Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  “That’s Olivia, she’s six. And that’s Abigail, who recently turned two.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Olivia goes to Bonita Springs Elementary. Abigail goes to a day care not far from the school. The woman’s name is Gillian Hough.”

  Tom glanced at the other therapists who were looming outside Heather’s office. He gave the framed photos on her desk another look. Heather Moss, blonde-haired, with sky blue eyes, smiling as she hugged her two girls.

  He envisioned her coming into the jail that morning, carrying a tiny lethal package she’d managed to get past security.

  While he’d been required to store his phone, gun, and personal effects, then been frisked and passed through a metal detector, Moss had somehow gotten through with a murder weapon. It was either oversight on part of the jail staff, or, one of them, perhaps also working with Palumbo, could have let her slip through on purpose.

  But the idea that she was working with Palumbo had immediate holes. Organized criminals worked in the shadows. They covered their tracks. This woman was a clinical therapist who had eighteen months working with County Mental Health and no criminal record. She’d given an inmate a lethal pill right in front of the camera.

  What if she’d been coerced? If so, what would she do now?

  Blythe called. “County just swung by her home, and she’s not there either. They’re issuing the BOLO now.”

  “I’m going to the school where the older daughter goes.”

  “Alright.”

  Tom thanked Shaver and quickly left the clinic. He got up to speed on the highway, listening as the BOLO came over the radio: Female, thirty-five years old, driving a white Honda Civic, last seen at Everglades County Jail.

  * * *

  Tom made a quick turn and the tires gave a shrill squawk. A national flag rippled in the warm breeze out in front of the two-story school. A curved access road led up to the main entrance where he stopped and got out. He found the front doors locked, pressed the Call button on the intercom mounted to the wall.

  “Hi, how can I help you?”

  “Agent Tom Lange, FDLE.” It had been a while, and it felt good to say.

  He held his badge up for the camera. The door buzzed and he hooked a right turn into the main office. An older woman with a pile of gray hair looked up from behind her desk. The others in the room tried to hide their gawking.

  “Hi. I’m looking for a student, Olivia Moss. Her mother is Heather Moss. Is she here?”

  A look of concern spread over her face. “Her mother picked her up about a half an hour ago.” The woman consulted a piece of paper on her desk that looked like a sign-out sheet. “She wrote here that the girl had a doctor’s appointment. Is she alright?”

  “Okay, thank you.” Tom glanced at the paperwork, noting the neat, legibility of Heather Moss’s signature. Then he gave the main office a quick look, seeing a computer near the back, its screen split into nine images. Each showed a different camera view of the school, some inside, some out. He headed for the doors.

  As he got back to the car, a County police car pulled in. Tom presented his badge again as the deputy got out.

  “The girl is gone,” Tom said. “Moss picked her up.”

  The deputy ducked into the cruiser and poked at his mobile data terminal. “Well, we’ve got someone on the house at 1415 Tangerine Drive.” He pulled his head back out into the open air. “Still no one there.”

  Does she know, or not? Tom wondered. Does she know what she’s done? Is she running?

  “Alright. Need you to follow me to that address, okay?”

  “I can do that.”

  Tom trotted back to his vehicle. The Crown Vic came equipped with its own mobile data terminal and he tapped the screen. Information on Heather Moss was filtering in, including her official clinic photo. She smiled in the picture but there was a touch of distance in her eyes.

  He scrolled down to her birth date, known kin. A husband predeceased her; Glenn Moss. He had worked as a store manager for Home Depot in New York State. Dead for almost two years, but it didn’t say how.

  She had a brother, Paul, from Nevada. Her parents were in upstate New York, both still alive, a handsome retired couple. Maybe they had a winter home in Florida? It was just past Christmas and New Year’s, the time when many “snow birds” flew down to escape the cold. But there was no Florida address for Theresa and Henry Hutchins.

  He flipped back to the main screen just in time to see the BOLO updated.

  Suspect located 1415 Tangerine Drive.

  His phone rang a second later. He answered the call.

  “Lange.”

  “Agent Lange, this is Sergeant Sanchez. Heather Moss just pulled into her driveway. I was told to contact you as soon as we had visual confirmation.”

  Tom put the Crown Vic in drive and tore away from the school. “What’s she doing?”

  “She’s, ah, looks like she’s — well she’s loading up the car with bags, or something.”

  “Anyone with her? Little girls?” He turned onto the main road and got up to speed.

  “Yeah, but they’re in the car, strapped in their car seats. Okay, now — Moss is looking over. She’s approaching.”

  “Take it easy,” he said to Sanchez, “take it easy . . .”

  “She’s got her hands up. Looks like she’s turning herself in.”

  “Copy that. I’m there in five.”

  * * *

  A deputy cruiser had pulled in behind the Honda, blocking any exit. Another cruiser was parked nearby on the street. Tom jumped out of the Crown Vic and hurried over.

  The back hatch of the Honda was open, a couple of tote bags in the cargo space, each overflowing with kiddie things; books and stuffed animals. A box of diapers was tucked between the bags.

  Heather Moss wore an ash gray pantsuit, her hair tied back, standing beside one of the rear doors. Tom heard a child crying as he got closer. Heather made a move for the back seat and the deputy beside her grabbed her arm. She jerked away. “I have to take her to the bathroom. I need to go back inside.”

  “Ma’am,” Sanchez said, “please, we just need to stay put until—” He cut off when he saw Tom.

  Tom displayed his badge for the two deputies and Heather Moss to see, then put it away.

  “Mrs. Moss, I’m here to help, alright?”

  Heather Moss gave him a look — she was terrified but determined. She turned back to the crying girl. “Then let me take her into the bathroom, for God’s sake, before she wets her pants.”

  Tom swept the packed bags with his gaze. “Are you going somewhere?”

  She brushed sweaty strands of hair from her forehead and fixed him with a look. “Yes. To the police. To explain what happened . . .” She trailed off, glancing past Tom and Sergeant Sanchez. Behind them, another officer pulled up to the curb.

  That fierce determination was draining from Heather Moss, and she seemed to sag as she put a hand to her mouth, realization dawning: “Oh my God,” she said. “What happened? What happened to that man?”

  Tom kept his voice low so the girls couldn’t hear. The little one’s crying nearly overwhelmed his words anyway. “Howard Declan is dead. We need you to come with us.”

  Her eyes welled with tears, but she uncovered her mouth and nodded. “That’s why, I guess — that’s why I wanted them to have their things. In case — oh God.”

  Tom moved a little closer, suddenly afraid she was going to collapse. But Heather straightened her back as her eyes dried up. “Just let me take Abby to the bathroom, okay? She’s made a mess, and it’s just a pull-up, okay? Please? I’m not going to go anywhere, just bringing her inside. Alright?”

  “Okay. We can do that.”

  “Thank you.” Heather leaned in and unbuckled the child from the seat. Abigail’s face was wet with tears, but she settled down the moment Heather gathered her in her arms. Heather moved off toward the house with the girl on her hip.

  Tom said to Sanchez, “Can you foll
ow her in for me?”

  “You got it.”

  Sanchez headed up the short walk after Heather. The house was modest, single-story with a red clay-tiled roof, beige stucco siding. There were trimmed shrubs flanking the door. A string hung in the window with a child’s drawings attached by clothespins.

  Tom ducked down to look in at the other girl, Olivia, who had a coloring book in her lap.

  “Hi.”

  She kept her eyes on her work shading some cartoon character’s face with a green Crayola.

  “My name is Tom.”

  Olivia finally looked at him. “Are you a police?”

  “I am.”

  She seemed to think about it, then she held up the coloring book for him to see. She’d colored the Disney princess in bright, unusual shades. Green skin, blue hair, a striped dress. “See? I gave her mojo.”

  “Mojo?”

  “Yeah. I gave her mojo. You know what mojo is?”

  “I think so. Or maybe moxie?”

  “No.” Olivia set the coloring book down on the seat beside her. “Abby had to pee. She sometimes pees her pants.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yeah, poops too. She’s potty-training. My mom does everything by herself. Sometimes she lets me help.”

  “I bet you’re a big help. Could you show me inside your house? Let me see some of your drawings?”

  “Sure.”

  Tom waved over the second officer. Pierce agreed to hang outside, keep an eye on things while they went in. Tom stooped to the back seat again. “Now how do I—?”

  Olivia had already unbuckled herself and opened the car door. She climbed out, tossed her hair back, and headed toward the house. He followed her up the two steps and in through the open front door.

  The place was cozy, toys everywhere. A simple couch and a couple of cushioned chairs, lots of bookshelves and books. A small TV sat in a far corner, looking neglected.

  Straight back was a hallway where Sanchez stood with his arms folded outside a closed door. Tom could hear Heather talking in a soft voice to Abigail.

  Olivia plucked a drawing from the line hanging in the window. “This one is for you,” she said.

  “For me, huh?” He took the dried watercolor, an abstract jungle, it looked like, people in the foreground. “Thank you.”

  Olivia explained about the picture as Tom had a look around: the next room was just a small open space with a modest dining table, three chairs around it, one higher than the others. The kitchen was bigger, a bit of a mess, dishes piled in the sink. A window above the sink overlooked the small backyard.

  “I’m going to get a drink.” Olivia went to the fridge and got out a juice box. As she carefully worked the straw out of the packaging and punctured the juice box with it, Tom looked over the photographs held to the refrigerator by magnets.

  Most of them were of the girls: the girls at the beach with pails and shovels; the girls out in the street on little manual scooters; the girls with cake and ice cream smeared on their faces at what looked like a birthday party. There was one with them dressed in winter clothes in a snowy setting. The older people smiling along beside them were probably Theresa and Henry Hutchins, Heather’s parents.

  In the center of it all was a family photo showing Heather and Glenn Moss with a much younger Olivia, but no Abigail. Glenn was handsome with a boxy chin and thick eyebrows. They looked happy.

  Tom’s phone rang — the incoming number was Blythe’s.

  “How’s it going?” Blythe asked.

  He set the drawing down on the kitchen table and tracked behind Olivia, now moving back into the living room.

  “I’m at Moss’s house. She’s cooperating, says she was about to turn herself in. She seemed to not know what happened after she left the jail.” Tom was aware of Olivia’s proximity, but the six year-old didn’t seem to be paying attention. She’d taken a book from a shelf and had sat on the couch with it, still slurping from the juice box.

  “You make the arrest yet?”

  Tom glanced at the bathroom door. “No. She’s got the little one in the bathroom. I don’t think she’s a flight risk at this point. I’ve got two deputies here; the house is secure.”

  “Okay. Declan is being moved to the District Medical Examiner’s Office. I’m meeting with Turnbull and Sheriff Jacobsen in about five minutes. We’re going to start interviewing the C.O.s and deputies.”

  Tom walked to the front door and looked through the window at the Honda in the driveway.

  “Who is he?”

  “We’re going to find out.”

  “Alright.” Even though the child appeared engrossed by the book, Tom lowered his voice further. “I’ll call family services, have them come take the girls. Better here than at the jail. Then we’ll bring Moss in.”

  Deputy Pierce was between the Honda in the driveway and the front of the house. Out on the street, a dark SUV was driving along, its windows smoked. The vehicle slowed.

  Blythe was saying something.

  Tom leaned toward the glass for a closer look. “Hang on, Lauren . . .”

  The SUV came to a complete stop and the driver’s side window rolled down. Something dark protruded from the window. Tom took a breath and held it.

  A window exploded in the living room. The front of the house was pummeled by gunfire. Tom leaped away from the front door and dove for the couch where he grabbed Olivia and yanked her to the ground.

  The barrage of gunfire thundered as Tom shielded Olivia with his body. It sounded like a jackhammer was working on the front wall of the house. More glass shattered, but outside, like the vehicles were being shot up, too.

  Tom heard a shriek of fear behind him.

  He yelled toward the back of the house. “Stay in the bathroom!”

  The volley of gunfire went on, everything seemed to tremble like an earthquake. Tom covered Olivia with his body, able to sense her rapid breathing and fluttering pulse. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, opened them, took a deep breath.

  The shooting ended.

  An engine revved, tires squealed, and then the sound of the motor faded as the gunman’s vehicle sped away. Tom didn’t move. He waited, still covering Olivia. Gradually, he eased off her and checked her for wounds. She didn’t seem hurt, just frightened, staring up at him in shock.

  He got to his knees but didn’t dare stand fully upright. “You okay?”

  Olivia blinked, her eyes wide and glassy. “Was that fireworks?”

  “No.” He took her hand, helped her to her knees. “Stay low like this, okay, crawl towards the hallway there, okay? I’m right behind you.”

  She did as she was told. As they rounded the couch Tom stretched to see around her. Sanchez was in the hallway, sitting against the wall, stunned. He was looking away from them, towards the back of the house. His gun was out and in his lap.

  “Sergeant . . .”

  Sanchez didn’t respond.

  “Sergeant Sanchez!”

  At last, he turned his head. His face was pale as a cloud, his eyes unfocused with shock. But he gave his head a little shake and his eyes cleared. “Yeah, okay. I’m alright, I think.”

  Heather shouted from inside the bathroom. “What happened? What happened out there?! Is Olivia okay? Livy?!”

  “I’m okay, Mommy.” Despite her recent composure, Olivia’s face crumpled and she started to cry.

  Tom urged her forward until they were just outside the bathroom door. He reached up and turned the knob. The door swung out and Heather was there, sitting on the closed toilet, Abigail in her lap. The little girl was sucking on her thumb and twirling her hair. Her little chest jumped, the way children spasmed after a hard cry.

  Olivia crawled into the bathroom, sobbing now.

  Tom spoke gently but firmly. “Get in the tub, honey, okay?”

  “The tub?”

  Heather reached out, took her daughter and drew her into a quick, tight embrace. “Yes, get in there, Livy, like he says, go ahead . . .”


  “But it’s still wet . . .” Olivia wailed and shook, but finally straddled her leg over and slipped into the tub.

  Tom locked eyes with Heather. Heather climbed in after with the other girl. Then he got his gun out and shut the door.

  Sergeant Sanchez was still sitting there in a daze. Tom checked the man over, but he appeared unharmed. Sanchez raised his arm and Tom looked where he was pointing.

  There was a single bullet hole punched in the back wall of the hallway. One of the framed pictures hanging there had been knocked askew.

  Sanchez was showing Tom where the round that missed him had wound up. A bullet that had come from the vehicle on the street, through the window of the front door, narrowly missed Sanchez and embedded in the wall. “Almost got nailed,” Sanchez said, a bit breathless. “Ah, God.”

  “Stay here. Keep them safe. I’m going to have a look out front.”

  Tom crawled back into the living room and toward the front door. A piece of glass bit into his palm. He winced and got to his feet, staying as low as possible. He shouted up toward the shattered window. “Deputy Pierce? Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you!”

  “You hit? You alright?”

  “I’m alright! I’m behind the Honda!”

  “Where is the vehicle?”

  “Gone!”

  Tom slowly unfurled, now gripping the gun with both hands, blood from his cut palm oozing out and threading down his wrist. He looked through the broken window.

  A bad scene out there. His Crown Vic had been all shot up. The glass was cracked on one of the Sheriff’s Department cruisers. Tom saw Pierce on the ground in front of the Honda’s engine, his gun held at his chest, pointed at the sky. He rolled his head and looked at Tom, his eyes wide.

  Sirens rose in the distance.

  CHAPTER FOUR