Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  The women exchanged looks. Tom knew they weren’t obligated to come here, and that the information on Sasha’s past, or theorizing about the bridge, was something they could have done without him. They were here to try to make him feel better, to tell him that Nick wasn’t a killer.

  “I wish he hadn’t run,” Tom said.

  “Me too.” Machado lowered her eyes.

  There was a brief silence, then Tom asked, “What about Ward? Where’s he, now?”

  “In County jail, awaiting arraignment,” Machado said. “He’ll do time in federal prison.” Her eyes found him again, and Tom saw a kindness there he appreciated. Machado was good people, no doubt. “I talked to Agent Blythe this morning. She wants to see you herself but she wanted to give you . . . space. For one thing, she wants to help us nail Josh McDermott for what he did. For another, she’s also dealing with her own issues, pertaining to Ward. But, they’re going to need you — Mandi hopes you’re going to be able to work with Ward’s prosecution. When you’re ready.”

  Tom glanced around the condo. He’d been here alone since Charlene had left the night before. The thought of going back out there, dealing with reporters and court rooms and cops and people was unpleasant. Walking out that front door and back into the world, this time a world where Nick did not exist, that was worse.

  Tom stood up. “Let’s go,” he said. “I just need to get changed.”

  The women rose as he walked out of the room.

  “Help yourself to some coffee.”

  In his bedroom, he dressed at the bureau, looking at the picture of him and Nick as kids. Tom with that slightly pensive look, Nick’s wide grin. Both of them bare-chested, standing with their arms around each other’s shoulders.

  When Tom returned downstairs, Machado and Mills were quietly talking in the kitchen, with mugs of coffee. They set down their drinks and smiled as he entered, fixing his tie. Machado glanced at the tie, then approached him. “May I?”

  Tom let her redo the knot.

  “I want to open a case on the dog track in Bonita Springs.”

  Machado stepped back and admired her work, and brushed some lint from Tom’s shoulders. “That’s a good idea.”

  Mills said goodbye outside and left in her own car. Tom and Machado got settled in her unmarked Ford Taurus. Tom glanced at the garage. The door was left open. The space was empty.

  “You need to get your department-issued vehicle,” Machado said.

  “Yeah. I do.”

  THE END

  TJB

  3/23/16 – 10/28/16

  Etown & Naples

  BOOK 2: TRUTH OR DEAD

  A gripping crime thriller full of twists

  T.J. BREARTON

  First published 2017

  Joffe Books, London

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

  The author asserts their moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  ©T.J. Brearton

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  www.joffebooks.com

  For Lee and Smitty

  CHAPTER ONE

  WEDNESDAY

  Livingston Road was a speedway of morning commuters, three lanes going east, three west, the sun bright and glaring off the rushing vehicles, everything one false move away from destruction. The ringing phone was just out of reach, in her bag in front of the passenger seat.

  Heather stretched for it, had to take her eyes off the road a second, and a nearby vehicle blared its horn. She jerked the car back into her lane as the motorist passed, yelling and pointing a finger.

  The phone kept ringing and vibrating. She decided to risk it again, stretched farther, fished around in the green bag, grabbed it without causing an accident. The phone stopped ringing. “Oh for God’s sake . . .” She tossed it on the seat beside her and checked her mirrors. There was an open lane to her right, a gas station at the next intersection. She flipped on her blinker and started over.

  But, the gas station was on the northeast corner. Once she pulled in she’d have to wait for a break in traffic before getting back onto the road, and she was already running late. The traffic light coming up was green.

  The phone numbers for Abby’s day care and Olivia’s school were programmed into her cell, and the incoming number had been neither. Heather didn’t know anyone with a 945 area code, come to think of it. She didn’t even know where the code indicated.

  She hit the gas and ripped through the traffic light as it changed to yellow and kept to the middle lane. Her next turn was in two intersections, a left onto Golden Gate Parkway. From there it was a straight shot to the clinic.

  Florida driving was nuts.

  Most days she was exactly on schedule. She had it timed down to the minute, from getting up with the two girls, taking her shower, feeding them breakfast. By 7:10 each morning she was clicking their seatbelts and pulling out of the driveway.

  She always stopped first at Olivia’s school, where she’d wait as Livy ran inside, her oversized backpack jouncing along with her bright curls. Then to Abby’s day care, where she’d say a quick few words to Gillian, kiss Abby goodbye. The drive to work ate up the rest of the time.

  But this morning she hadn’t been able to find the damned shoes that went with her outfit, and Olivia had sat on the toilet for an eternity, feet dangling, like she had all the time in the world, while her baby sister played hide and seek with the car keys.

  The phone rang again. It had landed upside down on the seat.

  Heather flicked a look in the mirrors — the traffic crowded around her like stock cars at a NASCAR race.

  “Shit.”

  She got hold of the phone, checked the screen: 945-212-1974. Who the hell was it? Telemarketers didn’t usually call back, did they? Maybe it had something to do with work. But all the work-related numbers from her supervisor on down to the jail were on her phone …

  “Hello?”

  There was a pause. “Mrs. Heather Moss…”

  The voice sounded artificial, like a machine.

  “Who is this?”

  “I need you to listen very carefully, Mrs. Moss.”

  A finger of fear traced up her spine.

  “I’m driving to work. Who is this? What—”

  “I know you are driving to work, Mrs. Moss. That is what I want to talk to you about.”

  The fear bloomed into anger.

  “Excuse me? If this is the approach of whatever company you represent — if you’re even human — I gotta tell you, it sucks.”

  “Your work, Mrs. Moss. You are a clinical therapist for Everglades County.”

  Heather tried to keep focused on the driving — her left turn was coming up at the next intersection and she still hadn’t pulled into the proper lane. A white pick-up truck flanked her, a crew of landscaping workers piled in the back, grimacing in the hot morning sun.

  She flipped on her turn indicator.

  “Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up.”

  “As a clinical therapist, you make regular visits to the county jail for counseling and evaluations.”

  “Listen, whoever you are, goodbye.”

  “Stay on the line. Olivia is doing just fine, and Abigail is happy and healthy. And you’re going to want to keep them that way. Aren’t you, Mrs. Moss.” The inhuman voice dropped on the last word instead of rising with the question.

  Heather’s hands went numb at the mention of her daughters; her heart clutched by an invisible hand. The part of her running on automatic pilot — she’d made this trip to work five days a week for eighteen months now — checked the mirror again an
d saw that the white pick-up had slowed. The driver was attempting to let her into the lane. She could see his face behind the glass, his hand waving her in.

  Heather spun the wheel. Her heart was pounding too hard; it felt like she was short of breath. Some rational part of her mind attempted to override the racing emotions and make the right choices.

  Say you don’t know who those people are.

  “Listen to me, I’m gonna call the police. I’m gonna pull over right now and call them.”

  “You are not going to call the police either. Olivia is sitting in her classroom; she has that nice little blue jumper on. And Abby is playing with the big doll house at Gillian’s. They are very nice girls.”

  She started to make the turn, someone beeped their horn, and the white pick-up loomed in the rear-view mirror.

  The caller could see them. Could somehow see the girls.

  Heather was going too slowly through the intersection, her mind not coordinating with her body. When she hit the gas it was with too much force and she shot forward.

  Pull over. Pull over, hang up, and call the police.

  The clinic was just a mile down Golden Gate. By the time she maneuvered off, called the police, or even 911, and explained the situation, she could be at work, where she could summon help.

  “Good. Mrs. Moss, just keep going like that. Don’t let the other cars bother you. That white pick-up looks like it is full of illegals anyway.”

  The panic mixed with confusion. The caller could see her, too? She checked all her mirrors again. The pick-up was still behind her — she’d widened the gap — but was that a black SUV after the pick-up?

  Heather concentrated on the road. The speed limit was 45 miles per hour and she got going up to fifty. The faces of her daughters teased at her, bits of the morning replayed themselves.

  No. Relax. Keep talking until you get to work.

  “Okay,” she said. “Where are you? You can see me?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Moss. I can see you.”

  She couldn’t help but search the mirrors again. But it was hard to tell where the caller might be. As Golden Gate Parkway curved and passed a large plaza with a Publix grocery store, she could see the white pick-up with several others following, but no black SUV. Still, if the caller was in one of them, she could lead him right to her job. End this thing before it really began, whatever the hell it was.

  “Howard Declan,” the voice said.

  “What? Who? I don’t understand.”

  “You’re scheduled to visit him this morning at the jail. To evaluate him.”

  “Don’t hurt my girls.” It just tumbled out. Heather’s lower lip trembled and tears sheeted her vision. She couldn’t help it. “Don’t hurt them.”

  “I don’t want to hurt them. I like them. I like you, Mrs. Moss.”

  “Tell . . . tell me . . .” Her tongue wasn’t cooperating. She passed another familiar landmark. Almost there. The clinic was just half a mile. Another glance in the rear-view mirror. She thought she saw the dark SUV again, about a hundred yards behind her. The white pick-up had its blinker on, about to turn off into one of the business plazas rolling past.

  “Florida is nice, isn’t it?” The mechanical-sounding caller was making no sense now. “Just look at those palm trees everywhere. As if, no matter what is happening in the world, it is still okay here.”

  “Tell me what you want. Why don’t you— We’re almost to my job. Pull in and let’s talk.”

  “You have everything you need with you.”

  Heather looked around the car, suddenly alarmed in a whole new way. What did he mean? Need for what?

  Less than a quarter mile to her office at the clinic. She was pushing sixty miles an hour.

  “I am sure you like Florida. Almost two years with the clinic. People are starting to know you, trust you. You go to the jail so regularly; they have come to trust you, too.”

  Something sank in her stomach with the weight of a stone.

  “It takes time to settle into a place,” the voice said. “But you are personable, attractive. That gives you an advantage, don’t you think.”

  The wide, flat building where she worked slipped into view. She automatically flipped on her blinker for the turn and started to slow down, checking behind her for the black car. She saw it, and she slowed, turned into parking lot, and watched as it continued cruising past on Golden Gate. The big dark vehicle drove out of sight.

  The voice was still right in her ear.

  “It’s small enough to slip in your pocket. A small manila envelope with a red string. You will find it in your bag on the seat beside you.”

  Heather scanned for a parking spot as she listened. It was eleven minutes past eight and all the other clinicians had already arrived. She spied an open spot far away from the entrance and headed that way, putting a picture together of what this might mean just as the caller spelled it out for her in that unearthly voice.

  “You are going to take that small package into the jail this morning at nine a.m., and you are going to give it to the inmate named Howard Declan.”

  Heather pulled into her spot and hit the brakes, threw the transmission into park. “I can’t do that. I have to go through security.”

  “Listen to me, Mrs. Moss. We have been watching you. Security lets you pass right in, they don’t even take you through the metal detector anymore.”

  We.

  We’ve been watching.

  How did they know this? Were they right now watching her girls? Heather started to feel angry, invaded. So many emotions mixing together. She banged the neighboring car with her door as she threw it open.

  “You’re wrong. Security is very tight. There’s no way I can—”

  “Stop lying. You have not gone through the metal detector in months. They check your ID badge, off you go. Sometimes they take your pen, true. It is sharp. But this little package, no one is even going to notice.”

  Holding the phone to her ear, standing beside the car, Heather bent and peered in. Her green bag just sat there on the passenger seat, looking just like it always did. The car was giving off a chime — her keys dangled from the ignition. She stared around the parking lot, hoping to see someone.

  No one. Everyone was already inside, at their desks, preparing for the day’s work.

  The caller knew she was scheduled to provide the jail a psych evaluation for Howard Declan. She hadn’t learned the details yet, but she had an app on her phone that let her see County arrests. Declan had been taken to jail the previous day for a non-violent crime.

  And the caller was right about the guards, they greeted her by name, smiled at her, made small talk, and it had been at least a month since anyone had run her through the security portal. She used a face-scan for identification when she first came in, then an ID badge got her the rest of the way.

  Worse than any of that, the caller knew her daughters’ names. What they were wearing. Where they were. Why would he need to know that?

  “You can’t hurt my girls.” She was trembling, shivers running up and down her legs. Despite the early morning heat, she felt cold. Her brain kept urging her to run inside and tell her supervisor what was happening. Police could be at the school and day care within minutes. Surely whoever this was couldn’t just—

  “They will not be hurt if you do exactly as you are told. We are sitting right outside the school. And right outside Gillian’s. You are probably thinking we cannot really do anything. But that is because you are a rational, normal person. Rational people would not shoot Gillian Hough in the face, then take your Abby. They would not then pose as your late husband, and take Olivia out of her spelling class with everyone smiling.”

  Heather couldn’t move. The little Honda was still chiming, the keys swinging from the steering column.

  “But we are not normal, rational people, Mrs. Moss.”

  She found it hard to swallow, harder to speak. If this was a prank, it was utterly convincing and cruel. If it was amateurs pretending
to be more capable than they were, it was still motivation to cooperate — even if the caller was just part of some group of idiots, they still might try to accomplish what they were setting out to do.

  Howard Declan. He wasn’t part of any mafia or organized crime group she’d heard anything about. From what little she knew, he’d been arrested for walking around outside his house naked, ranting and raving. Police had shown up and Declan had tried to take one of their guns. Not to use on them, but, according to the report, on himself. A sad, lonely man with possible mental health problems. What relationship could he have to the caller? What was the package in her bag?

  “Mrs. Moss. Are you still with me.”

  “Yes.” She barely recognized her own voice.

  “You need to check in with your supervisor now, get ready to head to the jail. No one can know anything, or your daughters will die. Stop standing there, pick up your bag, and go inside. You are already late.”

  Heather spun around, suddenly sure she’d spot the caller somewhere, or at least one of “them” — the clinic parking lot was adjacent to a Walmart shopping center, maybe someone watching her had turned in over there — but saw nothing. Nothing but people coming and going from the Walmart, their tiny shapes in the distance. A hot breeze swept through, the royal palms surrounding the clinic bobbed and rustled. She thought she smelled the sharp, chemical stink of brakes from the roadway.

  “Okay.” Heather ducked into the Honda, plucked the keys from the ignition, grabbed her bag and dropped them in. Then closed the door behind her. She headed toward the entrance to the clinic — therapists had their own back door to come and go.

  “Good. Remember, Mrs. Moss, we will be watching.”

  “When will my girls be safe? How will you know I’ve delivered this . . . envelope?”

  “We will know. We will see everything. Your appointment with Declan is for nine o’clock. Do all the normal things you would do. It is important that you are smiling. Do not look upset, Mrs. Moss. Do not give any signals, do not pass any notes. We will know.”