DEAD OR ALIVE a totally addictive thriller with a breathtaking twist

by T. J. Brearton

  What’re you doing, Lange?

  Maybe he ought to take a ride up to Jerome Correctional and talk to Ned Schnell. It was likely Schnell had never exchanged so much as two words with Pedro Vasquez, but there was also a chance that he had — a chance that, by some twist of fate, one of Tom’s old cases could be entwined with this one. It was an appealing idea. Tom could go home, see Katie, get some rest, head over to Jerome tomorrow and ask old Ned Schnell if he’d ever had dealings with Pedro and, for that matter, if Pedro had ever asked him for the use of his piece-of-shit airboat so some of his guys could hide a child out in the swamps.

  Those were some long odds.

  He watched the house for a few more seconds.

  Come on. Do it.

  He turned around the dead end of the Salinas, drove slowly back to Lupton’s house and parked. Before he got out, Lupton came back outside, walked to the truck and dug around for something in the back. He came up with a toolbox and started back to the house. Then he stopped. He looked over at Tom for a moment then set the toolbox down.

  Tom got out, walked to the front of the Acura and leaned on the hood.

  Lupton came closer, stopping a few yards away. “You following me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why the fuck you doing that?”

  Tom was instantly on his guard: this was not some skinny kid from Georgia down in Florida for a meth deal. Lupton might’ve been a boat mechanic, but he’d done hard time and had a fire in his eyes Tom recognized from guys on the street growing up. Tom was in decent shape, but Lupton looked like he could twist the head off an alligator. He took a few steps, glanced around then drilled Tom with his gaze.

  Tom pulled out his Beretta and aimed it at Lupton’s chest. His heart was pounding. “Stay right there.”

  “The fuck do you want with me?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  “I got nothing to say. Why don’t you get the fuck outta here?”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t? I’ll help you.”

  He took another step forward and Tom moved his aim to Lupton’s head. Between his eyes. “Don’t.”

  Lupton glared, then took a few steps back and picked up the toolbox.

  “Tell me about the guy who hit the Balfour place with you,” Tom said. “You kill him? Or did he get away?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  But it was all Tom needed. On the streets, everybody lied. All the time. They conned and they coerced and they lied. Lupton’s tell was that the fire in his eyes, the rage, went out when he lied. There was a conscience in there somewhere, buried deep.

  “What about the girl? You took her. Or maybe he did. All I want is the girl. I don’t care about you.”

  “Fuck you.” Lupton spat on the ground at Tom’s feet. Then he moved toward the house, keeping watch on Tom as he went.

  There was a face in the window across the street, somebody watching. Tom put the gun away. He followed Lupton and spread his arms. “You see any other cops around, Mick? You hear any sirens?”

  Lupton halted, the toolbox swinging in his grip. “There ain’t nobody else because you got nothing.”

  “Yeah, but when has that ever stopped a cop? Why don’t I arrest you for some bullshit violation, bring you in, put the lights on you?”

  Lupton stayed where he was a minute, then started across the lawn to where Tom leaned against the chain-link fence. “Maybe because you’re a pussy.”

  “Yeah, okay, we can go with that.”

  Lupton kept coming, stopped, set the toolbox down again and looked around. Their eyes connected. Lupton seemed to be deep in thought. “I know you or something?”

  “You saw me today, didn’t you? You got a memory at least that long, huh?”

  “You been on TV. Like a year ago. Something. You had a brother who was chased by the cops. Up in Tampa. He wrecked the car and died. That’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  Lupton sized Tom up. He seemed to decide something and said, “I got nothing for you.”

  “Then why are you still standing there?”

  The big man breathed with a mean energy. “Cuz I’m about to reach across this fence and choke you the fuck out.”

  Lupton outweighed him by twenty pounds, at least. Choking was definitely a hazard. But it was time.

  “Like I said, I’m out here on my own. I’ll tell you, though, while I got your ear . . . Your workout routine is all fucked up. You gotta rotate muscle groups, you fucking moron. If you wanna—”

  Tom felt the blow before he knew what had happened, like a boulder thrown at his head. He was on the ground with supernovas exploding in his vision. He rolled over, slow, and got to his feet.

  Lupton had backed up from the fence a little, his hands fisted and a look on his face like he didn’t know whether to keep going or run. His eyes flitted to his truck like he was thinking about jumping in it.

  “I’ll just keep following you,” Tom said, touching his face where Lupton had knocked him.

  Lupton’s gaze slid back. The fire had returned. He jumped the fence.

  Tom put up his hands but let Lupton grab him and throw him against the Acura. “Careful! This is my friend’s car.”

  Lupton hit Tom in the stomach. That was worse than the face — all the air went out of him and he doubled over, dropped to his knees.

  Lupton said, “You fuckin’ . . .”

  Tom put a hand on the warm pavement. He waited for breath, prayed for it. Finally, he was able to suck in some wind and made a gurgling, wheezing sound. His eyes watered and his mouth opened and closed. He managed another ragged, burning inhalation, then another. He tried gaining his feet, using the front bumper of the Acura to help himself along, but he slipped and landed on the ground again.

  He grabbed Lupton’s legs and tried to pull himself up. Lupton kicked and caught Tom in the jaw, but he held on and clawed himself standing by holding onto Lupton while the man tried to shake him off.

  “Just help me up!”

  Lupton wrestled with him, pounding on his back and kidneys, but Tom clung like a tired boxer until finally letting go and stumbling back.

  Lupton maintained that look of mixed emotions, like he couldn’t believe his own actions. He was beating up a cop, a sure-fire way to get thrown right back in prison. Now he had to decide whether he was going to let that happen, or maybe if he was going to kill Tom. But there were witnesses. That face in the window — and now someone else, rolling down Salinas in a little beater car, rubbernecking from a distance.

  Tom managed to stay upright, swaying on his feet. He tongued his lower deck of teeth and felt a gap, hunted around with his tongue and then spat out the molar.

  Lupton stared. “You’re a fucking lunatic.”

  “Tell me about the guy.” Tom’s jaw felt gummy, his words slurred. Maybe going up to Jerome would have been better.

  “God. Fucking— God,” Lupton said.

  “Mick, I’m never going to leave you alone. You’ll have to kill me.”

  Pedro’s number-two guy tensed again, squeezed his fists, some of the knuckles popping. He looked like he was still considering it. Figuring out how to do it and get away with it.

  Tom just stood there, the heat growing in his belly, forming the pain. Lupton had hit him so hard he’d probably ruptured something down there.

  “Where is she?” Tom gasped. “She alive?”

  Lupton slowly relaxed. They both breathed for a moment, chests heaving, staring each other down. Then the big man closed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Nothing I can tell you.”

  “Just tell me if she’s alive.”

  The person in the beater car had parked in a driveway. Tom watched over Lupton’s shoulder as the person hurried inside and shut the door. Tom hoped they wouldn’t call the police. He was counting on people around here minding their own business.

  “I can do this all day,” Tom said.

&nbs
p; Lupton opened his eyes.

  “You’ve got nothing on my dad,” Tom said. “That man could kick some serious ass. Come on, Lupton. Come on.”

  Lupton continued to watch him. Finally, he said, “Yeah. She’s alive. Jesus Christ. Okay? She’s alive.”

  CHAPTER NINE: ROTATING MUSCLE GROUPS

  They moved off the street and walked to Lupton’s truck. Tom sat down in the dirt driveway. Lupton lit a cigarette and Tom asked if he could get one. Lupton looked pissy but tossed him the pack then a lighter.

  “You can’t be a cop,” Lupton said.

  “I got a perfect score on my SOCE.” His words still weren’t coming out right.

  “The fuck are you talking about?” Lupton cocked his head back as if to get a better look. “Take your shirt off. You want to talk? Take that shit off.”

  Tom gritted his teeth through the pain flaring in his ribcage as he pulled the t-shirt over his head. Blood that had dribbled from his mouth was staining the white. He tossed it aside and raised his arms to show Lupton he wasn’t wearing a wire.

  Lupton looked until he was satisfied. “You a catholic boy or something? Big crucifix like that on your back?”

  “I was drunk at the time.”

  “Let’s just wait a minute.”

  They sat there as the sky dimmed. Tom listened to the sounds of the neighborhood: a TV on somewhere, music playing, the white noise of traffic on Collier Boulevard. No sirens. The air smelled like someone was grilling steak. Tom finished his cigarette and put it out in the dirt.

  Lupton stepped on his, mashed it with a boot heel. “Look, this is how we’re going to do this, all right? I’m not saying I had anything to do with any of what you’re talking about. And I’m not answering any of your questions. You listen, you say nothing, that’s it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I heard there was a guy—”

  “The guy with the debt?”

  “The fuck did I just say?”

  Tom put up his hands in a sign of compliance.

  “Jesus. You do this a lot? Get your ass beat to find out shit you got no way of knowing is true? Now I’m getting pissed off again. Listen, here it is. This is the deal. This is not a — I don’t know — whatever you want to say. He’s not a regular . . . he’s ex-military. All right? Iraq put the zap on his head. He comes back and he’s got some issues, know what I’m sayin’? He sells drugs to make some — what? Put your fucking hand down.”

  “Can I just . . . Look, one question . . . Did he take out a loan or something? Is he working off something for Pedro?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Just something I heard.”

  “Never mind what you heard about Pedro Vasquez. Let’s just say — and this is just street talk — that the guy stepped on somebody else’s toes. Little territorial dispute. And let’s say he gets into it with those people so he needs a little money to get out. He robs those people, takes their money. That’s it.”

  “A name would help.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  Tom risked another question. “But the girl is alive? I gotta know where to find her.”

  “He took her. Good luck.”

  “Listen, let me just . . .” Tom got to his feet slowly, breathing through the pain.

  Once Tom was up, Lupton tensed, ready to fight or run. “That’s it. I just gave you everything. Now you gotta go.”

  “Just suppose with me, okay? Did he kill the Hollisters?”

  Lupton only stared.

  “Is he on the run with her? Is he on the move? Did he give her over to Evvy or not? If not, where did he put her?”

  “You think I’m going to answer any of that? You are a fucking head case. Get out of here.” Lupton’s eyes were hard and shining.

  “Mick, come on. We’ve been through so much together.”

  The big ex-con stepped away from the truck and started to move for the house. Tom caught his arm. Lupton jerked away and Tom winced, ready for another blow. Maybe this one would clean his clock for good. Lupton had a fist in the air, but only kept it there a moment before he lowered it and continued on his way to the house. “Get off my property.”

  Tom sighed and started to follow Lupton. He pulled his piece. Lupton spun around, saw the gun aimed at his head. “Goddammit.”

  “Don’t move.”

  “You’re one sad cop. Can’t do shit without your badge and gun, just like the rest of them.”

  “Your turn. Take your clothes off.”

  “My what?”

  “Take them off.”

  Lupton glared but removed his shirt and flung it on the ground. He seemed proud of his muscled, tattooed body and twitched his chest muscles.

  “Take your boots off, your pants.”

  “I’m gonna fucking end you.” Lupton bent down and removed his work boots one at a time. Then he unsnapped his pants and lowered them. “You a fag, too? Your dad beat you because you were a homo?”

  “Kick them over to me.”

  “My wallet is in them. And my phone.”

  “Kick them over.” Lupton did as he was told. “Now go in the house.”

  A look of confusion. “What?”

  Tom felt a lesion snap open behind his eyes. Ten more seconds and he wouldn’t be in control and Lupton would be dead, brains leaking out. “Go in the house, Mick. Shut the door. If I see you again I’m going to open you up.”

  Lupton cracked a smile. “Look at you. Sorry motherfucker.” But he backed away, went up the three concrete steps, opened the front door.

  Tom left the boots, gathered up the pants and tucked them under his arm. He made his way slowly to the Acura. Each step sent a bolt of pain through his side. He breathed through the pain and talked himself down. The anger pulsed inside his head. He opened the door and got gingerly behind the wheel, tossing the pants and the gun onto the passenger seat. The keys were in the ignition. He looked across the yard and saw Lupton still standing in the front doorway.

  Tom started the car and drove away.

  He rolled through the neighborhood and turned onto Collier Boulevard, went a mile and turned into a Walmart, drove around to the back and parked. He took out his phone.

  Skokie sounded pissed off. “Lange. I don’t like being hung up on.”

  “Let’s talk about IRS disclosure laws.”

  “What’s going on, Lange? You don’t sound good. What happened?”

  “My understanding is that, pursuant to a court order, tax return information may be shared with law enforcement agencies for investigating and prosecuting non-tax criminal law.” He rolled down the window and hawked blood out of the car.

  “You need a federal district judge. And you’ve got to be enforcing a designated federal criminal statute.”

  “Or if it pertains to the case of a missing or exploited child?”

  Tom riffled through Lupton’s pants, digging out his wallet, his phone, and the audio recorder he’d slipped into Lupton’s pocket while they were fighting and he’d grabbed Lupton’s legs.

  Skokie said, “What are we talking about, here?”

  “Hang on.” He set the phone aside, started the audio file, advanced it a little then picked up the phone again. “Listen,” he said to Skokie. He pressed play.

  “Just tell me if she’s alive.”

  There was a pause, the sound of a door closing in the distance.

  “Yeah, she’s alive.”

  He put the phone to his ear. “You get that?”

  “Who is that? That’s Lupton?”

  “There’s more. Hold on.”

  He skipped forward again, listened a second, then put the recorder up to the phone.

  “A name would help.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  “But the girl is alive? I gotta know where to find her.”

  “He took her. Good luck.”

  To Skokie: “You get it all or what?”

  Skokie didn’t speak for a moment. “Yeah. I got it. Shit, Lange, how did you obtain th
at?”

  “What I just said is about all I know for sure about IRS disclosure. You need to take it from here. There’s gotta be a way to get a court order with that, plus my statement and pictures of Lupton. Lupton works for Pedro indirectly, through his daughter Valentina. Lupton says, on tape, the girl is alive.”

  “He didn’t confirm they’d taken her to any property owned by Pedro or Valentina. Did he admit Pedro was behind the burglary?”

  “No. He’s dumb, but he’s not that dumb. But he works for Valentina Vasquez. Indirectly, he works for Pedro. That’s got to be enough to get us a look at their tax returns.”

  “Theoretically.”

  “We look at all their boats — that’s another thing. Make sure none are missing. I think Valentina was levelling with me when she told me they were all accounted for, but we need to make sure the girl didn’t take a ride to Mexico after the storm. And we look at every single piece of property they own, focus on places that could be hideouts, dope houses—” He squeezed his eyes shut as worsening pain gripped his chest. “But it’s all gotta be done without them knowing. Otherwise they’ll move her — or something bad could happen.”

  “We’ve already had a look at Pedro’s properties.”

  “Then we need the feds and we need to look at family, too. Valentina’s places, that’s what I’m saying. Her sister Isabella, brother Emilio — all of them.”

  “Lange, you sound bad. Even if we could make that happen, Lupton’s obviously talked already.”

  “He doesn’t know he talked. I recorded him surreptitiously.” The word was almost impossible to manage. “And he’s not going to say anything about any of it because I let him kick the shit out of me. He’ll swear up and down he never even saw me today.”

  “You what? You let him what?”

  “I’m going to the hospital now to get it all documented and photographed. And I’ve got his wallet. I’ve got his phone. We can come back for him later.”

  * * *

  Lauren Blythe met him at Naples General Hospital, found him in the emergency care wing sitting on the edge of the bed in his room. She sat down in the chair in the corner and studied him. “Bruised ribs. Internal bleeding. Concussion.”