Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  After a little walking around, Tom found a single-story house behind the plant nursery, the windows dark.

  All manner of junk was piled around the house — hubcaps and busted tables, discarded boxes, a jet ski converted into a four-wheeler, large empty planters and bags of potting soil and mulch. McDermott’s pickup was nowhere in sight. The man was not home.

  Tom circled the house. More stuff out back — pallets piled up, stacks of sod, an old boat on a rack, half the paint scraped off. Tom had to push through the undergrowth to get around to the front of the house. By the time he did, the anger was flowing, the sweat coursing down. He stood there for a moment, mosquitos circling, and decided it was time for a drink.

  * * *

  Ty’s was typical, a business within a plaza of businesses — a box within a larger box. Tom cruised through the parking lot until he saw what he was looking for. McDermott’s landscaping truck gave him a nervous thrill. He found a spot and parked, his mind raising all sorts of objections.

  There was no ostensible connection between McDermott and the murder. His domestic dispute with Alicia was really none of Tom’s business. Tom was a professional, he needed to operate within the bounds of the law. He was a brand-new agent for the FDLE — behavior like this could either tarnish his burgeoning career or get him fired altogether.

  He stepped out into the muggy night air and walked toward the bar, deciding he was just going to talk to the guy, nothing more. Alicia was a friend. McDermott had beat her up repeatedly, and she was too scared to press charges, or too reluctant to go through the red tape of the justice system, or both. But the abuse was ongoing.

  The inside of the place felt just as humid. A few alkies were belly-up to the bar, a couple of them watching the KINO with half-lidded eyes. AC/DC’s Highway to Hell played in the background. One of the booths was occupied by a trio of Mexican men with a pitcher of beer and a mess of shot glasses. In the back were two pool tables, a juke box, a couple more booths. Josh McDermott was chalking his pool cue. The big man knocked in one of the solid balls.

  Tom approached, his pulse quickening. He’d had the advantage of surprise yesterday, grabbing McDermott’s arm when the man probably hadn’t seen it coming, and doing a quick takedown on him. McDermott would be on the defensive for this encounter. Tom had to handle it just right.

  The guy playing pool with McDermott was short and muscular. They both had on grubby white T-shirts bearing the Four Palms Landscaping logo. McDermott’s back was turned, but Tom caught the eye of the shorter man. Then Tom sat down at the end of the bar and waved for the bartender’s attention.

  As the bartender shambled over, Tom kept watch on McDermott and his employee, reflected in the mirror behind the liquor shelves. Tom ordered a beer as the muscular guy got McDermott’s attention. The guy nodded his head toward Tom, whose back was turned, and McDermott looked over.

  Bingo.

  Tom pretended to be watching the TV as McDermott set down his pool cue and started over. Tom hadn’t been in the field very long, but he’d spent years studying criminal behavior. McDermott would either come on strong, or he would act innocent and unassuming, even friendly.

  “Hey,” McDermott said amicably.

  He’d chosen option two.

  Tom looked around, acting surprised. “Oh, hey. Josh McDermott, Four Palms Landscaping. Tom Lange, Florida Department of Law Enforcement.” He made the introduction with a big grin.

  McDermott put on his own fake smile. “That’s right. That’s right. What’re you doing in here?”

  Tom took a sip of his beer and looked back at the TV screen for effect. “I thought we could talk.”

  “Talk? What’re you, playing hard-to-get sitting over here? Come on, yeah, let’s talk. I got nothing to hide. Hey, Sandy . . .” McDermott rapped his knuckles on the bar. The bartender had already been watching them. He hobbled over, raising his eyebrows.

  “Set my man Tom here up with another beer. And let’s have a couple of shots. Tommy? You got a preference?”

  “I’ll take a tequila.”

  “A tequila man! I like that.”

  McDermott made a big show of ordering the drinks, flashing a wad of cash. Tom noticed the man’s dirty fingernails, the deep tan to the skin of his hands and forearms. Tom glanced in the mirror again, this time at the trio sitting in the booth, who showed an interest in the proceedings. Tom hadn’t been sure at first, but now figured they were also McDermott’s employees. It was after ten, and McDermott probably worked them until dark. That meant they had a couple hours of drinking under their belts.

  He didn’t think they would be much trouble — there was a good chance they worked illegally and would avoid police involvement at all costs. Even if they were documented workers, though, they wouldn’t want to tangle with a state special agent. Still, McDermott might use them to intimidate Tom, if he could.

  The bartender poured the shots — just two of them — and set down fresh bottles of beer. “Come on,” McDermott said. He jerked his head toward the back. “Step into my office.”

  Tom drained his beer, collected the reinforcements, and followed McDermott to an empty booth, smiling at the pool player as he passed. The man didn’t smile back. Tom slid into the booth across from McDermott, who immediately raised his shot glass.

  “To new friendships.”

  He was really laying it on thick. Tom downed the tequila, feeling the heat warm his stomach and the fumes rise in his nose. He chased it with a swig of his beer. This was his fifth drink in a couple hours. He rarely drank and was starting to feel the effects. He warned himself to be careful.

  Tom tried to act casual. McDermott was wearing that letterbox grin.

  “So,” McDermott said, “let’s dish.”

  “You talked Alicia out of pressing charges.”

  McDermott’s expression morphed into something meant to convey a grievous misunderstanding in their midst. “No, no, bro. I didn’t talk her out of anything. We spoke, yeah. We had a disagreement, you know, but we got it all settled.”

  Tom waited for it. Was he going to deny it or justify it?

  “A disagreement?” Tom goaded him. “Is that what you call it?” Tom pointed to his face, thinking of Alicia’s wounds and any more recent damage.

  “Yeah. What else am I going to call it?”

  “Domestic violence.”

  McDermott looked deeply wounded. Sorrowful, even. “Aw man, it’s not like that, bro.” He shook his head, looking down for a moment. “It’s not like that at all.”

  “What’s it like?”

  Head still lowered, McDermott raised his eyes to look across the table. He pulled on another grin. “You know, man. Come on. You know how it gets, right?”

  Tom stared back, feeling his pulse quicken. Now McDermott was goading him, it seemed. McDermott wasn’t going to admit anything. Why would he? He was sitting across from a cop. Outside the condo, Tom had wondered if McDermott was stupid. He didn’t think so anymore. This close to the guy, talking with him, he found McDermott was stone cold beneath the yah-bro facade.

  Tom fiddled with his beer bottle, moving it between his hands, the glass sliding on the condensation.

  “I looked you up. This isn’t the first time someone has reported you. Happened six years ago. A young woman called the cops because you beat her up, then she didn’t want to press charges. Two years ago, same thing.”

  McDermott’s grin held, but the expression grew humorless. He sat back against the wooden booth, then gave a dismissive shake of the head. “Ah man, they Baker Act-ed that one. She was crazy — she called the fucking cops every other week, bro. About all sorts of things. She was a meth head, man. I’m lucky I got away from that bitch when I did.”

  The Baker Act stated that a civilian could inform on another civilian who seemed to be in trouble, mentally unstable, drugs, otherwise. Police could use the Baker Act, too, and send someone to treatment instead of incarceration. McDermott had used it as his own get-out-of-jail-free card.
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  Tom forged ahead, ticking off the years on his fingers. “Six years ago, two years ago, yesterday. These instances are getting closer together, women calling the police because you kicked the shit out of them.”

  McDermott grew sarcastic. “Oh, come on now, man. That’s a bit dramatic. Anyway, Alicia didn’t call the cops on me, bro. You did. How’s that work, anyway, cops calling other cops? Do they like, look down on you after that? Like, ‘Hey, why can’t you handle your own shit?’”

  “My area is not domestic violence. I handle cases for the State of Florida. Like right now, I’m working a murder case.”

  “Is that right?” McDermott took a healthy gulp of his beer and looked away. Tom glanced at the pool table. The muscular guy had moved over to the table with the three other landscapers, just at the edge of Tom’s sight.

  “Yeah. That’s right. Woman found, back of skull cracked, sort of your M.O.”

  “My M.O.? What the fuck are you talking about?” McDermott’s front was crumbling, things getting too personal for him. “That woman on the TV? That body in the bay? That’s you, huh?”

  “That’s me. Along with another special agent, and Everglades County’s finest. We’ve even been up to Tampa and worked with them.”

  Tom didn’t take his eyes off of McDermott, hunting for any giveaway — just in case.

  “Tampa, huh? That where she’s from?”

  “What makes you think that, McDermott?”

  Silence for a moment, the air filling with tension. McDermott narrowed his eyes. “Aw, fuck, man. Are you kidding me? I thought you came here to talk about Alicia. You’re in here — what? You think I’ve got something to do with that shit?”

  Tom stopped playing with his bottle and finished what was in it. Then he stood up. “One more shot? I’m buying.” He could really feel the alcohol buzzing now, charging him up. Easy now. Go easy.

  McDermott stared up from the booth. “You for real? I mean, what? Because you think I tuned up my girlfriend, now I’m a killer? Lookit you, in your Tommy Bahama shirt. You’re a real piece of work, huh?”

  Tom let the remarks slide off and tipped his empty bottle at McDermott. “Another round, or not?”

  “Shit, man, I don’t have time for this . . .” McDermott started to slide out of the booth and Tom blocked him. He leaned down so they were eye-to-eye.

  “You come in here a lot? To this bar? Alicia said she met you here.”

  “Get out of my face.”

  “I’ve been here before, too, once or twice. It’s a good place. You usually bring your guys here?”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “Like, a week ago, say, last Wednesday night — you were here?”

  McDermott looked like he was ready to explode, but was still weighing the consequences of doing so. “I don’t know, I can’t remember. Probably.”

  “What about Thursday? Can you give me an account of your whereabouts each night last week?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Tom gestured toward the men at the booth. “I start asking your guys questions, you think they’re going to like that? What if I want to see all their paperwork? I get a forensics team down at your nursery, turning over all your plants, going through your house, maybe have the Everglades deputies doing a little door to door, talking to your customers about what kind of guy you are, how’s that going to work out for you? For your business?”

  He watched McDermott stuff his anger behind another phony smile. Tom decided to let off, and stood back up. McDermott slowly rose, and squared his shoulders with Tom.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t ever talk to Alicia again. Don’t ever go to her house. Don’t call her. Let her think you fell off the face of the Earth. Or you’re going to have a team of cops so far up your ass you’ll shit badges.”

  McDermott laughed, but Tom could see the fear behind the man’s eyes.

  “Whatever, bro,” McDermott said. “I think our conversation is over.” He pushed past Tom, their arms brushing. McDermott walked over to the four men at the table, whistled, said something in Spanish. The guy McDermott had been playing pool with rose and the two walked back to their game, McDermott acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Tom headed for the door. The guys at the table averted their eyes as he passed.

  He was glad to leave the bar, and let out a rushing breath as he moved into the night air. McDermott was acting tough, but Tom thought he’d gotten through. He thought McDermott would leave Alicia alone. But he didn’t think McDermott was Carrie Hobson’s killer.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WEDNESDAY

  Tom’s hangover lingered on the drive north to Tampa, beating a steady rhythm in his temples. He drove into the parking lot for Carrie Hobson’s apartment building and spotted an unmarked police car beside a patrol cruiser. He was supposed to meet with a Detective Gomez, from Tampa PD.

  Tampa felt even hotter than Naples, the tarmac wavy with morning heat. Tom knocked on the window of the unmarked car. After a moment, it came down.

  “Detective Gomez?”

  The man in the driver’s seat was smoking a cigarette, loud Latin music on the stereo. He looked up at Tom, eyes half-lidded with boredom. “Uh-huh?”

  “Tom Lange.” He stuck his hand through the window.

  Gomez snubbed the cigarette and pushed the door open with a jerk. Tom had to yank his arm before it got bent in the door. Gomez stepped out in his snakeskin boots. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit that looked a size too big. He hitched up his pants and gestured to the two Tampa patrolmen who ambled over, looked Tom up and down, and gave their names and quick handshakes.

  Tom figured the Tampa cops would react coolly to him, but Gomez was looking off like he was lost in a daydream.

  “So this is the residence of Carrie Hobson, nee Carrie Anne Gallo,” Tom said. “Twenty-six years old, from Boise, Idaho. The Medical Examiner’s Office has contacted the next of kin, my supervisor spoke with her, too. Hobson is survived by a mother and two sisters, both older . . .”

  Gomez flitted his fingers in the air. “I read the report.”

  “Great. And you ran the victim, correct?”

  “Yes. We ran Hobson through our system and came up with a single hit. Indecent exposure — she was stripping at a party in the city that got busted up five months ago. She got written up, paid a fine by mail. That’s it. No prior record.”

  “And the others?”

  Tom opened the murder book and took out photos while Gomez spoke.

  “Raymond T. Bosco, twenty-nine, has had several misdemeanors, including reckless endangerment and drug possession. Are we really rehashing this information while we stand in the fucking burning hot parking lot? We’ve had phone calls and emails galore.”

  Tom glanced at the uniformed officers. “Are you two familiar with any of this?”

  They traded looks and shook their heads, no.

  “Continue,” Tom said.

  Gomez gave Tom a nasty look. “Fine. Steven R. Hobson, thirty-eight, one DWI nine years ago, out of state. That’s it. Okay? Where’s your crew?”

  “They’re right behind me,” Tom said. He addressed the officers next, distributing photos of Raymond Bosco and Steve Hobson.

  “I’d like you two questioning neighbors while the team processes the apartment, okay? It’s Wednesday morning, lots of people at work. If they’re not home, make a note of it and we’ll follow up this evening. There’s forty units, but here’s what — for now, stick to the units on the ends which have views on the staircases. That’s twenty units. You’re just asking if anyone has seen either of these two men. Anyone says yes, you come get me. Okay?”

  They looked less than thrilled.

  Gomez muttered something and walked away, his snakeskin boots sticking to the tarry pavement.

  * * *

  Carrie Hobson’s landlord was a jittery type, a short, wiry man who kept looking at the cops like they were going to beat him up and steal his lunch mone
y. When they came to Carrie’s locked door, the landlord dropped the keys. Finally he fumbled the door open and stepped back.

  Tom entered first. He wore latex gloves, as did the three IFS techs who followed in after him, and Detective Gomez after that. When the landlord started scurrying away, Tom called him back. “Hey, sir? Hold on.”

  The landlord skulked back.

  “Your name is Derrick Massey?” Tom asked him.

  “Yeah?”

  “How long has Carrie Hobson rented from you?”

  “Less than a year. She was coming up on her eleventh month.”

  “Okay, I’ll need to see her rental application. Her list of references, previous residences, that sort of thing.”

  Massey only jerked his beady eyes around.

  “You do have that paperwork, right?”

  “Hey,” Massey said. “I give people a break. Alright? Everybody has something they do to try to help out. I don’t ask questions. I let people in provided they got cold, hard cash. Sometimes, all someone needs is quick and easy.”

  “Anything on her at all? Tell me you at least made a photocopy of her driver’s license.”

  Derrick Massey scrunched his nose in a look of defiance. “Like I said, I don’t give my tenants any trouble. There’s no law says I have to—”

  Tom held his hand in the air. He wasn’t about to get into state law concerning property rentals with this guy. He didn’t need the driver’s license, he already had the basic information — he’d just hoped the landlord would have something else of interest.

  “So you ever go into her apartment?”

  “No. Well, yeah, okay, twice. Once when she first rented it, then one other time when her toilet was running, I let the plumber in. Carrie was at work.”

  “When was that?”

  “Um. Six months ago, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Well, an officer will be along and we can get your full statement, okay? You’re in Unit 1, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I understand you have just one security camera?”