He did. The guy who called me. He had a fake voice.”

  Tom’s heart skipped a beat. “Like a voice synthesizer?”

  “He told me I wasn’t going to kill anyone. Just to make it look good.”