Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  He shifted in his seat. He felt a sudden urge for a cigarette but tried to ignore it. “I guess that all depends on what ‘this’ is.”

  The air changed and the good humor seemed to drain from Agent Blythe.

  Tom stared into his coffee a moment, then took a quick swig. He set the cup down in the cup holder in the console and folded his arms. The ideas were dancing in his head, but he waited for Blythe to speak.

  “What’s going on, Lange? What are you thinking?”

  He wasn’t sure if he was ready to present his ideas.

  She said, “You don’t think Palumbo is behind this? Come on. Talk to me. What’s going on in your head?”

  There was no letting it lie. “Mario Palumbo has a team of lawyers that cost him probably half a million per year, each,” Tom said. “He’s been charged with five felonies in the past six years, beaten every one of them. Four settled out of court, one trial. Almost never gets his hands dirty. Meanwhile, Coby’s been monitoring his cocaine network for two years; got dates, times, and civilian informants coming out his ass, but nothing. Thousands of kilos have been taken off the street and Coby’s interdiction team has busted a dozen of Palumbo’s drug runners. But nobody takes a deal, nobody flips. The only thing left is for the feds to come in and drop a RICO cluster-bomb. But they aren’t making any moves.”

  She pointed in the air again, leaning in towards Tom, her face darkening a shade. “Declan is dead. A civilian was leveraged to commit murder, for Christ’s sake. This type of crime is exactly why the RICO act was passed in the first place.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “The whole thing stinks of organized crime; like Mandi said, it’s textbook.”

  “I know.”

  “Stop saying, ‘I know’.” Blythe turned away and stared out at the vegetation filling the distance.

  Tom took a drink, giving her a moment. “My point is, even if Declan had dealings with Palumbo, was he really going to turn? Was he an actual threat to Palumbo? This guy with nothing, in debt, with no proof he ever even worked for Palumbo.”

  “Maybe he was an informant for Coby.”

  “Maybe. I thought about that. And taking out a C.I., okay, that might be textbook. But like this? Palumbo using a therapist? Then going after her? It’s pushing it.”

  “Tom, I get it.”

  “Alright. So, what did the other clinicians have to say?”

  She tapped her fingers against the steering wheel. “I spoke with all four County Mental Health clinicians who visit the jail. Moss is the only on-call clinician, but she also has regular shifts twice a week to do counseling, or evaluations if there are any. Yesterday was her regular shift.”

  “So it sounds like she’s a constant,” Tom said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whoever was looking at Heather Moss knew she’d either get called in or she’d be there as per her regular shift.”

  “Well, the jail does have an in-house clinician, the one who evaluated Declan when he first came in, scored him high enough that Heather Moss had to follow up the next day.”

  He lifted the file off his lap. “Right — this is the police report on Declan’s arrest and his intake information at the jail. The in-house clinician only does the intake, and it’s in a different area to where inmates process in. The in-house clinician recommended Declan be put on watch for suicidal ideation. The inmates need to be evaluated every 24 hours to see if they’re still a danger to themselves or others, and Heather was on shift for that next check-up.”

  “I know all this. What’s the—”

  “Why would Palumbo wait for this guy to be put in jail where he was so hard to reach? Why go to all this trouble to use someone like Heather Moss when Palumbo could have reached out at any time and gotten to Declan? Edgar Vasquez and his wife died almost two months ago in that car wreck. So for all that time, if Declan was the guy to sabotage their car, he’s just sitting around his house, and Palumbo waits to kill him once he’s in jail?”

  “Palumbo was afraid he would crack under pressure in jail. Declan had been keeping quiet, Palumbo was laying off until now.”

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t think so. Someone knew he’d willingly take that pill, kill himself.”

  “Declan owed money to the track, too.”

  “Okay, but, we’re back to the same question — why wait until he’s in jail? Unless someone wanted Heather Moss to be the person who handed him that little package.”

  She stared at him directly. “I don’t understand you. If there’s anyone who — look, you realize if you get what you’re pushing for; if we can’t show Palumbo is behind this, we can’t protect this woman and her daughters. You just rigged all this up for them, you’ve got them in wit-pro, and now you’re pushing back . . .”

  “What I’m saying, Lauren, is that she’s definitely in danger, but it might not be from Palumbo. It might be from someone else who selected her specifically.”

  “Why?”

  “At this point, I have no idea.”

  Her exasperation with him seemed to fade. Still, she tapped her nails against the steering wheel again. “Alright. Look. Talk to her. Find out everything you can.”

  “I plan to.”

  “Good.”

  Blythe keyed the ignition and the Crown Vic’s powerful V-6 engine roared to life. “I’ll call you in the morning. Now get out.”

  He raised a hand as she turned around in the parking lot and watched her cruise away on Immokalee Road.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I never had him as a client before,” Heather said. She was on her knees beside the tub, up to her elbows in soap suds. “I didn’t know anything about him until two days ago, towards the end of the day when I learned he’d been picked up and was at the jail.”

  Tom sat in one of the hotel room chairs, watching Heather through the open bathroom door. “So how do you refer to someone in this situation? Clinically speaking.”

  Heather flinched as one of the girls made a splash in the water. Then she reached in and must’ve tickled Abigail, because the girl giggled, the sound bright and contagious. Tom chuckled. Heather rang out a wet washcloth and leaned in again, her words canned by the tiled walls surrounding the tub: “Well, we refer to anyone who we see at the clinic a ‘client’. But when we service the jail, the jail is the actual client.”

  Tom sobered. “So, how would you be referring to Declan, in your documentation, in conversations with your supervisor, etcetera?”

  “As ‘inmate’.”

  He scribbled a note on the pad resting on the table beside him. “Because of this type of relationship, how does confidentiality work?”

  “Actually, that’s the first thing I say when I see an inmate. I tell them that, ordinarily as a mental health counselor, things they say would be kept in confidence. But as county jail has retained my services, I’m obliged to share information with them regarding any risk I assess. Any danger I feel the inmate poses to themselves, or to the jail staff. Hey, hey, take it easy, girls.”

  The splashing intensified, both Olivia and Abigail giggling now, hidden behind the half-closed opaque doors enclosing the tub. Then the laughter turned to bickering. “Give it back, Abby,” Heather said. “Give it back to your sister. Here. Here’s yours, right here.”

  “And that doesn’t cause them to just shut down on you?” Tom folded his arms and leaned back in the chair.

  Heather wiped her brow with the upper part of her arm. She was still dressed in the navy blue slacks and white t-shirt. The t-shirt was wet and clinging to her skin in places. Tom could see part of her bra showing through.

  She gave him a look and he felt a pang of guilt like he’d been caught in a licentious thought, but her mind was elsewhere. “Actually, it tends to help build rapport. You know, in a lot of these situations, people feel like they have no one they can trust. Up is down, their lives are a mess. And I give it to them straight.”

  Tom absorbed this. “But wasn’t Declan alre
ady on a watch when you arrived?”

  She nodded. “The regular jail clinician placed him on watch, based on the circumstances of his arrest and how he presented when he arrived.”

  “I’ve seen that report,” Tom said. “It says he seemed depressed, and he wouldn’t — or couldn’t — explain the circumstances of his arrest. The clinician writes that Declan seemed utterly resigned. She thought Declan might try to hurt himself. But I want to know what you thought; your report.”

  Heather got to her feet and moved away from the tub, lowered her voice. “Can we do this, ah — the girls . . .”

  Tom put up his hand. “Right. Sorry. Sure, we can pick this up a little later.”

  But she lingered in the doorway a moment, looking at him. “Listen,” she whispered, “I left. I went to get my girls and get as far away as I could. Then I was arrested. I never made a report.”

  “No, I know.” He said, matching her volume. “But you did talk to him. You did evaluate him.”

  “I guess you could call it that. But the girls were on my mind the entire time. I wasn’t really in the frame of mind to, you know . . . I was . . .” Heather looked back at the girls, then to Tom again. “You’re trying to catch me out. You’re not going to find anything.”

  “I’m . . .” he started, but she’d busted him.

  She moved back to the tub, settled onto her knees. “Are the clothes coming? These girls are turning into prunes.”

  “Yeah. Should be any minute.”

  Terrified was likely the word she’d been about to say, he thought. I was terrified.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “That could be them now.” Tom rose from the chair and started to the entrance. He stepped over to the door, not crossing in front of it. Resting his palm on the grip of his sidearm, he peered into the keyhole.

  Two agents were in the hallway. Culpepper, and a woman Tom didn’t recognize. They were smiling and talking, Culpepper facing the door. He raised a hand and knocked again by rapping the door with his knuckles once, pausing, then three times, pausing, then twice.

  Tom slid unlocked the bolt, slid the chain away, opened up.

  “Here you go, boss,” Culpepper handed over a black duffel bag and two shopping bags. Behind Tom in the bathroom, the girls continued to chatter and splash. Culpepper looked past Tom. “Everything good in here?”

  “Everything’s good. Thank you.”

  Culpepper gave a brief nod, then backed out, closing the door as he went. Tom re-bolted and chained it. Then he set the bags on the nearest double bed and went through them.

  “Is it the clothes?” Heather’s voice carried from the bathroom.

  “Yes.” He set aside two sets of tiny pajamas. Then some things intended for Heather — undergarments, yoga pants, a couple t-shirts — all of which she’d requested from her personal belongings. The crime lab had had to check and sign off on the items, and it took time and personnel. Tom had thought familiar things would be nice for Heather and the girls. But any more clothes or personal effects would be purchased new. It was easier and less costly in the long run.

  He set out some hair brushes and toiletries, plus two small pillows and two stuffed animals. Held up the stuffed frog and gave it a look, then set it beside the teddy bear. There were three books — A Fly Buzzed By, The Echoing Well, and an adult paperback, A Man Called Ove. The first book was for little children. The Echoing Well was Young Adult.

  He tipped the duffel bag over and shook it. Ran his hand along the lining, and through the two end pockets. Nothing.

  Tom heard the water sucking down the bathtub drain, put the clothes back into the bag and brought it to the bathroom door, handed it in discreetly, keeping his head turned.

  “Thank you.”

  “There’s more diapers out here, too. Everything.”

  He returned to the bed and sat on the edge, fished around in the shopping bags. Abigail waddled out of the bathroom, wrapped up from her neck to her ankles in a white hotel towel. She took a few steps into the room, then looked up at him.

  “Hi,” Tom said.

  Abigail did an about-face and waddled straight back, tripped on the towel and went sprawling, started crying, which quickly escalated into full-on wailing. Tom moved to pick her up, but Heather beat him to it. She smiled at him and sat down with Abigail on the closed toilet, soothed and shushed her. “You’re alright. You’re okay.”

  Olivia stood up in the tub, and Tom withdrew again. He sat on the bed and waited for Heather to dress the girls. Olivia came out first, wearing pajamas covered in abstract art patterns. She hopped up on the chair and gave Tom’s notepad a look. He rose and quickly grabbed it up.

  “Are those your police notes?”

  “That’s right.”

  Olivia blinked up at him. “Did you know my daddy?”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

  “He died.”

  “I know.”

  “He had cancer.”

  “I’m very sorry.” Tom headed for the door, called to Heather, “I’ll check in with you a little later then, okay?”

  “What about food?” she asked, out of sight. “You said room service is okay?”

  “Yes. We’re supervising any meals that are requested . . .” He trailed off, realizing Olivia was watching him closely. “Sure, room service is good. I hear they have good ice cream.”

  “Ice cream!” Olivia shouted, and leaped from the chair.

  “Green-green!” Abigail chimed in from the bathroom.

  “Thanks for that . . .”

  “I think they have twist flavor, too.” He grinned at Olivia and opened the door with both girls shouting, “Twist! Twist!”

  * * *

  In his hotel bathroom, Tom rolled his head on his shoulders, feeling the kinks in his neck. It was going on nine p.m., and he figured Heather would be putting the girls to bed by now. Their rooms were adjacent and he’d heard Abigail crying a bit at one point.

  It hadn’t been his intent to say anything really inappropriate in front of the girls — not that he was sure exactly where that line would be drawn. But Heather was right, he’d been fishing, curious how she’d react with her daughters around. Not sure exactly what he thought she’d reveal, just maybe something; he’d know it if he saw it.

  But he hadn’t seen it, he didn’t think. Just that she was smart. And a gifted multitasker.

  He changed the bandage on his hand, ran a toothbrush over his teeth and splashed some water on his face. Blotted his face with a towel and gazed at his reflection in the mirror: the small scar beneath his eye seemed to stand out. According to Nick, the scar was from the night Tom had tried to stop his father from hitting his mother. Tom didn’t remember the incident, but he could recall other nights.

  He tossed the towel aside and shut off the bathroom light. Pulled out his laptop at the desk by the window. After logging into the secure state bureau database he brought up the search engine, typed in a name.

  Glenn Moss had been born in Poughkeepsie, New York in 1975. He’d gone to college at Hofstra University where he’d been pre-law and a lacrosse player. He’d switched majors to business, graduated and gone to work for Home Depot as an assistant manager, quickly ascended to manager. He seemed to be living an ordinary and upstanding life when he’d met Heather. The two had gotten married, and Olivia had arrived six months later. The family lived in Nyack, an artsy community on the Hudson River, a half-hour north of New York City.

  Tom found hospital records, a funeral service itinerary, and an obituary in the Rockland Journal News, Nyack’s paper:

  Loving father. Devoted Husband. Survived by his wife, Heather, and their two children, Olivia and Abigail, as well as a brother, Charles Arthur Moss TSgt, USAF…

  It went on, Tom read it, then composed a quick email to Cheyenne Holman, asking her to do a little more digging on Heather, her late husband Glenn, and his brother, an Air Force technical sergeant.

  The knock on the hotel roo
m door gave Tom a start.

  One knock, three knocks, two knocks.

  He closed down the laptop and moved to the door, unsnapped his thong holster and peered through the walleye. Damien Culpepper was standing in the hallway with Heather Moss.

  Tom opened up. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Girls are asleep.” She spoke in a whisper even though she was well outside the room. “I thought you wanted to talk a little bit more.”

  “I do — I just figured I’d come to you.”

  Heather shook her head. “Abby would wake up. Trust me, I’m not thrilled to be away from them, even if it’s only next door. But to tell you the truth I know I’m not going to sleep anytime soon and it’s either this or I lay there in the dark with my thoughts.”

  “Come on in.”

  Heather moved past him, wafting a scent of hotel shampoo and soap. Tom glanced at Culpepper who gave a nod and said, “I’ll be right outside their door. Won’t move an inch.”

  “Thank you.” Tom closed the door gently and moved into the room.

  He gestured to the cushioned chair in the corner. “Have a seat.” Heather settled in and he sat back at the desk. “These rooms aren’t bad, huh?” He glanced around.

  “Yeah. They’re nice.”

  “And you’re hanging in there so far?”

  She shrugged, leaned back and drummed the sides of the chair with her hands. “I have no idea.”

  “When you woke up this morning . . .”

  “Right. It was just any other day. I mean, I know this is going to sound strange, but it was actually a little bit tough of a morning to begin with. Nothing like this . . . Nothing like this. Just that the girls were giving me some trouble, I was running late. Almost like there was something in the air . . . I dunno.” She shook her head, asked, “You got something to drink?”

  “I can get just about anything you want. Right here in the room there’s some bottled water, but I can—”

  “No.” She seemed to think better of it. “Water’s fine. Thank you.”

  Tom went to the mini-fridge and pulled out one for her, one for him. She took a long drink, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and looked off.