Coburn shook her hand and nodded at Tom. Then he strode off toward the beach.
Blythe slowly sat back down.
Tom waited a few seconds before sharing his thoughts. “He’s not happy about it. I’m not sure I am either. And he said Declan wasn’t under ‘direct surveillance’. What’s that mean?”
Blythe considered his words before she spoke. “Listen, Tom, as long as we’re all sharing secrets here, getting everything out in the open, I gotta bone to pick. I don’t want to go down this road with you again. You weren’t forthcoming with me yesterday — you’d already heard about Declan’s death. You didn’t say how.”
Tom looked down at the table. Someone had etched their initials into the picnic table and enclosed them in a crude heart. “I was with Katie Mills yesterday morning. She got the call first, that’s how I knew what was happening at the county jail. Okay?”
Blythe said nothing for a moment, then, “Okay. Anything else?”
“No.”
She turned her head, her eyes shining in the sunlight. “Alright. Let’s go back to Mandi with this 945 number thing and see if it sticks.”
* * *
The statewide prosecutor had his suit on, about to head into court, his briefcase open, packed with papers. He was just getting off the phone when they stepped into his office.
“That was Sergeant Coburn,” he said. “You two threaten his life?”
“A little,” Blythe said.
Mandi shook his head and looked down. “It’s thin. It’s paper thin. Let this woman go because Mario Palumbo’s organization could have been using a prepaid with this prefix number? Ultra-thin.”
“Plus there was an attempt to kill her,” Blythe reminded. “You seem to keep forgetting that.”
“No, no I’m not forgetting it. I’m thinking about exactly that. You two are coming at me like her legal team. She’s a single mother, separated from her daughters — they’re probably all safer where they are. What happens if we let her go and someone comes after her again?”
“We’re going to protect her,” Tom said.
Mandi fixed him with a grave look, then snapped the briefcase closed on his desk. “And you’re prepared for that?”
“Yes.”
“And Turnbull cleared it?”
Tom pulled a file from his bag. “Application for funding victim and witness protection is right here.” He placed the thick form on Mandi’s desk and slid it toward him. “Your signature is required on page two, sir.”
Mandi continued to clock Tom a moment before lowering his eyes. He snatched the paperwork off the desk and fanned through the pages. “And you’ve attached the itemization of expenses?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’re aware that the Protection Review Committee may approve or deny, in whole or in part, all reimbursements requested?”
“Yes.”
“You realize you’re supposed to submit this thirty days prior to the next Violent Crimes and Drug Control meeting — which is next week.”
“Yes.”
Mandi continued flipping pages. At last, he set the application down and raised a hand. Tom stuck a pen in Mandi’s grip. The pen hovered in the air, Mandi’s eyes scudded over the text in front of him, then he looked up.
“Forty-eight hours.”
“Forty-eight hours?”
“That’s the condition. That’s how long you have to get me real evidence that Mario Palumbo is behind this. If you can’t, I’ll rescind my endorsement and VCDC will halt the process before you’re even approved.”
“And Heather Moss goes without protection? How does that make sense?”
“Then I’ll recommend an astronomical bail she can’t pay or bond and she can stay right where she is, Lange. Take it or leave it.” Without waiting for a response, Mandi scribbled his signature. Tom thought the prosecutor had a flair for the dramatic. He also thought forty-eight hours was a hell of a time crunch and they were gambling with someone’s life.
“Your ROC will have to go out of pocket on this for now,” Mandi said. “Maybe you, personally, too.”
“That’s fine.”
Mandi handed back the paperwork and Tom slipped it into a large envelope. The envelope was already addressed to the VCDC Coordinator in Tallahassee and stamped with the proper postage. Tom passed the whole thing back to Mandi. “Can you have your secretary place this with the outgoing mail?”
Mandi snatched the envelope out of Tom’s grip. “Jesus, when did you find time to put this together?”
“Last night.”
“You sleep at all, Agent Lange?”
“I got a good four hours, sir.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The judge came out of chambers and walked to the bench, her black robe flowing. With Blythe gone to prepare for the press conference, Tom sat alone at the back of the courtroom. After the judge sat down, three inmates were paraded into a holding area and lined up behind the bulletproof glass. Heather Moss peered out into the courtroom, found Tom and offered a broken smile.
Bob Mandi stood and addressed the judge, his voice booming through the room as he read his statement: “Your honor, the People have issued the criminal complaint against the defendant, Heather Moss, for fleeing the scene of a crime.”
The judge looked at Heather Moss, who’d been brought to the door of the holding cell, opened by the bailiff. “And how does the defendant plead?”
“Not guilty, your honor.” Moss’s voice cracked on the words and she cleared her throat.
Robert Ernst addressed the bench. “Your honor, my client was worried for her children. Their lives had been threatened. She had every intention of turning herself in to the proper authorities once she’d verified that they were safe. She’s not a flight risk. I request that Mrs. Moss be released on her own recognizance.”
The judge faced the statewide prosecutor.
Mandi waved a hand in the air. “Your honor, the People concede the defendant’s release.”
“Very well.” The judge shuffled some papers at the bench before she gazed across the courtroom at Moss again. “Mrs. Moss, I understand the extenuating circumstances of your actions. And as a mother, I recognize and appreciate the emotion involved. But it is the opinion of this court that you should have notified the police immediately. The defendant shall return to county jail for release procedure, and a preliminary hearing is set for one week from today. Dismissed.”
The judge then announced the next case as the bailiff ushered Heather deeper into the holding cell. The inner door opened and she stepped out of sight.
* * *
Tom met with Ernst in the large hallway outside the courtroom. The lawyer smiled at him, looking relieved. Tom shook his hand, said, “Surprised you went for the not-guilty plea on a misdemeanor.”
“It’s still something that would be on her record. She was a mother worried for her children and she had no idea what had happened.”
Tom wasn’t going to argue. Perhaps what Heather Moss needed was a tenacious lawyer in her corner.
“As soon as she processes out,” Ernst said, “Mrs. Moss wants to head directly to the Department of Family Services and collect her children.”
Tom nodded. “Of course. But I’m going to stay with her, and I have a detail waiting to accompany us. How is Heather? Is she alright?”
“Well, she’s a wreck. She’s terrified, and she’s never been away from her girls, not for a single night since her husband died.”
“You know her personally?”
Ernst nodded. “I’m sort of a family friend. I went to college with Glenn, her husband. But I passed the bar in Florida six years ago, set up shop here.”
“Think I’ve seen you around,” Tom said.
“Yeah. I think I’ve seen you, too. Well — you had the Carrie Gallo case. I read about it. Body turns up in Rookery Bay, no ID, nothing.”
“Yeah . . .”
“That looked like a tough one. But you brought it home; I heard the guy got li
fe without parole. Pretty impressive.”
Tom glanced away, wanting a change of subject. He asked, “Have you ever represented Mrs. Moss before?”
“No, but, I helped her tend to the affairs after Glenn died.”
“He was a store manager for Home Depot?”
Ernst nodded again.
“So what were you guys . . . college friends as undergrads?”
“Glenn was pre-law. He was a good student, too. But he dropped out.”
“Oh yeah? Why?”
The lawyer shrugged. “He had a change of heart, I guess. Met Heather, decided he wanted a different kind of life. He said studying law had been more for his parents than anyone else. But, we kept in touch. Had some good times back then.”
Tom put on a smile. “I’ll bet.” Then he let the smile slide off as he looked around at the few other people waiting outside the courtroom, some sitting in the few chairs provided, others leaning against the wall or standing in the hallway, huddled in conversation. He needed to get going, but was curious about Glenn. “Can I ask you — how did he die?”
“Cancer. He had Hodgkin’s Disease.”
“Ah, that’s terrible. Sorry to hear that.”
Ernst shook his head. “Healthy guy, too. Athletic, non-smoker. He even did a few of those triathlons. Just one of these really unfortunate cases. Cancer gets anyone, I guess.”
“Scary.”
“Very scary.”
“Yeah. Okay, well . . .” Tom stuck out his hand.
“So, on your Gallo case — you came up against some unsavory people.”
“I don’t really—”
“What I’ve heard was that Declan was a potential state witness. What if those same people were involved here? For my client’s sake, I really hope that’s where this investigation is headed.”
“You know I can’t discuss that.”
Ernst nodded, this time put his hand out.
Tom branded his face with a fresh smile on top of the quick handshake. “Been nice talking to you.”
He hurried down the wide staircase to the street below, his footfalls echoing in the cavernous space. He needed to get to the ROC for a meeting with the Internal Affairs Bureau since he’d been involved in the shooting. He’d tried to call Katie for a ride, but she wasn’t answering. Had to take a damned cab.
* * *
The meeting with IAB on the officer-involved shooting was thorough but went quickly enough. Tom thanked his state bureau representative for being there and headed for the crime lab, anxious to find out any results on the multiple forensic fronts.
Veronica Morley held up the small manila envelope inside a plastic baggie. “Dusted, lifted, nothing there but the elimination prints provided for Heather Moss.”
In another section of the ROC that was a giant, warehouse-sized room, techs in lab coats shot bullets into blocks of gel while wearing yellow eye goggles and ear buds. Tom had to cover his own ears as he searched for John Armstrong, a ballistic specialist.
Armstrong closed the door to his office, muffling some of the thunderous gunfire. He reviewed documents on a clipboard he held and shouted, a hazard of his job. “Okay. So, Moss case. We’re still looking at trajectories, but from cartridge casings found at the scene, we’ve determined .223 caliber rounds discharged from an AR-15. Twenty-eight rounds discharged in total. We’re entering all evidence into NIBIN.”
“Thank you. And can we look at where those rounds ended up?”
Armstrong went through a stack of pictures showing Heather’s house, the vehicles parked in front. Tom looked at bullet holes in his Crown Vic, in the deputy’s cruiser. Heather’s Honda was unmarred. Several rounds had impacted the front of the house, on the low side.
Armstrong pointed at a picture of the lawn. “We found five rounds in the ground. The house sits on a little rise, so . . .”
“And inside?”
“Just two rounds reached the interior of the house.”
Tom recognized the hallway where Sergeant Sanchez had been slumped in shock and bewilderment. There was a dark hole in the back wall. Another picture showed where a round had penetrated the short wall between the kitchen and hallway. And one large diagram showed the entire ordeal: a spray of bullets from the vehicle in the road toward the house, their trajectories indicated with red lines, the sites of their impacts red circles.
“Thank you,” Tom said, getting an eyeful. “Let me know what else you come up with.”
“Will do,” Armstrong yelled.
Tom wandered into the bull pen and found his desk, ears ringing from all the shooting. He twisted in his swivel chair and tapped his pen on the Formica.
Twenty-eight rounds.
He thought of bending his body over Olivia Moss. The bits of mortar dust that specked her hair like snowflakes when the hail of gunfire was over.
Twenty-eight rounds, and only two made it into the house, plus the Honda was untouched; his own vehicle had taken the brunt of the damage.
Weird.
With almost thirty shots fired, none hit the presumed target. That was a good thing, but the lack of accuracy didn’t support the idea of a trained killer.
* * *
A state trooper working the desk took the papers from Tom, flipped through them, then handed the packet back. “You’ve got to fill out the page so Tallahassee sends down the new vehicle.” He tapped the page with a finger.
Tom shook his head. “I need something today.”
The trooper blinked. “Something happen to your ride?”
“You could say that.”
“You want the same thing?”
“I need an upgrade,” Tom said. “Something family-sized.”
The trooper just stared a moment, then took the form back. “Okay. I’ll show you what we’ve got out back.”
He led Tom past a full slate of vehicles, the evening sun spangling off the steel and polished chrome. Crown Victorias, Impalas, and a couple of fast-looking Mustangs. At the end of the row, Tom saw what he wanted.
They headed over and the trooper opened up the Dodge Durango SUV for Tom to have a look.
He glanced at the big monitor between the front seats, considering how conspicuous it would be to anyone who might be hunting for Heather Moss. The MDT was easy to spot. There was also a push bar mounted to the front of the chassis. And if they knew where to look, they’d see the emergency lights installed on the mirrors, and where the windshield met the roof. The license plate gave it away, too — 445DSI — the letters referring to “Domestic Security and Investigations.” The vehicle was not exactly anonymous, but it would have to do.
“Do we have any child seats?”
Again the trooper looked baffled. “Uhm, I’ll check.”
Tom pulled his head out of the interior. “Need one for a six year-old and one for a two year-old.”
* * *
Blythe came down the hall at speed, shaking her head. “What a nightmare.”
Tom didn’t press for details, knew she was talking about the upcoming press conference, events which Blythe generally hated and considered a burden.
They turned into the office of their researcher. Cheyenne Holman’s smallish office was crammed with papers, two desktop computers, plus a laptop. She had long brown hair down to the middle of her back and a wide, pleasant smile.
“So I’ve done the full workup on Howard Michael Declan,” she said. “Definitely interesting in the finances department; I went three years back. The first year, he shows quite a bit of taxable gambling income. Mostly, though, it’s pretty break-even — he itemizes each year, reporting his losses to offset taxes owed on winnings. But then he starts a downward slope, and never really recovers.” She looked up at the agents. “He died pretty deep in debt.”
“No inheritors, correct?” Tom asked.
“Correct. And nothing besides the house in North Naples to inherit. He worked at an auto body shop and salvage yard in Cape Coral for close to thirty years. The place was recently sold.” She clicked
the keys on one of the computers. “Was bought by Gary Reuben Enterprises, Lake County. They’re in the junk dealing business; I looked them up on BizQuest.”
“So the house will probably go toward his debts?”
“Yes. Probate court has assumed temporary possession of Declan’s estate. They’ll pay off the outstanding debts.”
Tom leaned back and glanced at Blythe, thinking that the “outstanding debts” were very likely losses on dog racing. Mario Palumbo was going to be getting back the money Howard Declan had lost at the track. If Declan wasn’t involved in the Vasquez incident, maybe he was killed for his debt?
“How much did he owe?” Tom asked.
“Almost three hundred thousand.”
“Yeah, there goes the house,” Blythe commented. “And he ‘breaks even’ all over again.”
Tom asked Blythe, “Did you reach Barbara, his ex?”
“She was very sorry to hear about it, but she hasn’t been in touch with Declan for years. She wasn’t surprised by the intestacy, said Declan never really was a planner, she’d tried to get him to consider drawing up a will, once, and he just sloughed it off.”
“No last will and testament,” Tom said. “Guy lived fast and dangerous.”
“He didn’t have anyone to leave anything to, and maybe he knew he was going to wind up with his pockets turned out. Sounds like he had a real problem.”
“Criminal record?” Tom asked Cheyenne.
“He was pretty unremarkable in that regard. He had speeding tickets aplenty, even a suspended license for too many points, but aside from liking to drive fast, guy’s clean.”
The picture on Declan was coming clearer: Not so much an obvious criminal as a guy without much to call his own. No wife, no kids, no assets. Maybe living in fear of Palumbo, certainly living in the red. A guy willing to take a pill that promised to end it all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
While Blythe and Bob Mandi were finally talking to reporters, telling them what they could — which wasn’t much — Heather Moss was outside the county jail, standing in the center of a swarm of deputies and state troopers. None of the officers had information on the particulars of Heather’s case, or knew that the substantial security was meant to keep her safe from possible retribution from Mario Palumbo and his crew. They only knew she was to be protected. That was all they needed.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 36