DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  “Man, I gotta work. I ain’t going to the police. You for real?”

  Tom could force it, but then Jimmy might wind up even more uncooperative. “I’ll have someone come to you. Where will you be tonight?”

  “Right fucking here. Working.”

  “Bosco’s not on?

  “Nah, man.”

  “I’m gonna send someone. Okay? You can sit right on that stool. You describe this guy from the Lexus, best you can, we’ll get a sketch done. You think you could do that?”

  Jimmy stilled, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s in it for me? Don’t tell me about being a hero.”

  “You’re looking for a little incentive?”

  A wry smile. “Yeah, you know.” Then he rubbed his fingers, indicating money.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Tom said, thinking he could grab the guy by the neck right now and give him some incentive. He backed away toward the Jeep. He pointed. “I’m counting on you, Jimmy. Alright? This is huge.”

  Jimmy cupped a hand to his ear, as if to better hear. “What about the incentive?”

  “Take care of it, then I’ll get you squared away.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  * * *

  He drove back to the Tampa police department, adrenaline cranking. Blythe wasn’t far away, in the State Attorney’s office next door. Gomez showed Tom to a room used for morning briefings.

  “I need you to run a search for a white Lexus,” Tom said. “Can you do that?”

  Gomez blinked. “Um, you don’t have the tags?”

  Tom shook his head.

  Gomez looked doubtful. “How about the model? Lot of white Lexuses . . .”

  “Looking for an RC F Sport Coupe.”

  “Okay. Well, we can submit an offline search to the DMV admin. Turnaround could take a week or more.” Gomez started away.

  Tom caught up with him. “Can we push it a little?”

  Gomez stopped and gave him a look that said, You’re already pushing it. “You’re going to wind up with all the issued license plates and their associated registration information. Not sure about you, Agent Lange, but at my department, it’s very difficult to get someone to approve an offline search. I'm not sure why, except maybe that no one wants to take on all the fucking work chasing down those leads.”

  “Not if it’s just Tampa and Naples . . .”

  Gomez was solemn for a moment, his thin mustache twitching. Then he shook his head and laughed, presumably at Tom’s tenacity. “Alright, man. Alright.” He walked off, calling to another detective. “Hey, Seaborne, get me the DMV, alright?”

  Tom jogged back beside him. “And I need something else.”

  Gomez rolled his eyes. “I don’t fucking bel—”

  “Save it,” Tom said, shutting Gomez up. “Get a sketch artist with Jimmy Kendall, at Hush. He saw the driver. Do it now.”

  Gomez looked stunned and Tom hurried away.

  He slipped back into the conference room and shut the door on the many watchful eyes in the bullpen. He sat at the big desk and called the state troopers. He issued a Be-On-the-Lookout, or BOLO alert, for the Lexus. Without a plate number it wouldn’t do much, but it was something. Then he called Everglades County and was transferred to the vice and narcotics bureau. He asked for Sergeant Coburn.

  “This is Coburn.”

  “Sergeant, Special Agent Tom Lange.”

  “Afternoon, Lange.”

  “You got a minute?”

  There was nothing from Coburn for a few seconds but the sound of him sucking on one of those hard candies. “Okay.”

  “I met with Sasha last night. I got her prints. I’m testing them against the loose baseboard from Carrie Hobson’s apartment.”

  “How did you get those? She’s got a clean record. You pull from the Feds?”

  “Beer bottle she touched. I had it analyzed.”

  Coburn fell silent again. He’d even stopped rattling around the candy. “We don’t care about Sasha Clay. She’s small potatoes. You want to know anything else, you come in, read the affidavit that releases us. It’s two hundred pages. You’ll love it.”

  Tom felt a relief he knew was ridiculous. Coburn’s operation wasn’t interested in Sasha and for some reason that felt good.

  He could hear Blythe in his head, though — Maybe you got your dick stroked.

  “I can’t right now,” Tom said. “But, I will. I just need to know if you’re looking at Carrie Hobson as a facilitator. Was she holding for anyone? Cash? Drugs? Dealing out of her apartment?”

  Coburn chuckled. “Boy, you don’t quit. Look, I can’t tell you if Bosco was at her apartment or not. I can’t tell you any of that. The only thing I can tell you, and I told Blythe already — your vic, Carrie Hobson, is not one of the subscribers we’ve traced. She’s nothing to us.”

  Another bombshell. Carrie wasn’t on their radar either. They were after bigger fish, apparently.

  “I got a confession to make, sir.”

  “Sir? Who is ‘sir’? My father is ‘sir.’”

  “Talking to Sasha last night, she acted like she knew your operation was closing in. And while we were talking, I asked her if Carrie had stolen any drug money. She said no, but I just wanted to be straight with you that it came up. It slipped, and I’m sorry.”

  A long silence. Tom tensed, ready for the blowback.

  “I appreciate the disclosure, Lange. Blythe know you’re talking to me?”

  Tom let out a breath. “She’s with the State Attorney. We’re going to have another look at Steve Hobson, the ex-husband of our murder victim. I’ll bring her up to speed as soon as she’s out.”

  Coburn surprised him with another chuckle. Then the laughter faded and the clicking of the candy against his teeth resumed. “Don’t fuck with Blythe, man. She’s got claws.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The sun lowered toward the horizon as the forensics team scoured Steve Hobson’s house.

  Tom felt like the clock was running faster.

  Techs poured into the house wearing white jumpsuits with “IFS” stenciled on the back in black. The street was choked with police vehicles, several uniformed officers milled on the lawn and the commotion had attracted attention. People were on their porches and in their yards, watching from windows.

  Steve Hobson was livid. He’d been shown the warrant and let the techs in, but insisted on staying at the house with his son. Tom could have him removed from the scene, but instead convinced him to sit on the porch, and let the investigators do their work.

  Hobson gripped his four-year-old boy like someone wanted to take him. Tom watched the kid goggle at all the people going through the house, interested in what they were doing.

  “What do they think they’re going to find?” Hobson took a seat at last, and Harley squirmed in his lap.

  “What do you think they might find?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t talk to you again without my lawyer.”

  “Alright.” Tom nodded. “You don’t have to talk to me. That’s your right. Just like I don’t have to arrest you.”

  “For what? What would you possibly arrest me for?”

  Tom was glad the kid’s attention was focused elsewhere. “How much marijuana do you have inside? Tell me now, and it will all go much smoother for you.”

  Hobson grew bright red. “Nothing. There’s nothing in the house.”

  “Listen,” Tom said. “You got an eighth in there, maybe?”

  Steve pursed his lips but Tom figured it was about that much. A personal supply.

  “What I want, is for you to answer me some real easy questions. If you’ve got nothing to hide, you don’t need a lawyer.”

  He cringed at his own shopworn line. The funny thing was, it was true. He didn’t give a shit about Steve Hobson the casual pot smoker. He cared about Steve Hobson, ex-husband of Carrie and potential killer.

  “Fine,” Steve said, looking constipated. “Ask. But if I don’t like the question I’m
not answering.”

  “Do you own a Lexus RC F Sport Coupe?”

  Steve’s expression changed so radically it was almost comical. “Are you kidding me? No.”

  “Know anyone who does? Have any friends? What about Donna Pitt?”

  “Donna? No. She drives a piece of shit. No one I know drives a Lexus . . . whatever you said.” His brow furrowed with curiosity. “That car has something to do with what happened to Carrie?”

  Tom dodged it. “Never mind. You and Carrie divorced eighteen months ago. Twelve months ago, she started renting her apartment. I don’t know where she was for those interim six months. I was hoping you did.”

  Harley spoke before Steve could answer. The boy cocked his head at his father. “Daddy, can I have a popsicle?”

  “No. Get down now. Play with your truck over there.”

  “I want a popsicle!”

  Steve set Harley on the porch and the boy whipped up a tantrum, collapsing onto the floorboards and howling. Hobson reached for him but the boy batted his hands away. A dark vein swelled in Hobson’s forehead as he tried to calm the kid down.

  Hobson raised his voice to Tom. “Am I a suspect?”

  “Did you visit Carrie at Hush on Tuesday the seventeenth?”

  “What? No. I told you, I haven’t spoken to her in five months. Listen, if you want proof that I was here that Tuesday, you can talk to my neighbor.” He pointed to the house next door. Tom saw a woman’s face looming in the window.

  Tom glanced at the uniformed officers who’d been close enough to overhear. Two of them headed toward the house next door as the woman disappeared from the window.

  Harley was really wailing and Hobson couldn’t calm him. “This is bullshit,” he panted. He grabbed the boy up who screamed and tried to wriggle free.

  Tom felt for the guy. He beckoned a remaining Tampa officer over and whispered to her. The officer nodded and put on a big smile as she approached Harley. “Hey, buddy . . . you want to check out my police car? Turn on the lights?”

  Harley gave a big nod, the tears already drying on his cheeks. Hobson looked skeptical but he let the cop lead Harley by the hand to one of the squad cars.

  “Do I know where Carrie was for those six months, or whatever? No. I have no idea. Probably some shitty motel. Or she found some dude to shack up with.”

  They stood watching little Harley climb into the police car. He was all smiles and questions as the officer flicked on the lights. The headlights and taillights strobed white and red.

  “You think she would’ve gone back home?” Tom asked.

  “No.”

  “Stayed with one of her sisters?”

  “She didn’t want anything to do with them. Or, they didn’t want anything to do with her.”

  “How come?”

  Hobson shrugged. “Bitches be crazy.” He stepped from the porch and called to the boy, “Hey, Harley, be careful in there . . .”

  Hobson moved off to collect his son and Tom let him go.

  The two officers returned from next door. One of them said to Tom, “Neighbor claims Hobson and his son were here all day Tuesday the seventeenth, car was parked, and the boy came over to play for a half an hour — she has a dog, and the kid likes the dog.”

  “Think she was telling the truth?”

  The officers exchanged looks. The same officer said, “Yeah. Seemed legit to me. She’s like seventy. Watches the street all day long. She’s willing to give a statement when Hobson was home or not, all last week.”

  “Good. Let’s get it.”

  Tom’s phone rang. He asked the officers to keep Hobson and his son from going in the house a little longer. Then he stepped off the curb and walked down the street, finally answering the ringing phone.

  “Bad time?” Blythe asked.

  “All good. How did the interview go with Donna Pitt?”

  “She didn’t like Carrie very much.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “Yeah. Pitt had even less nice things to say about Steve Hobson.”

  “Hmm,” Tom said. “Interesting that Steve Hobson has placement of the kid.” He turned and looked at Hobson’s small house.

  “It is interesting, until you talk to the judge. Pitt apparently got physical with Steve Hobson. She attacked him in front of the kid. Gave him a black eye, cracked one of his ribs.”

  “You’re kidding me.”

  “She caught him cheating.”

  “With Carrie?”

  “That’s the name of that tune. Pitt is a case worker, you know, but she acts like she’s a cop. You should’ve seen her. The woman had more swagger than Elvis.”

  Tom laughed, maybe a bit too eagerly. It was good to have Blythe in a companionable mood again.

  “Pitt started snooping on Steve Hobson after she suspected him of some online rendezvous. She wanted to see if he was making it with any of these women in real life. He had, at the time, plans to meet up with Carrie Anne Gallo. They’d met each other on Match.com, according to Pitt.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “So, Donna Pitt goes into Hobson’s computer, finds all this stuff, confronts him on it, and they, you know, they break-up. She tries to get custody of her son, but Hobson has the police report, pictures, everything, on the beating. So she gets stuck with weekends and he gets primary placement.”

  Tom considered all of this. No wonder Steve Hobson didn’t want the cops poking around in his business. Not just because of any marijuana. He was a cheater whose girlfriend had kicked his ass when she found out. Then he’d married the woman he’d had an affair with . . . for ten months. He had The Jerry Springer Show written all over him. “So what do we think of Pitt going after Carrie?”

  “She claims she’s had no contact with Carrie Hobson since Carrie’s divorce from Steve. They’d seen each other sometimes when Pitt picked up Harley for weekend custody.”

  Tom felt the late afternoon sun beating through his clothes.

  “She works all week,” Blythe said. “She was at work for the TOD. So what about Hobson? We have nothing to verify his alibi, right? Just his kid. And his car is white, correct?”

  “Yeah, white car, but not the same. And Hobson’s neighbor can verify the seventeenth — she’s still giving a statement to Tampa. Honestly I think Hobson goes over to the house to sell her weed, or something. Regardless, the neighbor says Hobson was home all day, came over with his kid and played with the dog for a couple hours on Tuesday afternoon. We’ll check Wednesday, but . . . I don’t know. I don’t see it. I don’t see Steve Hobson as our killer.”

  Blythe fell silent, it was clear they were both thinking the same thing: Steve Hobson and Donna Pitt were looking like dead ends.

  “Did you ask Pitt about the six-month gap?” Tom asked. “Maybe she knows where Carrie was, following the divorce from Steve?”

  “I did ask her. She says she has no idea . . .”

  Tom waited, sensing a change in Blythe’s tone.

  “What?”

  “Pitt says she’s pretty sure Carrie was a pro.”

  Tom rejected the idea. Carrie was straight — there was no evidence of any drugs, any illegal activities. She couldn’t be a prostitute. She was just a girl whose dreams of being a professional dancer had met with reality and she’d gotten practical and turned to stripping. He thought about her Match.com profile. It was sweet and innocent. Just a country girl looking for a nice boy.

  “Yeah, but Steve Hobson married her,” Tom said. “If he was hunting for a pro . . . you don’t end up marrying the woman you pay for sex.”

  “Maybe Steve Hobson is sentimental. Maybe he thought he could ‘free her of the life.’”

  “So she was on the street for six months?”

  “She could’ve been. Yeah. She could’ve been homeless after the divorce. Steve Hobson doesn’t have much, financially, and they did the divorce online, no-fault split.”

  Tom lit a cigarette. If Carrie was a pro, it didn’t really change much. If anything, it just added to
the pool of unknown people who had encountered her. It also suggested the possibility she was still working as a pro while stripping at Hush.

  “Well, this is all just on Pitt’s word? A disgruntled, violent ex-girlfriend of Steve Hobson’s?”

  “Well, Pitt is a supervisor at the work release program in St. Pete’s. She sees prostitutes almost every day. And pros have been known to use Match.com, even craigslist, to advertise. Most of the time it’s fake profiles. Web cam solicitations, or escorts seeking ‘companionship.’ If it’s an individual, and they use the word ‘companion’ in their copy, certain men know what that means, and they bite. They can pass back a coded phrase, and if they get one of those little winky faces, the deal is on.”

  Tom could remember Carrie’s profile easily enough. She’d used the phrase “looking for fun and adventure with the right companion.” He walked back toward the house, moving quickly. “I’ll ask him.”

  He hung up and pitched the cigarette away. Steve Hobson was chasing his son around on the lawn, looking none too happy about it. The boy made a dash for the squad car, and the Tampa cop, good humored, let him climb in again.

  “That’s enough, Harley,” Hobson said. He glanced at Tom.

  Tom pushed him, firmly but gently, into the driveway.

  “Hey,” Hobson protested. “Hey, what the hell? Police brutality now?”

  Tom saw the Tampa cop look over and then return her attention to the kid.

  “Did you know Carrie was hooking? Is that how you met — you solicited her?”

  Hobson’s lips moved soundlessly for a moment, then he dropped his eyes and turned his head away. His body language confessed it all.

  “Take him in,” Tom said to the Tampa cops. Then he growled at Hobson, “I’ve had it with you. You’ve withheld critical information, and you’ve solicited a prostitute. Maybe we’ll let you out when the search is over. Call Pitt and have her pick up your son. Otherwise he can stay with DCF.”

  Hobson’s lip trembled at the same time his eyes brimmed with anger. “Not in front of Harley,” he whispered.

  “Fine.” Tom walked over to the boy and picked him up. “Hey, pal. Come with me a minute. Can you show me the dog next door?”

  Tom carried Harley off as the Tampa cops put the cuffs on Steve Hobson.