DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  “I was telling you a little about myself. You don’t want to hear?”

  He found himself grinning at her shtick. “I’m sorry. You have a very interesting life story. I just . . . I have an early appointment.”

  “You made me wait. Acted all cop-like and wouldn’t tell me what’s happening. I’m not stupid.”

  “I didn’t think you were.”

  “You’re here, means something real bad happened.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  She scowled at him and stuck out her lips for effect. “Gee, officer, are you trying to get me to say something? Such clever tactics.”

  Tom didn’t reply. She sat back and looked away. “Carrie is a pretty private person. No drugs, though — that girl is clean as a whistle.”

  He pulled out his notepad and wrote a few things down. “So you’re friends with her.”

  “Yeah, you could say that. We went out for breakfast a couple times, back when we had the same shift. But that was months ago.”

  “You last saw her on Tuesday, you said. Was that at work?”

  “Yes. At Hush.”

  “What time?”

  “At seven. During shift change. There’s day shifts and night shifts at Hush. Plus bump shifts, midnight to three, which is what I worked tonight. Daytime there’s no cover at the door.” She winked.

  “So it was a Tuesday day shift?” Tom could think of few things as depressing as grown men in a strip club on a Tuesday afternoon.

  “That’s right. I was coming on to the night shift. She was leaving her day shift.”

  She re-crossed her legs and gulped more beer.

  “Did you see anyone? Did Carrie talk to anyone?”

  “No. We talked by the bar for a minute, then she went out the side door.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “She seemed fine. The usual. I asked how the day went, she said it was slow. I mean, Carrie was never what you’d call — I don’t know — spirited? She had this kind of . . .” Sasha made a mopey face. Then she flashed a smile. “But we loved her. She was sweet. Good heart, that girl. Just, I dunno, not much to her.”

  “Not much to her?”

  “Yeah. I mean, pleasant and all, but . . . you know.”

  “Just sort of average, maybe, you mean.”

  “Is that terrible of me to say?”

  “I don’t think so. But Carrie didn’t act distressed? Worried about anything?”

  Sasha’s eyes bunched with scrutiny. “Um, no, I wouldn’t say. I mean, but, that’s what I’m talking about. You couldn’t always say with Carrie.”

  “Nothing specific?”

  “No. Nothing comes to mind.” She glanced away from him.

  He felt like Sasha had just told him her first lie.

  “Did Carrie work anywhere other than Hush?”

  “No, not any other clubs. I do, though.”

  “Where else do you work?”

  “At Kronos. That’s where I really make my bank. I want to leave Hush. But, you know, the money can be good on the weekends, and I’m still new at Kronos so I haven’t gotten any prime spots yet. I will, though.” Sasha sniffed and touched her nose.

  “Do you mind if I ask — about how much do you pull in a week?”

  “Me?” She got a sly smile on her perfect face. “I can easily clear two grand.”

  “Damn.” Tom’s starting salary for the bureau was $48,000 a year, which, after a quick mental calculation, he realized was less than half of what Sasha made per week. “I’m in the wrong line of work.”

  Her eyes lit up and she leaned toward him. “Yeah . . .” She looked him up and down. “Oh, you could totally do it. They have men’s strip clubs you know. Yeah, I could see you. You’ve got the body for it. Face isn’t bad either. Just that little scar by your eye.”

  Her candor made him slightly uncomfortable and he blushed. He tried to get them back on track.

  “So, altogether, Carrie missed — what — two or three shifts?”

  “What’s today? Monday?”

  He glanced at the window, dawn colors turning to blue. “Tuesday. It’s been almost a week since she was last seen at the club.”

  “And she’s dead. That thingy online, it just said she was deceased, but not how, or where.”

  “I promise we’ll get to that. Just—”

  “Fine,” she said. “Carrie should’ve worked Wednesday night. She was no-call, no-show. Then Thursday, same thing.”

  “And then you and some of the girls went to her apartment. What day was that?”

  “We went by on Saturday. Me and Ricki and T. Ugh, her landlord showed up. He’s such a wormy little dude. He hadn’t seen her. He ran us outta there, said we were violating her privacy.”

  “Okay.” He wrote down, Landlord. “And then you decided to check NamUs, the online thingy. How did you hear about it?”

  She pointed a fire-engine red fingernail at the TV. “There’s a public service announcement for it. Saw one yesterday.”

  “So you looked for her as a missing person.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about Naples, Sasha? Carrie ever talk about Naples? Have family there, friends that you know about? She ever talk about her parents, or where they might live?”

  “Naples, no, I don’t think so. She didn’t talk about her family. Well, she mentioned her momma once. But I don’t think she lives in Naples. In the Midwest, I think.”

  “Did Carrie have a boyfriend? Maybe someone she visited there?”

  Sasha finished the beer, licked her lips and shook her head. “No. Uh-uh. She had an ex though. Ex-husband.”

  Tom felt a spark in his gut. “Really? How recently divorced?”

  “Um, couple years, I guess. Maybe less.”

  “Where is he? Local?”

  She nodded. “Yup. Far as I know. He has the kid. He raises it.”

  “A kid? Carrie had a child?”

  “Yup, uh-huh.” Sasha got a distant look as Tom scribbled down the highlights. Ex-hub. Kid. Something had changed, maybe it was getting too real for Sasha. Or maybe she was just coming down from a high. She touched her nose again.

  “Okay,” he said, “does she see the child? Do you know its name?”

  Sasha stood abruptly, as if remembering something. “Do you want another . . .? Oh, right.” She walked back to the kitchen and fished out another beer. “She doesn’t see the kid, no.”

  “What’s her ex’s name?”

  “Who? Oh, him? He’s, ah, Steve. Hobson, I think.”

  She returned to the couch and drank some more, her playfulness gone.

  “Is it Hobson?”

  Sasha gave him a look. “Yeah. Steve Hobson. I mean, that’s her last name. Carrie Hobson. She said once to me she’d gone through all the trouble of changing her name to his and hadn’t gotten around to changing it back after they split.”

  “Do you know what her maiden name was?”

  “No. I guess I never asked.”

  “Okay.” He set down the pad and thought for a moment. The sunlight was spreading in the windows, brightening the room. He put his hands together and leaned toward her. “Listen, thank you for talking with me. I’m really grateful. When we found Carrie — if it is Carrie — she was in rough shape. Not recognizable.”

  Sasha put a hand over her mouth.

  Tom spoke carefully. “I should’ve asked when I first came in, but I’ve been enjoying your home, and talking to you . . . Do you have a picture of Carrie anywhere?”

  “Oh,” she said, as if snapping out of a trance. “Yeah, sure.” She bounced up off the couch, her energy restored, and left the room. Tom rose from the couch and looked around some more.

  “Here we go.” She reentered the room holding up a framed picture of several scantily clad girls, displaying it with the same pride she’d shown for her guns. “Here we all are.”

  He recognized Sasha, somewhat taller than the rest. And then the woman who resembled the artist’s sketch to a tee. He though
t of her lying on the medical gurney. Sasha tapped the glass. “That’s Carrie. Isn’t she sweet?”

  She did look sweet, he supposed. Somehow more “wholesome” than the others, though he knew that was a superficial judgment. But where Sasha, for instance, had more angular, model-like features, Carrie was a bit rounder in the face.

  “I don’t suppose you’d let me take that for a little while?”

  Sasha clutched the photo to her chest and looked mortified. “My girls!”

  “How about I take a picture of it?”

  “Sure . . . Okay.”

  “Great, maybe over here by the light.”

  He had her hold it so the glass wouldn’t glare, then took several shots with his phone.

  “Just don’t sell those online, or something. Bosco would kill you.”

  He put his phone away. “That’s the owner? Bosco?”

  Her forehead rumpled again with one of her deep scowls. “Bosco? Hell no. He’s the bouncer. He was there tonight. He acts like he owns the place, though.”

  “Who does own it?” Tom walked back to the couch to retrieve his notebook.

  “Um, he’s an Italian guy. Mario Palumbo. Real Italian, you know? With the chest hair and gold neck chains.” She flapped a hand near her breasts for effect. “But he’s hardly ever there. Bosco actually does the hiring.”

  “Bosco does? The bouncer?”

  “Yeah. He’s a real talent scout.”

  Tom thought of the meathead who’d been at the door. Who knew? Maybe he had the magic touch. “So Bosco hired Carrie. How long has she worked there?”

  Sasha set down the photo and picked up her beer. “She started just a couple months after me. So, just about a year.”

  It was getting extremely late — or early. And Sasha, while briefly rejuvenated by the picture of the Hush girls, was retreating again to a kind of morose distance. Tom promised her he’d be in touch as soon as he knew more. He told her that the police would probably want to talk to her again — this time formally. He just had a couple more questions before he left.

  “What was her stage name?”

  “Amber.”

  “And did Amber have any regular customers? You know, men that preferred her?”

  “Oh, of course. We all have regulars.”

  “Anyone that stands out?”

  Sasha stood near him in the entryway, her hips cocked to the side, pinching the beer bottle around the neck. She glanced up at the ceiling. “Um, no, no one in particular. But we worked mostly opposite shifts.”

  “No one who ever got a little rowdy, like that drunk guy tonight?”

  Her gaze landed on him. “No — but come to think of it — the man in that awful sweater? He comes in a lot. He might’ve done a one-on-one with her.”

  “You mean like private dances.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has he asked about her? Like, wondered why she wasn’t there?”

  Sasha shook her head.

  “What about Bosco?”

  “Bosco’s pissed, yeah.”

  “He’s angry . . . not worried?”

  She nodded. He sensed guilt, as if she felt she hadn’t done enough. Or, something else, lurking beneath the surface. “Did Bosco have a policy against tattoos or anything like that? Did he have any reason to be upset with Carrie?”

  “Well, we’re not supposed to have tats. But no, he didn’t care. I mean, she got that tattoo like two or three months ago. He bitched her out about it, but that’s just Bosco acting like a big deal. Like he owns her.”

  He circled Bosco’s name and then put away his notepad. “You did good, Sasha. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  Tom showed himself out and walked back to his Jeep. The birds were singing in the quiet neighborhood. He looked around at the other nice, upper-middle class homes, imagining the lives of the people in them, what they did for work, the families, children. He wondered if there was any antipathy for the stripper who lived next door. When he glanced at the house, he saw Sasha standing in the window. Then she moved out of sight.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  To get back to the highway he drove through Oakford Park and North Hyde Park. The neighborhoods looked a lot like other rural places in Florida: flat, tangled growth around pale stucco houses with wavy red roofs. Past a small strip plaza declaring DELI MEAT DELI MEAT, he took a ramp onto the freeway and merged with the morning traffic.

  Veering past the downtown area, he slipped by office buildings with mirrored walls, blasted-white apartment complexes, and then the freeway aimed south. He’d just missed the morning rush hour traffic but was still going to have to hustle to get to the ROC for his 8 a.m. — it was already past six.

  He was buzzing from the long talk with Sasha. He assembled a mental list of potential suspects, including Bosco, the bouncer, first and foremost. Tom could easily imagine an altercation between Bosco and Carrie because he was the controlling type and didn’t like her tattoo. Such an altercation could’ve escalated, and maybe Bosco hit her. Carrie might’ve fallen back and smacked her head on something hard. Dead on impact.

  The ex-husband was the next potential suspect, then the customers at Hush, then perhaps Carrie’s Midwestern family. Maybe the ex-husband was jealous and had found Carrie with another man.

  But for all these theories, the idea that anyone would pick the estuary as a dumping ground — why? Why risk highway travel with a dead body in the trunk? Or, if Naples was the true death scene, why was she there? Unless there was some connection between a suspect and the state-run estuary, it was just pissing in the wind.

  Or a customer could be the killer. Someone like the man in the sweater. Who wore a sweater in Florida, in April? Otherwise, did Carrie have any more family in Naples? Friends? Had she taken a trip? Her car was at her apartment. Tom would have Tampa pull the history on the vehicle, and forensics go through it, but more important — he’d found the car at her home. However she’d gotten to Naples, she’d either taken public transportation or gone with someone else.

  Alive, or dead.

  * * *

  Tom had a full day ahead, and hadn’t slept a wink. He stopped at a rest area, got an egg sandwich and a large coffee, and lit a cigarette in the parking lot, watching the cars rush by. The cigarette made him nauseous and he tossed it away. First he would meet with Blythe, fill her in. Then he had the crime lab waiting— hopefully — with a report on the victim’s clothing. Ward would be doing the internal autopsy and getting more conclusive results about the head trauma. Blythe wanted him there again. Tom wasn’t looking forward to more hours spent in another claustrophobic room, standing by while Ward unpacked the body like a suitcase.

  He checked the time — 7:30 — and his mind switched tracks for a moment. Once Alicia gave her statement, Everglades County would pick up Josh McDermott. Tom was anxious to be looking on when they grilled him. Blythe was right — a connection between McDermott and Carrie was tenuous at best — but he still wanted to see the guy sweat.

  He had Jack Vance’s number in his phone and called it.

  Vance answered quickly. “How did it go?”

  “Good. How about you? How did the night go? How are Alicia and Gwen?”

  “Good, real good. We’re just making some pancakes. I’m telling you, I got the cooking bug. Ever watch that show, Cutthroat Kitchen?”

  “No . . . Jack, I can’t thank you enough.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me rummaging through your cabinets.”

  “Of course not. Jack, really, thank you.”

  “Listen, don’t mention it. I told you, I’m happy to help. These girls are great.”

  Tom thought he could hear them in the background — Gwen babbling contentedly, the soft murmur of her mother. Tom lowered his voice. “Did Alicia call the County yet?”

  Tom thought he heard the porch door squeak open.

  “No.”

  He felt a sinking sensation. “How did last night go? Anything happen?”

  “I don’t sleep much. I
didn’t mean to listen in — I gave the girls your bed after you left. I took the couch.”

  I should’ve thought of that. “Good idea. What happened?”

  “Well, the prostate is ornery and I frequently get up to pee. That’s what happened. I heard Alicia’s voice from your room, and I eavesdropped. I’m not proud of it, it’s none of my business, but, you know, old habits. And with everything that happened . . .”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “I just heard her talking a little. Talking to a guy on her phone.”

  Tom set his coffee on the roof of the Jeep and switched the phone from one ear to the other. He liked what he was hearing less and less — something in his gut. “What did it sound like?”

  “Like they were patching things up. Lots of oh, baby — like she was soothing him.”

  Shit. “The hospital sent the paperwork to the Sheriff’s Office. I can take her myself this morning — I just have to stop in Fort Myers first. Maybe you can . . . talk to her? She needs to press formal charges.”

  “Tom, I like you. I know your heart is in the right spot here. It’s just not my place to intervene.”

  Tom blamed himself for not being there. He didn’t know why, but he thought if he’d stayed home she wouldn’t have taken a call from McDermott, let him sweet-talk her. How could she forgive a guy who beat her up? Someone who called her bitch and cunt in front of people? But he knew these matters were complex. He’d been close to it before.

  If she didn’t press charges, he could potentially sway the County prosecutor to press them anyway. But he didn’t want to play that card too soon. It was far better for the victim to push the charges. He also didn’t know exactly what they’d said to each other. Vance had said he’d only heard a little bit. He was more or less guessing. Still, Vance had been in some surveillance or top secret shit in the Air Force — he probably knew what he was talking about.

  Tom took a deep breath. “Well, thanks again, Jack. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Sorry it took longer than I expected.”

  “Not a problem.”

  He thought about asking Vance to put Alicia on, but didn’t. She would probably call in sick to work today — she had a black eye and a stitch in her lip. “Can you hang out for a little while longer, Jack, just until I get there?”