Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  “I had my thoughts about Ward,” Turnbull continued, “after the debacle in Tampa. I didn’t know if I wanted Blythe and Ward on the same death investigation. But Blythe seemed to have ideas from the get-go.”

  I’m sure she did, Tom thought. She’d had a bone to pick with Ward, and that was why she had Tom witness the autopsies, she didn’t want to be around the pathologist. Tom recalled the way they seemed like divorced parents, avoiding eye contact or speaking.

  “We’ve got a problem, though,” said Turnbull.

  “Sir?”

  Tom sat up a little, feeling stiff and sore. He looked around for his water.

  Turnbull was quiet for a moment. Tom heard the usual chatter in the background. Turnbull liked to keep a scanner in his office, monitoring emergency calls. “I want you to interview Raymond Bosco.”

  “I don’t understand, sir, he’s already been charged . . .”

  “Correct. Charged on information. Bob Mandi filed the criminal complaint last night. Bosco is at Hillsborough County Jail. He wants to talk. I would have Blythe do it, but . . . obviously there’s a problem with that.”

  Tom looked at himself. He was in a hospital bed, half his upper body bandaged, his nose bandaged, painkillers circulating in his bloodstream — Turnbull really wanted him to interview someone?

  “Mandi is not going to like it.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Turnbull said with a spark of ferocity. “This thing is . . . well, with everything you’ve uncovered, I want you there, Lange. Can you do it? I’m rescinding the personnel complaint against you as of this moment.”

  Tom was already getting out of the bed. He realized he couldn’t go far because he was hooked up to an IV and a drug drip. “Alright.”

  “I can have an agent pick you up this morning.”

  “That won’t be necessary, sir. I’ll have my brother drive me.”

  Turnbull was quiet. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

  “Sir, with respect, you want me in Tampa, I’ll have my brother take me.”

  “Fine,” Turnbull said at last. “Let me know when you’re en route and we’ll set it up.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  When Nick came in the room he was carrying a box of powdered donuts. Despite the late nights and his own fading bruises, Nick continued to look like a new man. He stopped in his tracks as Tom shuffled across the room, dragging the IV pole.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “Going to the bathroom.”

  “You need help?”

  “That’s debatable.”

  Nick watched as Tom moved along, grinning at first, then laughing. Tom frowned at him. “What?”

  Nick shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Tom kept going and opened the door to the bathroom, Nick still watching.

  “Tommy Lange,” Nick said. “My little brother.”

  The doctor warned against it. The nurses just stared. Tom and Nick left the hospital, Tom imagining they made quite a pair, both of them beat to hell.

  * * *

  They rode the highway north, Nick doing most of the talking. Tom realized that while his brother jabbered more than anyone he knew, Tom still didn’t have a clue about Nick’s personal life. Nick talked a lot, yeah, but it was mostly bullshit. He talked in circles, and Tom realized it was his defense. But today was different. Nick mentioned a woman he’d been seeing. He said he thought he loved her, but she’d been unwilling to sit by as he drank and drugged himself to death. She didn’t approve of the gambling either. When Nick first got beat up for not repaying his debt, he’d called her, but she wouldn’t get involved.

  “She cried on the phone, man. She felt so bad. But she just couldn’t stick with me, she said.”

  “Smart woman,” Tom commented. Nick gave him a look, but didn’t argue. “I don’t like what happened to you, Nick. I don’t like what’s going on at the dog track. When this is over, I’m talking to Turnbull. I’m opening a case.”

  They left the subject there, stopping at a rest area to get something in their stomachs besides donuts, and then they were back on the highway.

  “You know what today is?” Nick asked after a period of silence.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Nick surprised Tom by slapping him on the knee. “Here we are together, just like we said we always would be. We survived. You know it? That’s all I ever wanted, Tommy — for us to get together on the anniversary of their death, to remember that we’re survivors, maybe even to forgive them. They made us who we are.”

  Tom thought he saw a tear in his brother’s eye.

  * * *

  Raymond Bosco looked afraid. The first time, they’d questioned Bosco at the Tampa police department. This time, he was at Hillsborough County Jail, dressed in the DOC orange jumpsuit, bracelets cuffing his hands, anklets on his feet, linked by a chain. Hillsborough Jail didn’t fuck around.

  Corrections brought Bosco into the interview room where Tom was waiting. They sat him down and left, but Tom knew they would be outside the door. Also outside of the room, watching the monitor, were Turnbull, Coburn, Gomez, and Mandi. Blythe was not there, and Turnbull had yet to fully explain her absence.

  “Afternoon,” Tom said.

  Bosco had a hard time meeting his eyes, and just nodded. His lawyer sat beside him, a young woman in a snappy suit who looked like she wanted to be somewhere else.

  Tom settled in his seat, trying to get comfortable. His bandages were hidden beneath his suit, but Bosco grew interested, like he sensed Tom’s pain. “You get tuned up?”

  Tom ignored him. “Raymond, I’m here because you wanted to talk.”

  Bosco sat back, cocky. Now that he was in a room with a wounded officer, he acted tough. His beady eyes gleamed in his pock-marked face, beneath his slicked hair.

  “I already talked to the drug cops about using her apartment as a stash house. I admitted it.”

  “Okay.”

  “But that’s it.”

  “That’s it? You ever pimp her out?”

  Raymond angled his head like he didn’t understand the question. Tom knew he did, but he rephrased anyway. “You ever offer her for sex to paying customers, Raymond? Then take your cut?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Bosco shook his head and then grinned. “You don’t understand Carrie, man. That girl was her own. You know what I’m saying? She wasn’t one of these bimbos needs a pimp. She handled her own shit.”

  “You’re saying you knew she was soliciting sex on her own.”

  Bosco shrugged, and glanced away.

  Tom persisted. “You ever sleep with her, Raymond?”

  Another grin, like he was getting a real charge out of this. “Occasionally.”

  “Occasionally. Like, once or twice a week?”

  “What the fuck you think occasionally is? I don’t know. Maybe four or five times.”

  “And that was it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you care about her?”

  “Did I . . .? What does that mean?”

  Tom unfolded his hands and touched his chest. “Feelings, Raymond. Emotions. What people have. Did you have any for Carrie?”

  Another shrug, and he seemed to study the floor.

  “Did you ever get jealous of her johns?”

  Bosco’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes. “Her johns? Nah, bro, I didn’t know any of her johns. Like I said, she was her own person.”

  “But you had a key to her apartment . . .”

  Bosco leaned forward, getting serious. “I didn’t kill Carrie.”

  “I didn’t say you did.” Tom opened the file in front of him and pulled out a glossy photo of Ward. He rotated the photo around and slid it toward Bosco. “You recognize this man?”

  Bosco leaned in again and studied it. “I don’t know. Yeah, maybe.”

  “Maybe? Or yes?”

  “Hey, I see a lot of fucking faces, okay? So, maybe, like I said. Maybe he was there
a couple times.”

  “Couple times. Think you could say when the last time you saw him at Hush was?”

  “I don’t know. A week or two.” Bosco turned away once more, looking sick. Like he wasn’t happy to be naming someone.

  “Let the record show that Raymond Bosco has identified Alan Ward as a customer at the gentlemen’s club, Hush,” Tom said for the benefit of the recording. He showed Bosco a picture of a Lexus Sport Coupe next. “How about this car? Ever seen a car like this parked at the club?”

  Bosco seemed to really resent the questioning now, and gave Tom a long, sideways look before finally glancing at the photo. “Maybe.”

  Tom put the pictures away. He chose a different tack. “You’re on the hook for this.” He tapped the file. “And you know it. Your blood, your DNA, is on Hobson’s clothing. You were one of the last people to see her alive. Her landlord said he saw you. You had a key to her apartment. Now, you asked to talk, you say you didn’t do it. Why should anyone believe you?”

  “Because I didn’t fucking kill her!”

  Bosco was enraged, but there was also pain in his eyes. He just stared for a moment, then his lower lip trembled. He turned to hide his emotion.

  “You cared about her.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I fucking cared. Alright?”

  “Alright. Well, listen to me. The guy I just showed you a picture of, we’re looking for him. But we’re not looking hard enough. If you—”

  Bosco jerked his head around. “Yes, I saw the motherfucker.” He faced the glass. “Okay? I saw that fucking weirdo. He came in the club, and he was watching everyone. He watched me, too. I thought maybe he was one of these, I don’t know . . . that he swung both ways, or whatever. The way he was checking me out, you know what I mean? Like he knew me. I got cut, I cut my hand, he’s fucking staring at me. But I don’t sell women, okay? I had nothing to do with it if she hooked up with him.”

  Tom looked at Bosco’s hand. It was healed up now, no more bandage, but there was a scar. Bosco had gotten blood on Carrie, Ward had made his move. And Bosco, just like Ward had planned and expected, was arrested for the murder. Thanks to the miracles of modern forensic science.

  Tom leaned back, feeling satisfied. But that sense of closure was fleeting. There was still a big loose end.

  “Okay, Raymond. What about Sasha Clay?”

  “What about Sasha?”

  “You know she was found yesterday morning. In Naples.”

  “Yeah, I know . . .”

  There was a knock on the door. Tom scowled at the corrections officer coming into the room who whispered that they wanted to see Tom in the viewing area. Tom rose, glancing at Bosco. “One minute, Raymond, okay?”

  * * *

  The group of men in the next room wore hangdog expressions. Mandi looked furious. Coburn seemed lost in thought, Gomez embarrassed.

  Turnbull spoke. “Lieutenant Haylock just called. The CSB took over the Sasha Clay autopsy early this morning, in light of your revelations.”

  Tom looked at their grave faces. “And?”

  “The clinical toxicology found cocaine in Sasha’s stomach, undigested, and in her nose and mouth.”

  The results were quick, but Tom knew the difference between clinical and forensic toxicology. Clinical was what emergency room doctors might perform in cases of a possible drug overdose. When a death was recent, chemicals were more readily detectable, unlike with Carrie, who’d been dead for days.

  “And they believe the head trauma was from when Sasha either pitched herself over the bridge, maybe fell, coulda been pushed,” Turnbull said. He looked down at his hands for a moment. He was a big man, dark-skinned, just over sixty but today he looked older. “This is . . . ah, man . . .” He stared at Tom. “You feel strongly about Ward for Carrie Hobson’s murder?”

  “Yes. Solid. Don’t you? We’ve got witnesses, the Lexus, his second home location, even a sketch . . .”

  “I know, I know. But, what about for Sasha Clay?”

  “I’m not sure. It depends, sir. Like I said, I think for Ward, this was about payback for his forced resignation, the lawsuit he lost, the humiliation.”

  “Explain that,” Mandi barked.

  “Ward set out to show that this controversial technology, LCN typing, could lead to a false conviction.”

  “But the DNA is a match for Raymond Bosco. It’s not false, it’s his DNA.”

  “It’s not a perfect match. The point, for Ward, I think, is that the police tried to use this method in the past. Ward vocally disapproved, and it cost him his job. This is his revenge, and a way of saying, ‘Look what can happen. The wrong man goes down for a murder, put away largely due to DNA profiling.’”

  “How does he prove this point to anyone if Bosco goes to prison for Carrie’s murder? Who would even know it’s a false conviction?” Mandi was getting loud.

  “Ward would. And who knows, maybe eventually he’d show up and say he did it. Ward’s not right in the head. I spoke to someone who spent years with him. Ward might have some serious issues. He told this person all his work as a pathologist had ‘ruined him.’ This is the kind of person who might see people — women — as if they’re already dead. Someone who’s impotent, sexually dejected. For someone like that, murder would be far too easy.”

  Tom wondered again why Blythe was missing. He also thought they should’ve had someone here from the original Tampa case involving Ward and Blythe. It was like Mandi and Turnbull were trying to contain it. Tom realized the whole thing would be bad for Blythe, such errors in judgment could constitute her early retirement. Maybe Turnbull was protecting her. But Tom sensed there was more.

  The men in the room exchanged looks.

  Mandi pointed at Bosco on the monitor. “Bosco’s arraignment is in two hours. We announce the formal charges to the judge. And now we’re talking about his innocence? There’s a mountain of evidence. This is an open and shut case. I just can’t . . .” Mandi stormed out of the room.

  “We’ve got confirmation on the TOD for Sasha,” Turnbull said. “Midnight.”

  Tom stared at the door, thinking about Sasha’s time of death. Midnight on Friday night, Saturday morning, Tom had been sitting outside Ward’s house in Central Naples. Ward had been inside — Tom had seen the man’s shape moving behind the curtains, and his Rav 4 was parked in the driveway. He told this to the other investigators.

  Turnbull nodded, as if he’d already known, or been thinking along these lines. Tom, too, had come to doubt putting Sasha’s death on Ward. “Killing Sasha doesn’t fit Ward’s M.O.,” Tom said.

  “I agree. So where does it leave us?”

  Tom looked at the monitor. Bosco sat beside his lawyer, both of them looking miserable.

  “Bosco?” Tom asked.

  Coburn spoke for the first time. “We’ve had eyes on his every move for the past four days. He was nowhere near Naples on Friday night.”

  Tom hesitated. “You found Sasha’s car?”

  “We did. Parked in the marina.”

  “The marina?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Next to Tin City?”

  “Correct.”

  Tom’s mind suddenly leapt to Nick, sitting out in the jail’s waiting room. Nick had parked in the marina the morning before, due to the emergency vehicles clogging the Tin City parking lot.

  Tom suddenly felt light-headed, nauseous. The painkillers in his system were taking a toll. He’d left the hospital too soon.

  The men in the room were all watching him. Tom found a chair and sat down. He didn’t like the way Coburn was looking at him. Gomez, too.

  Turnbull put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You alright?”

  “What else?” Tom asked.

  “Well, like I said, cocaine in Sasha’s system, concussive, possibly fatal, blow to the head when she went off the bridge, probably from hitting the rocks, that’s all CSB has got.”

  Tom turned to Gomez. “What about her house?”

  Gomez stepped away fro
m the wall, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, there’s a few red flags there.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like, she had a safe, and we found it open, empty. Other girls at the club say Sasha was often talking about how much she was making. She was doing well.”

  Tom remembered first talking to Sasha in her home, her story about being homeless with her mother in Macon, Georgia, living under a bridge. How she’d come from nothing.

  “But no money or valuables were recovered from her vehicle?” He looked between Gomez and Turnbull.

  Turnbull answered, “No wallet, no phone. Just a backpack, and we’re going through that.”

  Tom let it all sink in. Sasha Clay had emptied her safe. She’d driven herself to Naples. And, bombed on drugs, fell into the river either deliberately or accidentally.

  Or, she was pushed.

  Coburn stayed back, rolling a hard candy around in his mouth.

  Tom kept thinking about Nick.

  Nick worked just a few hundred yards from where Sasha had been found. Nick said he had a girlfriend, but hadn’t given her name. Nick had been deep in gambling debt, and Sasha was loaded. Nick had also said he’d been in Tampa the previous week, for a realtor conference.

  Nick sometimes went to strip clubs.

  No, Tom thought. No, no, no. It was just his mind, overworked and searching for answers. He’d just been through a crazy trauma with McDermott. He was on drugs, for chrissakes, painkillers to keep the torture of two dozen glass cuts at bay, a busted nose, suffused lungs, bangs and bruises. It had been a week in hell, a case twisty with potential abuses of power, corruption, jealousy, revenge. He was just grasping at straws now, he told himself.

  You smell like him.

  Sasha’s body, on top of him. The way Sasha had responded to Tom, her familiarity with him.

  You smell like him . . .

  Tom rose unsteadily to his feet. He needed some air. He needed something. He made a hasty exit, mumbling excuses about his condition. He walked the hallway outside the viewing room in a daze, then realized he was trapped. He was in a jail — every which way was locked. A corrections officer started toward him.