Tom pulled out one of the photo albums. The very first page showed a much younger Declan and a younger red-head getting hitched. She wore a white bridal gown, he was in a black tuxedo. They cut the cake. He fed her a piece, and some got on her nose. They were laughing.
Tom set the album aside, got on his knees and kept digging. There was a fly-fishing brochure for upstate New York, a pamphlet for camping in the Smoky Mountains, and a random newspaper article covering a classic car rally that had come to town several years before. He picked up a set of keys sitting on the bottom.
“What’ve you got?”
Blythe startled him. He turned and saw her standing in the doorway leading back into the house.
“Photos, mementos, random stuff. Keys.” He gestured to the pile of photos he’d set aside which featured the red-head. “And Declan was married.”
Blythe held up her own find, a couple of documents. She rattled them softly. “Divorced.”
Tom got to his feet and she handed him the paperwork, saying, “Top drawer in the living room desk.”
Tom looked it over. “Name was Barbara.” He passed the divorce certificate back to Blythe. “Who’s been established as Declan’s next of kin?”
“So far, no one. He was an only child with no kids of his own. His parents are both deceased. The ME’s office is currently searching for any cousins, which is way down the list in the order of precedence.”
“What about her?”
“Legally, she has no rights as a claimant. And we don’t need her to identify the body; he was already IDed the moment he was processed into county jail. So, she’s nobody.”
“She’s someone we should talk to.”
“Agreed.” Blythe sauntered past him out onto the screened-in porch. “Jeez, it’s nice out here. Stuffy in there, like a crypt.”
“Guy’s been living alone for a while.”
Blythe sat down on the wicker love seat in the center of the room. She seemed to gaze out into the twilit back yard, as if soaking in the eventide.
“We gonna get the medical on this guy, find out he had all sorts of mental problems?” Tom asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe ‘Barbara’ knows whether he ever worked for Palumbo, or ever witnessed anything.”
“You think Heather Moss is innocent, huh?”
Tom was struck by the question. “Innocent? You don’t believe someone called her up this morning?”
“What if she’s working for Palumbo?”
“We haven’t found any evidence of that. And someone just tried to kill her.”
“Well, Declan is definitely connected.”
“What did Declan supposedly see or know exactly?”
Her eyebrows went up. “You don’t know?”
“I mean, like I said this morning, I know he was questioned by Everglades County a month ago as part of their ongoing investigation into Palumbo. But I don’t know what he did for Palumbo, or how exactly he was connected.”
Now her forehead wrinkled and she smirked. “I know you’ve been keeping up on Palumbo, Tom. Turnbull knows, too. Nobody’s faulting you for doing a little work outside of normal business hours, okay? That’s why we called you in early, wanted you on this.”
“Okay . . .”
“Palumbo isn’t like these commercial fishermen families running dope; he thinks he’s a celebrity. But they’ve got means that he doesn’t. They’ve got families, boats; they make deals a mile off shore where no one can watch. Palumbo’s been trying to capture a piece of that. Get them working for him. So apparently he had a sit-down with Edgar Vasquez.”
“Vasquez? The same Vasquez that had the car accident a couple months ago?”
“The very same.” Blythe’s eyelids drooped to half-mast. “Come on, Tom. Stop being cute.”
He held up his hands. “I won’t deny I’ve been keeping my own tabs on Palumbo. But we’re talking about mostly old stuff. Anyway, I’ve been up to here in Nick’s affairs for the past six months — liquidating his house, his realty business, settling everything has taken the bulk of my time, you know, when I’m not babysitting the governor or doing therapy.”
She looked away, into the pine trees. “Fair enough. Well, the consensus is that Vasquez wasn’t going to go for Palumbo’s offer. They met a few times, didn’t quite come to agreeable terms, let’s say, then Vasquez just happens to have a terrible car wreck; car just happens to go plowing into a tractor-trailer, killing him and his wife.”
“I definitely didn’t know about that. You serious? What are we talking — cut brakes? Brake fluid? That shit doesn’t happen.”
“County CID found evidence of some kind of tampering. But it all went into the sand trap of vice narcotics, top secret, you know the drill. All I heard was that it was death by vehicle sabotage. Yeah, it happens.”
“Okay . . . and Declan was an auto mechanic. So that’s the connection — he wasn’t a witness to something; he supposedly had a hand in this vehicle sabotage.”
“Right.”
Tom thought of what he’d seen of Declan’s place so far — nothing that necessarily screamed “auto mechanic”, except maybe for the newspaper article on the classic car rally. Maybe the magnet on the fridge. “Has Declan been under surveillance?”
“That I don’t know.”
“Maybe he was getting set to roll on Palumbo, admit he was involved? Then he has some sort of mental breakdown? Tries to commit suicide by cop?”
“I think he might’ve been scared of something, yeah.” She pulled out of her relaxed position, leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “And maybe it was eating him, this fear that Palumbo’s crew was going to come around and snuff him out because he was going to talk. But like I’m telling you, this is all protected by court order. Same as the last time we dealt with the Palumbo investigation.” She gave him a long look through the gloom.
“Declan gets arrested, goes to jail, where Palumbo gets to him anyway,” Tom said.
“By sending in Heather Moss as a vector for his suicide.”
“By forcing her.”
He waited for her to object, something about how he tended to get this way . . . that he was too soft, or was led by his man-parts instead of his brain. There was no doubt he found Heather Moss alluring, but that wasn’t why he thought she was innocent of murder. She’d been protecting her children, plain and simple.
He didn’t have kids, and his parents were long gone — well before Nick had punched out — but he imagined that, in healthy families, parents were willing to lay their life down for their kids, to do whatever it took to protect them. Heather Moss had done just that.
“Okay,” he said, “So Declan is going to flip for the state, maybe confess to rigging the brakes on the car Vasquez was driving, or whatever, but he goes crazy first. Why not just commit suicide then?”
“Maybe he’s a coward. Needs someone else to do it. Tried to get the cops to take him down when he went parading around in front of his house al fresco, then made a move on a service weapon.”
“He readily took that pill,” Tom said, remembering the video. “But at that point, he’s safely tucked away in jail. If he’s a coward, why not follow through and sing for the state, go into witness relocation? He’d disappear.”
She cut him a hard look. “Maybe because Palumbo has people everywhere, even in county lock-up — people who specialize in ‘the disappeared’. Maybe Declan was terrified of a fate worse than death. This was a small mercy shown by Palumbo, a literal ‘get out of jail free’ card.”
Tom stared off into the shifting shadows outside Declan’s back porch.
Blythe suddenly clapped her hands, the sound loud in the quiet space, and stood up. “Let’s get home, get an early start tomorrow. Lots to go through.”
She breezed past him, wafting a musky perfume in her wake.
He followed her into the main part of the house and glanced at the laptop. “I think we need to take this stuff into evidence. At least get the computer seque
stered.”
“Tomorrow,” Blythe said, nearing the front door.
Tom stopped in the center of the living room. “You trust leaving Declan’s stuff here overnight? That lone deputy out front isn’t going to stop someone who really wants to get in here to destroy anything Declan might’ve been harboring, incriminating information on Palumbo, maybe — proof of something, who knows.”
Blythe stopped in front of the door and turned around. She’d seemed subtly adversarial since their meeting with Heather Moss. And Tom knew the senior agent had her rebellious side — if she felt encumbered by procedure, sometimes she just went around it. Heather’s lawyer had pissed her off.
Then again, she’d learned how playing fast and loose could backfire on her as it had during their last case.
“Alright,” she said, taking out her phone. “You’re right. Let’s see if we can get this packed up tonight. Where do we want to start?”
Tom grabbed the keys he’d set on the floor. “Maybe with these, see what they fit.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Tom opened his door just before midnight. The place was pitch black. He snapped on a light and headed into the kitchen. Setting his bag on the table, he leaned into the fridge for a cool drink. There were two Heinekens left over from the previous night, spent with Katie Mills. He popped the bottle cap off one of them and flicked it in the sink where it clattered around and came to a rest. Leaning against the countertop, he took a long swig and checked his phone, swished through photos he’d taken throughout the day: Declan’s dismal, neglected house, Heather’s cheerier, more lived-in space with toys strewn about.
Then he checked his texts, hoping maybe he’d gotten a message from Katie, already suspecting he hadn’t.
He moved to the table and sat down, took another gulp of the beer. The cool, effervescent liquid felt good on his throat. His body ached and he should have been tired but he felt like sleep was still a ways off. He thought for a moment and then punched in a number on his phone.
“Tom?” Jack Vance sounded happy to hear from him.
“Hey, Jack. I’m only calling so late because I’m lonely and I have no friends.”
Vance laughed. “Well, you know I’m up. I’m afraid to sleep. Too old — don’t know if I’ll wake up.”
“How’s the cooking coming along?”
“Eh, I’m over it.”
“What? You were one gazpacho away from master chef. What happened?”
“I’m into stamps now.”
Tom was silent.
“I’m kidding,” Vance said. “Listen, no, you know what it is, I been putting a lot of effort into the business. My snowbird watch thing. But, honestly, the stuff you gotta know on computers today just to compete — I do Facebook, okay? But a website? Now I gotta pay someone to build me a website. Who did Nick use?”
“Nick did it himself, actually.”
“Oh, see, there you go. You know, I think I’ll just get some low-grade security job. Sit in the booth, some nice little gated community like yours.”
Tom took a swig of the beer. “Hey, I’ll ask.”
“How’s the new place?”
“The new place is good. I didn’t have much to move in.”
“Traveling light. That’s the best way.”
Tom already felt better. Vance was retired Air Force, and had been his neighbor in Naples. He’d helped Tom out of a couple jams. It was true; Vance was his only real friend now that Nick was gone.
“How’s Katie?”
Tom flinched, but it was what he’d expected, and, if he was honest with himself, partly why he was calling. He and Katie had gone out to dinner with Vance a couple times, favoring a burger joint near Collier Boulevard. Katie and the older man had gotten along so well Tom sometimes felt like a third wheel. In a good way.
“Katie’s great,” Tom said. “She, ah, she’s busy with work, and ah, things are good . . .”
“Uh-huh. So you haven’t popped the question, is what you’re saying.”
Tom let loose an unexpected laugh. “No, no, I haven’t. Not quite. We, ah, you know, we’ve been taking it slow.”
“Tommy. You’re talking to a man who spent thirty-eight years married to a woman, God rest Margaret’s soul. And you know I never much had the patience to beat around the bush . . .”
Tom took another swallow of liquid courage. “Okay. So, Katie left this morning and I don’t think she’s coming back.”
He waited for Vance’s quick-witted response, but the ex-military man was quiet. Finally, Vance said, “Yeah, well, there is that. You took quite a knock, Tommy. And you haven’t had it so easy. The kind of stuff that’s happened to you, that can make it hard to let someone—”
“None of us have had it easy. Katie’s had loss, too. And I’m on a case right now . . .” He drifted, remembering the damage he saw in Heather Moss’s eyes. Thinking of her family photo on the fridge in her house. The unimaginable tragedy it had to be to lose your life partner, the father of your little girls. “. . . It’s already shaping up to be pretty big.”
Vance said, “You’re back in action, huh?”
“Yeah, back with IFS. Fully-reinstated as of today. No more working Governor Protection.”
“How was that?”
“It was alright. Lots of standing around playing secret service.” Tom rose and put the empty beer bottle in the sink. He headed out of the kitchen toward the living room. “They wanted to keep me on with the department, but keep me at arm’s length — you know? See if I had a permanent bug in my system.”
“Well I’m glad things seem to be working out.” Vance said.
“Yeah — listen, thanks for talking and — I just wanted to ask you — I know you’re a private guy, and I respect that, and you’re retired . . .”
“Spit it out, Tommy.”
“What do you know about the Palumbo family? You know Palumbo owns the dog track, that he makes his money off poker, but that County VNB has a long history with him for other reasons. They went through a lot of targets before they got to Palumbo distributing dope.”
Vance sighed. “I bet they did. Listen, here’s what I’ll say, and not just about Palumbo, but what I see as the big picture: Mexico is the source of everything now. Okay, they’re growing pot and poppy and they’ve got meth labs. Southwest Florida is getting real popular for drug-running because we don’t have a lot of assets down here; Everglades County has a tiny little marine patrol, the Coast Guard is way up in Tampa. So it’s wide open for a guy like Palumbo to make moves. That’s what I know.”
“You think he’s—”
“I think Palumbo is probably right in the middle of all this, and Palumbo is bold, but he’s also smart. But this is coming out of what I know from your case, when you were down here. And, yeah, I talk to some of the guys; I read between the lines in the newspapers. Mostly, I’m old and I don’t know shit.”
“There’s a guy,” Tom said, “might’ve been getting set to flip on Palumbo for something. Turns up dead while he’s on suicide watch at the jail. And somebody helped him do it.”
Vance was silent a moment. “And you’re thinking Palumbo.”
“You think that’s something he would do? Go after a guy like that? Sitting in jail?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. But there would have to be something really, really substantial this person knew for this level of action.”
“Maybe doing a little work on someone’s car, making it not work so good — that’s enough to get him in a relationship with VNB, or even the feds?”
“Hmm. Maybe vice narcotics, not sure about the feds.”
“You ever heard of anything like that actually going down?”
“Vehicle sabotage? Yeah. Time to time. But if you want my honest opinion . . .”
“I do.”
“I’m not sure I see it. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, just, there’d be something else going on for someone like Palumbo to go full-on like you describe. Because I didn’t see this thing ab
out the jail on the news, but the shooting; that’s on all the networks — I’ve seen your face every half hour. Media been hounding you?”
“I took a couple calls, referred them to the Coms Office, who’ve been instructed not to say shit. The press conference is going to be a lot of nothing, too. But you’re saying—”
“I’m not saying anything,” said Vance. “It sounds like you are. You’re thinking about putting Palumbo into this thing at the jail, and you were at this drive-by, so I’m guessing it all goes together.”
They were quiet a moment, Tom rotating the empty beer bottle around on the table.
“Alright, Tommy. Listen, keep your head down. And if you see Katie again, you tell her old Jack said hi, okay?”
“You got it. Thanks, Jack.”
* * *
With the second beer, he sat down on the couch facing the wall, then stared up at what was plastered all over it.
Blythe was right — he’d been moonlighting all along.
It had taken a couple of weeks, but he’d covered nearly the whole wall in photos, news clippings and his own handwritten notes, forming an intricate web, connected by strands of yarn.
His eyes roved over the many headshots of Palumbo’s family and crew. He was so familiar with the family tree he’d created on Palumbo he could map it out with his eyes closed.
Katie hadn’t quite approved. “This violates a few regulations,” she’d said. But after he explained how there was no direct line of sight on the room so no one outside could see the wall unless they were thirty feet high in the trees behind his townhouse using binoculars, he realized she’d been more concerned about his state of mind than his extra-jurisdictional police work.
She didn’t care about the regulations. She cared that it was about Nick, thinking that Tom had become obsessed.
Had he?
Mario Palumbo sat in the center of the web, near the top. The picture was a black-and-white press photo taken using a telephoto lens and showed Palumbo getting into a GMC Yukon. The shot had been used in an exposé on the track in Bonita Springs, and the crumbling enterprise that was dog racing.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 34