“Where is he?”
“He’s still on the move.” The agent was gasping for breath.
Tom looked up the road — Old 41 was bisected with a median, young palms had recently been planted, propped up with wood framing. Ernst dashed between two of the trees, headed into Riverside Park. Tom waited for the federal agent to catch up, directed her to stay with Culpepper, and took off running again. That was two people down, two people Ernst had fired upon. People Tom thought of as friends. Now Ernst was entering a public space, still armed.
A car came slowly past and Tom ran across the street behind it. As he closed in on the park he saw the people gathering for the first night of a blues music festival. It was on the stage with the roof resembling a massive scallop shell; a semi-circular ridged shape with lighting trusses hung beneath. The band was setting up microphone stands, a musician was testing his drum kit. At least a hundred people were milling about, more wandering in.
Someone screamed. Tom watched the crowd ripple, and people started to run, more shouting and bright screams. He cut through them, yelling for everybody to get down. Then he saw Ernst now on the other side of the crowd, skirting the water fountain, cutting a route toward the large Banyan tree at the far edge of the park. Got on the radio. “He’s headed right for the Imperial River.”
He ran some more, around the fountain, full sprint across the lawn, saw Ernst drop down onto the docks beside the river.
“He’s in the water,” someone said over the radio. “He’s in the water.”
Tom caught sight of another agent up on the bridge spanning the river. The agent stopped, spread his legs, aimed down into the water. It was Blake Turnbull. “Stop! Florida Department of Law Enforcement!”
Tom heard splashing, saw Turnbull get running again. Tom slowed, crept to the edge of the lawn, dropped down in case Ernst was just in the shallow river, waiting for him to show his face. Tom crawled on his elbows and knees to the berm, peeked down at the docks and water. Saw Ernst, and Ernst fired.
The round struck the berm, blasting out flints of concrete. Tom waited, got his gun ready, popped his head up, fired back. Saw his three shots hit the water, and Ernst running away. Tom swung his hips and legs over the berm and dropped onto the dock, ran up to where it ended at the river bank, partly concealing himself behind a rack of rentable kayaks.
“Robert!”
He waited. Couldn’t see the lawyer, but heard the sloshing of water.
Ernst’s voice floated back: “What?”
“Come on, buddy. There’s people all over the place.”
Ernst didn’t reply, just more slopping of water.
“Fuck,” Tom muttered. He looked back, could just see over the edge of the berm into the park, where agents were holding back the foolishly curious, and Turnbull came running up. Tom nodded at him, stripped off his radio, took out his phone, wallet, badge, left them on the dock and slipped into the water.
Warm. Not like the rivers from back home. The few times he’d been able to dabble in nature during those days, the water was cold even in summer. The Imperial was sluggish, the water a kind of steely opaque. The river bent off to the left, and Tom stayed up to his knees along the muddy banks with the Remington, sighting downstream for the crazy fucking lawyer.
Tom made his way around the bend; the train tracks were next, crossing above and he stopped before moving ahead into the short dark tunnel.
“Robert!”
Nothing. No response from the lawyer, no more sounds of him swishing through the water. Tom aimed up at the tracks, down one way, then the other, saw nothing. Then he heard something snap, and someone shouted, followed by a splash.
Saw Ernst on the other side of the tunnel, flailing in the water, holding his gun above his head. It looked like he’d fallen, grabbed a branch and broken it — something floated beside him in the water as he struggled to get back to shore. He turned and looked through the tunnel at Tom, and Tom got moving faster, but the river was getting deep; not shallow beneath the tracks. He went as far as he dared, just above his waist, and strained to keep an eye on the lawyer as Ernst moved back toward the riverbank and out of sight.
There were supposedly manatees in this river.
A few locals said there were gators, too.
Tom grew less comfortable by the second. He didn’t want to swim the tunnel.
“Robert? You okay?”
“Fuck you,” Ernst called back. “You should have listened.”
“Come on, man. Your gun is wet. Listen, I can prove that Vasquez was killed by Ben Franco and his guys. They hacked his car computer, locked up the steering, controlled the acceleration. So that’s not on you. Give it up, let’s talk.”
Tom could just see the edge of the lawyer’s arm, leg. The river water cruised through the tunnel, dark shapes moving beneath the surface. Or Tom’s mind playing tricks.
Robert’s voice: “You won’t shoot me?”
“I got enough on my plate, Robert.”
There was a long silence, broken by noises behind Tom. He tensed, gave a hunched look behind him, saw a couple of FDLE agents working their way around the river bend toward him, looking even less pleased to be in the water than he was. Tom held a hand up, stopping them, then pointed through the bridge.
The first agent nodded. Then Tom made a gesture suggesting they climb back out of the river, cross the tracks on land so they could flank Ernst. Another nod, the first agent turned back to the second, then they started pushing up through the shrubby riverbank.
Ernst seemed to be staying put. Tom wanted a better view of him. He sighed, waded in deeper, holding the shotgun above the surface. Then he was up to his neck, able to move under the railroad bridge, and as he passed beneath, Robert came into view.
The lawyer had the handgun pointed up under his chin.
“Hey!” Tom tried to move faster, but it was impossible. He’d have to let go of the shotgun, have to swim for it. “Robert, ah, man, come on . . .”
Robert just looked at Tom. “It’s not wet,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
She was mad at him. Furious. Charlie had to hold her back.
Heather wanted to know why they hadn’t just told her what was going on, that they were going to have the girls sneaked out of her own house like that. He tried to explain that he’d wanted everything to feel as normal as possible when Ernst first walked in — “Even if it meant fear in your eyes, fear for your daughters; we just wanted to give you and Charlie the chance to confront him, see what he said.”
Tom was still wet, and dried off with one of her bathroom towels as Heather calmed down and was reunited with her girls. The agents had rallied at Heather’s house after the river. When Ernst shot himself, Tom had tossed the shotgun to the riverbank, swum for him, knowing it was too late, watching as the lawyer’s limp body slipped slowly into the water, listening as the agents in the bushes shouted into their radios and others shouted back.
He’d finally stood there, a stray scream drifting in from the civilians in the park, probably people who’d heard the final gunshot echoing around.
County cops had shown up quick, locked down the scene. Tom walked back, soaked, all the way to Heather’s, and eventually, the rest of them had converged there, too, and were mostly standing around outside, smoking, awaiting the cavalry, the questions, and the next moves.
The next moves.
Truth was, Tom hadn’t expected Ernst to run. They’d been prepared for it, but the lawyer had been so self-assured and seemingly delusional that there was just as good a chance he’d continue trying to convince Heather and Charlie of what his intentions were; try to worm around the whole thing, continue manipulating them.
And then there was the gun. Probably when clearing out his cameras, Ernst had hidden it in the kitchen, just behind the refrigerator, practically out in the open, where no one had checked. A backup, in case Tom double-crossed him.
Heather was sharp as ever, and she’d seen the
doubts in Tom’s eyes, and condemned him for it.
She sat with her girls on the couch in her house, and she looked away. As he left, Olivia raised her hand, and Tom waved back.
“I’m sorry,” he said to Heather, and stepped outside. It seemed like his life lately was one apology after another. So be it.
* * *
Ben Franco was arrested at Palumbo’s Gulf Shore mansion along with half a dozen other Palumbo employees in a massive raid. In his confession, false or otherwise, Rapp had cited Franco as his employer, and vice narcotics had been compelled by the court to turn over the sequestered evidence on the vehicle tampering which led to Edgar Vasquez’s death.
An FBI team flooded into the dog track the same day, through the bar, up the stairs, past the poker rooms to the offices near the back of the building. Tom had gone along.
He stood in proximity to Mario Palumbo for the first time; same round face, pock-marked olive complexion as the pictures. Same dark eyes, pursed lips that turned down a bit at the corners in a pout. The feds had reopened their RICO files and were hitting Palumbo with extended criminal penalties for his ongoing criminal organization. He was dressed in a three-piece suit, smelled of cigars and cologne, and he came willingly with the agents, like it was business as usual.
* * *
Blythe clicked her pen on and off, leaning over in her chair, staring at Tom in the Naples field office. Her arm was in a sling; it had been a clean shot, gone straight through. A real miracle this time, not something made to look a certain way.
“So,” she said.
“So.”
Her eyes lingered on him, then she turned to some papers on her desk. “Talked to Mrs. Shannon, this morning, from the Silver Shell on Marco Island. She came in, looked at photos, and in front of witnesses identified Robert Ernst as someone from her anniversary party. He was there the same night we’ve put Brian Hamer there. Ernst’s computer shows that they’d been talking for months — maybe keeping in touch even for years — but we think that was their first in-person meeting in a long while, kicked this whole thing off. You want coffee? There’s some fresh.”
“No thanks.”
“You off coffee?”
He shrugged. “Think I can be a little high strung. Maybe I don’t need it.”
She tilted her head, her lip curling into a sly smile. “Smoking?”
“Yeah. Keeps me calm.”
“It’s poison. They say it’s self-destructive.”
“One day at a time.”
She spun in the chair a half turn, then launched to her feet, adjusted her sling. He watched her move to the kitchenette, asked, “How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” After she poured a cup, she kept her back to him and said, “We spoke to the judge. In New York. She’s still there, in Yonkers.”
Tom’s ears pricked up. No one had directly discussed the circumstances of his application to the department yet. Blythe slowly turned around, leaned against the counter and took a casual sip. Most casual.
“Blythe? Come on. You’re killing me.”
She peered at him. “You still want this job?”
“You still want me on this job?”
She set the cup down, looked into a corner for a moment, said, “You know, judges are judges for a reason. They make decisions. This one made a decision to seal your records. She said that given your family situation, what she made of you, she handed out an ACOD. You didn’t get in trouble again during the probationary year, so it got dropped.”
Tom was on the edge of his seat, now he slowly slumped back, feeling mixed emotions. He’d never looked back from his Yonkers bust, not until he’d been gearing up to be a cop, and then he’d only looked at it with half an eye.
Blythe seemed to pick up on the thought. “We’re pretty terrible when it comes to our own lives,” she said. “Don’t beat yourself up. But regardless of whether the charges were cleared, you still had an obligation to report it when you applied to the department. What this means for you isn’t in my hands. If they push you through, though, you’ve still got about a dozen other issues to deal with if you want to keep working. For one, you’ve got to finish therapy, and you’ve got about a month to go through with Internal Affairs.”
He slowly got up from the chair, legs rubbery. He crossed to Blythe who watched him come, blushing as he neared. He put his arms around her. She was stiff, but then she softened. He didn’t push it though, and quickly let her go.
Her eyes flashed up at him briefly before she stepped away. “And anger management classes, Lange. Starting tomorrow. Non-negotiable.”
* * *
Culpepper was asleep in the hospital bed. The machines hooked into him were beeping and hissing. An afternoon storm was grumbling out the windows, palms waving their fronds, the Gulf just visible beyond, a horizon of choppy, gunmetal water.
Tom put a hand on the agent, thanked him but didn’t wake him. He sat in the chair in the corner and called Katie.
She didn’t answer but he left her a voice message. Then he just sat there.
He jerked awake; been dozing, and his phone was vibrating in his lap. He checked the caller ID and saw Rhodes’ number.
“Rhodes,” Tom said, “I thought you were a beautiful woman.”
“Happens all the time,” Rhodes said, then laughed his gravely smoker’s laugh. “You get cut loose or what?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Hey, so I know it’s only been a few days since you cracked this thing, super boy, but how’s it going?”
Tom stood, moved away from Culpepper’s bed, looked out into the hallway where a couple of nurses were talking quietly. “Well, Palumbo’s out on bail. Franco isn’t though, so that’s something.”
“Trial?”
“You know how it goes. Maybe in a year. Palumbo’s defense team is piling on the paperwork, filing every motion known to man, trying to get the whole thing thrown out.”
“Yeah . . . well, listen; I got a thing. I know you’re probably chained to IAB and the legal shenanigans, but I got a boat.”
“You got a boat?”
“Yeah. I picked up a boat.” Rhodes cackled. “I don’t know. I got to get out, you know? See some shit. You want to take a ride? You ought to take some time, man. It’s an airboat, like the one from that place . . . Jungle Ned. What do you say? Life is short.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Yeah? Alright. Just got to do a little fix-up work on her. I’ll call you when she’s ready.”
Tom canceled the call and went back to the chair, sat down. Stared out as the storm took shape, the sky darkened, the rain fell and slapped against the glass.
A text came in. From Katie this time.
U okay?
He quickly wrote back, feeling light: Yeah.
Talk soon, okay?
Okay.
His next call would be to Vance. He deserved to know the whole story, too. If this whole thing with the state bureau ultimately fell apart there was the possibility of them working together . . . But it could wait. Tom put the phone away, let his head fall back.
Rested.
THE END
November 12, 2017
TJB
Etown
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank Sergeant Andrew Smith, who lives and works in southwest Florida, for his invaluable inspiration and consultation on this book.
My father, James J. Brearton, for his unwavering support of my crazy writing obsession, for facilitating a book set in Florida by living there, and for many of the details that have brought Tom Lange’s world to life.
Thanks to my early readers – Bob Sirrine, John Ramirez, and Clare Midgley – for such helpful feedback and constructive criticism. And thanks to all the friends and family in my corner – Dava Clement-Brearton, Jude Brearton, Oak and Ann Clement, Geoff Pierce, David Press, Jennifer Bulkley, Lee Clark Smith, Jennifer Person Beiring, Marie Morgan – you keep me going!
Thank you to Caroline Oakley, my edi
tor for this one, who pushed me to develop and improve critical parts of this story while she pruned the prose. Thanks to Jasper Joffe and everyone at Joffe Books for their continuing enthusiasm and the opportunity to keep sharing these stories with you. And of course my thanks to you, dear reader, for reading, for supporting, for allowing me to keep doing this writing thing.
Without you, and without all of these wonderful people, this book would not be possible.
BOOK 3: DEAD OR ALIVE
A gripping mystery full of killer twists
T.J. BREARTON
First published 2019
Joffe Books, London
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.
©T.J. Brearton
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www.joffebooks.com
For Ann and Debbie
CHAPTER ONE: EYE OF THE STORM
The thieves waited for the eye of the storm to pass over Naples. Winds shrieked and bent the palm trees, driving the rain into angry swarms. The SUV felt like it was going to get blown away.
The lookout took a drag on his e-cig and tried to calm his nerves. He watched as the water rose into a river along Gulf Shore Road. Fucking hurricanes. Fucking Florida.
“Put that out,” said the guy in the back seat.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 58
