“Something like what? Sit down, please, Mr. Hobson.”
Hobson glared at Gomez, then returned to his seat. “Something like whatever it is that brought you here. Whatever it is — and it’s probably bad — and now you’re jacking me up.”
Tom wondered where Hobson had heard terms like ‘shaking him down’ and ‘jacking him up.’ Probably on TV, but you never knew.
Gomez leaned in. “When is the last time you spoke with your ex-wife?”
“Five months ago.”
“You didn’t have to think about that very long. You’re sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. She needed money. That’s why she called. It was just before Christmas.”
“Did she say what she needed the money for? Presents, maybe?”
“No.”
Tom did the calculation. Five months ago, Carrie had picked up the indecent exposure charge and had to pay a fine. Maybe that was it.
Gomez asked, “Did you give her any money?”
“No. And we haven’t spoken since.”
Tom made some quick notes, while Gomez continued, “What do you do for work, Mr. Hobson?”
“I’m a stay-at-home dad. That’s my first job. And I do some online consulting.”
“Can you explain that?”
“Marketing. I help people with their businesses. I got my BA in Marketing at Columbia. You can look me up. I’m on LinkedIn, Facebook, all of those. I do a little consulting, I also do a little bit of graphic design.”
Tom had already looked him up. LinkedIn was where Tom had found the image of Hobson for the cops to shop around Carrie’s building. Whatever work Hobson was doing, it didn’t seem especially lucrative. The house they were sitting in probably rented for a thousand dollars a month, the car was an older model, affordable.
Tom set his notebook aside. Gomez settled in his seat, as if the Tampa detective knew what was coming. Tom thought they’d seen enough from Hobson to let him in.
“Carrie’s body was found two mornings ago,” Tom said.
Hobson absorbed the shock, at first only staring blankly, then looking out the window. His lower lip trembled for a moment, and he touched his face to stop it. He nodded, subtly, as if coming to terms with the cold fact. “Where?”
“Before we get into that — did Carrie ever tell you she was worried about anything? Confide in you that she had . . . I don’t know, been the recipient of unwelcome attention? Or even that she had a stalker, anything like that?”
“My ex-wife is a stripper,” Hobson said coolly. “I think that’s welcomed attention, getting paid to have men look at you naked.”
“Was Carrie in that line of work during your marriage?”
“No.”
“So she never said anything to you, that she was worried, anything like that?”
“I told you, we haven’t spoken in five months.”
“What about before that?”
He shook his head. “We have talked exactly three times since she left. Once was about where to meet to sign the divorce papers. We did the online thing — the quick and easy. There was one other time she called me after that, and then the last call, five months ago, asking for money.”
“And how about your son?” Tom asked. “Arranging custody? Placement?”
Hobson shook his head again. “Harley is my son. From another woman. Carrie was his stepmother.”
Tom leaned back, considering this. He’d assumed the child was Carrie’s biological offspring. He realized he’d been judging her, a little bit, thinking she’d abandoned her own child. But now that he found out he was her stepchild, his feeling changed, which he wasn’t proud of.
“Okay. So, you met Carrie, where?”
“We met online. Match.com.”
“Online,” Tom repeated. Everything about this guy was online. But, Match.com tolled significant.
“I moved to Tampa from New Jersey four years ago. Well, a little over four years ago. I moved with my girlfriend at the time, who was pregnant with Harley. She got a job down here at the work release program in St. Pete’s.”
He meant St. Petersburg, which was next to Tampa, in Pinellas County. There was a State Work Release Program over there, a correctional facility.
“She’s a case worker,” Hobson explained. “Her name is Donna Pitt.”
Tom took down the info. “You lived in this house with her? With Pitt?”
“No. We lived in Youngstown, about ten miles from her work. Look . . .”
Tom picked up on Hobson’s tone. The man seemed increasingly uncomfortable.
“. . . this is my personal life, okay? I’d really appreciate it if you could tell me a little something. Carrie is dead? Where was she found? What happened?”
Tom got the feeling there was infidelity in the background, perhaps Hobson meeting women on Match.com while he was still with Donna Pitt, or that Donna Pitt had been seeing someone while still with Hobson. Hobson was becoming nervous the closer they got to airing his dirty laundry.
“Did your ex-girlfriend, Pitt, did she ever meet Carrie?”
“Did they ever meet? Yeah, they met.”
“How did they get along?”
Hobson gave Tom a look like he was crazy. It wasn’t such a wild idea, Tom thought — people could behave like adults. There were amicable break-ups and healthy co-parenting examples all over. Just maybe not in this case.
“Donna gets Harley on the weekends. She’ll be here Friday afternoon if you want to talk to her. You can ask her how she felt about Carrie.”
“So you do have a custody arrangement? Just not with Carrie. But with Donna.”
“Right. Donna works five days a week, and I have Harley. Then she gets him on weekends.”
Tom considered the whole messy scenario. Maybe Carrie had left because of Donna. The biological mother resenting the stepmother. Something like that. But for now, he wanted to get back to Carrie working as a stripper. “You said she wasn’t an exotic dancer when you were together . . .”
Hobson shifted in his chair. “She wasn’t.”
“So . . . what did she do?”
“Um, she was a dancer-dancer. She’d been in a few things, big shows. She got work for a little while at Disney World, in Orlando. But then, you know, things weren’t so hot.”
“How did you know she was working at a strip club?”
Hobson got a shrewd look. “She told me. When she asked me for money I said, ‘You got a job?’ And she said, ‘Yes, for your information, I’m dancing.’ And I said, ‘You mean stripping,’ and she was silent. I knew.”
It was an interesting leap, inferring Carrie was a stripper when she’d said dancer. “Had Carrie worked as a stripper before?”
Hobson looked nervous. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Okay.”
“I just had a feeling.”
Tom let it rest, and shifted the inquiry. “Did Carrie use any drugs?”
Hobson tensed up again. Tom would bet there was a small stash of weed somewhere in the house — he’d caught the sweet scent of marijuana upon entering.
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Did Carrie get along with her family? Was she close with them?”
“She wasn’t. Not really. She showed me a birthday text from her mother once.”
“When was that?”
“I dunno. Over a year ago.”
“So, you met online — Match.com — and that was . . . how long ago?”
More tension — a runlet of sweat tracked down Hobson’s cheek. “Three years ago. We were married for ten months. Okay? No-fault divorce. I spoke with her a couple times after it was final, that’s it. Now will you tell me what happened to her?”
Tom gave Gomez another look. Neither man thought it was the right choice to give up the details just yet — Hobson could still hang himself, if he was culpable. He had something to hide, Tom was sure. Maybe about Carrie’s past. Perhaps about her murder.
“Did she have a computer when she lived here? Her ow
n personal laptop?”
Hobson threw up his hands, frustrated. “No, okay? Carrie hates computers. She lives for her phone, though.”
The atmosphere grew awkward as Hobson realized he’d referred to Carrie in the present-tense. Embarrassed, he lowered his head.
That wasn’t what interested Tom. He asked Hobson to excuse him and Detective Gomez. “Sit tight,” Tom said.
* * *
They spoke in the hallway, whispering.
“The phone could be in the house,” Tom said.
“Could be.”
“If the phone is here, now that we’ve questioned him, he might get rid of it before I can get a crew to search. So I’m going to ask him about it, get the make and carrier.”
Gomez just stared, Tom’s own doubts reflected in the man’s wide face. “Or,” Gomez said, “You keep him talking while I have a look.”
“Won’t work. This guy is paranoid. Guilty conscience, weed in the house, or something.”
“Or he’s a murderer.”
“You find something, we arrest him, it’s not ‘search incident to arrest,’ it’s the other way around. He lawyers up and the phone data could be inadmissible in court.”
“You state guys . . .” Gomez rolled his eyes.
Tom walked back into the kitchen. “So was Carrie’s phone a smartphone? All the bells and whistles? Know what brand?”
Hobson seemed grateful the cops were done with their secret powwow. “Oh, she had the latest. I mean, she was a total technophobe with computers, just couldn’t figure them out. But her phone . . . I think the interface is more, I dunno — female friendly? I don’t mean to sound sexist.”
Tom waved his hand in dismissal. “Do you remember the carrier?”
“Well, she had AT&T when we were together. I don’t know if she changed it.”
Gomez retook his seat at the table.
“Great,” Tom said to Hobson. “What about her email? Do you have her email address?”
“Sure, yeah, I remember it.” He gave Tom the address, and got a certain look in his eye.
Now it was time to cut to the quick. “Where were you last Wednesday and Thursday nights?”
Hobson blinked. “I don’t know — here?”
“Can someone, maybe Donna Pitt, maybe your son, corroborate that?”
Hobson glanced between Tom and Gomez. His face reddened with anger. “My son? Yeah, my four-year-old son is going to tell you about a week ago? And Donna? Why would my ex know anything?”
They would dig into his alibi later, at a formal interview.
Hobson turned to look out the window again.
“Last question,” Tom said. “Do you have a key to Carrie’s apartment?”
Hobson’s head snapped around. “No, I don’t have a key. Look, I’m not stupid. You say informal interview. But you want to talk to me anymore, you want to snoop around, I want to see a warrant. And I want a lawyer.”
* * *
Tom drove back to Naples, the sun setting over the Gulf. It had been a long day in Tampa. The faces of Sasha and Steve Hobson drifted through his mind, snippets of conversation replayed on a loop. Hobson was hiding something, and Sasha definitely knew something, too. The cops needed to talk to Bosco, but he wasn’t home or answering his calls, and Gomez seemed reluctant to press harder, like his hands were tied. And Gomez was with a department which prioritized gangs and drugs over homicides.
Tom finally arrived home in the dark, and saw something sitting on the ground in front of the garage door. It was a large Tupperware with spaghetti and meatballs inside.
Charlene.
Tom brought the food inside and ate it cold. When he was finished he called Blythe and debriefed her. Then he hit the pillow, and fell into a fitful, dreaming sleep.
Tommy . . . Tommy help me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THURSDAY
The early heat hammered down like a blowtorch and the sweat broke his skin. It was now seventy-two hours since Carrie’s body had been found in the bay. Tom hurried into the field office.
Blythe was waiting inside. She dropped the murder book on the table with a loud smack. It had grown considerably thicker. She went about fixing some coffee while Tom leaned over the desk and reviewed their progress.
“We’re going to talk to Coby,” she said.
He looked up. “Okay . . . I want to talk to you about Gomez, too.”
She turned and folded her arms, coffee burbling behind her. “Where did you go the other night?”
It didn’t follow, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. He decided to stall, anxiety creeping up his neck. “What do you mean? You mean after we had dinner?”
She nodded, staring across the room at him. “Tuesday night.”
“Nowhere. I went home.”
He felt like she already knew the truth. He blushed. “I talked to McDermott,” he admitted. How the hell had she known?
“Your friend’s boyfriend.”
“Her ex-boyfriend. I just had a talk with him.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Agent Lange, people see things, people talk. Some deputies go to Ty’s. Sandy, the bartender, knows them all. He talked about a cop who came in, apparently, and had some choice words with McDermott.”
“God. It’s like a fucking sewing circle . . .”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Did you threaten McDermott?”
“We talked over some beers.”
Her face was inscrutable. The coffee wasn’t finished brewing yet, but she turned her back and poured a cup anyway. He imagined bitter black sludge. Blythe drank it up and smacked her lips. “Anything you want to share with me, Lange?”
“I talked to the State Attorney’s office about my friend, Alicia.”
Blythe raised her eyebrows. “Who’d you speak to? Staithe?”
“Yeah. She advised me to have Alicia seek an injunction.”
“But Alicia doesn’t want to.”
“No. She doesn’t want anything to do with it.”
“Well, if she’s scared, an injunction for protection is the best thing she can do.” Blythe tipped her mug at him. “You, Lange, are not such protection.”
“I know.”
She took another sip, her eyes locked on him. She set the cup aside. “I’m thinking of having Turnbull reassign you.”
He felt struck. “What? Why?”
“Look, I expected a little impatience. Everybody comes into this game thinking they’re going to get the bad guys the next day.”
“I don’t think I’m gonna—”
“Shut up and let me talk.” She pushed away from the countertop and paced the small room. “If you did what I think you did the other night — if you threatened this guy to stay away from your friend and used this case to do it . . . you could lose your job. Like that.” She snapped her fingers, the sound loud in the small room.
Tom felt his stomach twist but he kept quiet.
“This case has gotten too personal for you. You stepped over the line with him. Just like you stepped over the line running up to Tampa before you consulted with me.”
She stopped pacing and fixed on him. “I don’t know whether you feel you’ve got something to prove — to me or yourself — but you’ve got two big strikes. One more, and I’ll get you reassigned to Governor Protection. That seems to be what you want to do anyway — put yourself in harm’s way. What I want to do is solve a case.”
He felt trapped by Blythe here in the field office. He’d been the one running around Tampa all day yesterday while she did God-knows-what. She was talking about getting him transferred — demoted, really — and what did Coburn have to do with any of this?
“Good. Let’s solve the fucking case,” he said. “You can start by telling me what you’ve been doing all this time. Or why Tampa sent me a narc instead of a homicide investigator who acted like I was keeping him awake. If there’s something going on with drug trafficking, why am I out of the loop?”
She stared at him for a moment. “A guy wa
s pulled over late last night by the Sheriff’s Office. Deputies served a warrant on his Dodge pickup. There was a suitcase in the truck bed. Inside, deputies found 45.9 kilograms of cocaine.”
Tom felt his mood change. “Holy shit. That’s a street value of — what? A million and a half?”
She nodded. “1.6 million.”
He whistled, the reprimand from Blythe temporarily forgotten. “How did they get him?”
“Press conference will be later this morning. They’re going to say what they always say. ‘It was a random stop.’ Probably illegal tint on the windows, busted taillight, something like that. I haven’t seen the report.”
“But it’s bullshit.”
She shrugged, sipped her coffee, looking over the rim at him. “A narcotic-sniffing dog alerted on an area in the bed of the pickup hidden by a tonneau cover. That’s where they found the case with the drugs. What do you think?”
“I think vice narcotics was working a drug op that pinpointed this guy.”
Her look lingered, and he knew she agreed. Or maybe she knew. What he didn’t understand was how it connected up to Carrie Hobson, so he asked, nicer this time.
“A bust of this size will have a ripple effect,” Blythe said. “When this much cocaine is taken off the street, price goes up, quality goes down. And the pickup driver, guy named George Parsons, he’s looking at a hard stretch. And he’s old, with priors.”
“You think he’ll talk.”
“Maybe, maybe he’ll just take it and die in prison. But it’s going to shake things up. Coby’s team will monitor that like a hawk.”
Tom felt like Blythe was evading his question, still withholding. She didn’t trust him — and could he blame her? Yet he dared to press her. “If it’s drug-related — and you still haven’t told me what the connection is — why was Carrie Hobson killed with a blow to the head? Why not shot?”
“I don’t know. Because the criminals are educated? Repeat offenders, they adapt, get smarter. They even learn from TV cop shows. So maybe by blunt force trauma they avoid the chance of ballistic fingerprinting matching a gun? It could be anything.”
Tom walked across the small space, grabbed a mug out of the chintzy cabinet above the counter and poured himself some coffee. It was still bitter, but he needed to clear his mind. Blythe was right, he’d been impulsive and unprofessional with McDermott.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 14