Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

“And I know you’ve had a lot on your plate with your brother’s stuff. So, don’t take offense, but has that all been settled? Because we’re awfully close here, with these two things. We’ve got Declan in debt for gambling, and your brother had his debts, too.”

  Tom drew a deep breath, let it out, and with it, the tension. Blythe was right — like Howard Declan, Nick had owed money to Palumbo. But not for dogs; for poker. Nick had gone to work for Palumbo to work out the debt. “Yeah, there are similarities,” he said. “But unlike Declan, Nick had made a will. I got a lawyer, we dealt with the probate court, settled it. I haven’t inherited any debt.”

  Not legally, anyway, he thought.

  “Good,” Blythe said. “So, head down to Everglades City, talk to Rhodes, interview Hamer’s girlfriend. Okay? I’ll keep an eye on Heather Moss and keep looking at Declan — Matt’s working on his laptop, his phone, and Cheyenne’s still checking into the work history. We’ve got to see if there’s something that connects these two beyond the suicide pill.”

  She spread her hands across the counter top and lowered her head. “You’re a good agent, Tom. You’ve got good instincts, and you’re thorough.”

  “You mean obsessed. That’s what you wanted to say.”

  “If there’s one thing you’ve taught me, it pays to be thorough.”

  Both of them knew that the Carrie Anne Gallo case had been compromised, in part, by Blythe’s impulsivity.

  “That’s nice of you to say.” He was taken aback that she’d admit it.

  She stuck her own finger in the air. “Just one. Just one thing you’ve taught me. Don’t go fondling yourself over it.”

  He started to gather his things, pulling his suit coat from the back of his desk chair.

  “Listen,” she said, “have another look at the school and day care if you want, before you go down.”

  “Good. I will.”

  She squared her shoulders with him. “Oh and here’s a heads-up — Agent Rhodes thinks he’s a cowboy. Like, a cowboy-cowboy. So, beware.”

  Tom didn’t press for elaboration. He pushed out the door into the bright sunshine.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  He headed south out of Fort Myers, stopped in Bonita Springs, took Old 41 through the downtown area. Crossed the Imperial River and passed Riverside Park with its giant water fountain, ancient Banyan trees and the Liles Hotel Historic Plaza, a two-story building with blue awnings over four-paned windows. A sign near the seashell-shaped Music and Events stage declared a blues music festival was coming next week.

  Turning down Dean Street, Lange found Olivia’s school was in morning recess. The bright laughter and burble of children’s voices was audible the moment he stepped out of the Durango. First he walked a wide circle around the building, a cheerier place than the ones he remembered growing up in New York, then wandered into the front office where the woman with the high pile of gray hair recognized him from the day before.

  “Hello, officer. Is everything alright? Is Olivia alright?”

  He smiled and glanced at the faces of the other administrators, knowing they’d surely seen the news on the shooting at Heather’s house.

  “Olivia’s doing great. I was hoping I could get some basic information from you?”

  “Of course.”

  The others in the office tried to resume normal business while Tom asked his few questions, but he sensed them eavesdropping. He gave the bank of camera monitors at the back of the office another look, then wandered back out to the street, stood looking at the school. He pictured someone, perhaps sitting in a dark SUV, maybe a Chevy Tahoe, watching.

  The building was two stories, housing grades K-5. Olivia was in second grade. According to the paperwork he’d gotten from the front desk, her classroom faced south, on the top floor, overlooking the playground. The playground was built to resemble some kind of fairy tale. Children darted in and out of a couple tiny wooden houses, balanced on connecting bridges, climbed over sculptures of animals — a giant Grizzly bear with pegs bore three little ones who dangled like ornaments.

  On the far side was a parking lot, a few cars parked, palm trees rustling in the balmy breeze. He walked there, stopped and turned back. Spied the top of a man’s head in the room. The man moved closer to the window — likely a teacher, dressed in a tweed vest, eating an apple and talking on a cellular — but he was still only visible from the waist up. There was no way someone could see any little children seated at their desks, not from this angle.

  Continuing around the building yielded no better viewing opportunities. He doubted a person could know what Olivia Moss was doing, or wearing, if she was in that classroom, by watching from outside the school.

  Interesting.

  * * *

  Gillian Hough was pleasant, relaxed, with dark hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. She smiled and let Tom into her home. There were four little children in a playroom. They hushed and stared as Tom stepped in.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Only one was brave enough to return the greeting, a little boy with a runny nose. “Hi.”

  Tom squatted down beside the boy. “What’s your name?”

  “Mario.”

  Tom smiled at the other children, then turned back to the bold boy. “Mario, did you know you have the same first name as a famous race car driver? Mario Andretti?”

  Mario made a big nod — Tom was afraid the kid was going to give himself whiplash. “Uh-huh. But Mommy says that’s just a co-insense.”

  “A coincidence?”

  Another huge nod, and then Mario swiped his forearm across his nose.

  Tom stood back up and faced Gillian, who hovered close.

  “You mind if I have a quick look around?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And, this room — this is where the children spend most of the day?”

  “Yes. Or in the kitchen for snack time and lunch. And we go outside at least once, unless it’s too hot.”

  “Did you go outside two mornings ago?”

  She nodded. “I think so. For about a half an hour.”

  Tom took stock of the surroundings: a low set of shelves, teeming with children’s books, a dollhouse the same height as the children. Bins filled with toys, a tiny table and chairs with kiddie cutlery. In the corner was an adult-sized desk and wheelie chair. A laptop was open on the desk, facing the room.

  Gillian must’ve seen him looking at it. “I sometimes play a movie at rest time. Some of the bigger kids don’t sleep, but they lay quietly and watch.”

  “Does it stay open like that all day?”

  “Uhm, yeah, I guess it does. I’m usually on email before the first kids arrive. It goes into sleep mode.”

  Tom nodded and moved off. Gillian needed to stay and supervise the kids, so after thanking her again he showed himself out and wandered the side yard where the children played.

  It was a good set-up, with homemade swings, a clubhouse, a sandbox. The area was residential, homes on either side and off the back. A single-story home, Gillian’s place lent itself to spying, with unobstructed views of the playroom if someone was in the side yard. From the street, though, the same problem presented itself — hard, if not impossible to watch a little girl like Abigail as she went through her morning routine from there.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was seventy miles to Carnestown, just a couple miles north of Everglades City, and he made it there in under an hour, the Durango’s gas tank running on fumes by the time he pulled into the Sheriff’s Station. The small brick building sat back from a field of parched grass, dwarfed by a massive communications tower scraping the dusty blue sky. Just beyond the weather-beaten sign for the station was one for Big Cypress National Preserve, over a thousand square miles of mangroves, alligators, and venomous snakes.

  Two men were sitting in chairs beneath the awning framing the front of the station. They watched as Tom hopped out of the Durango and hurried over. One was in a brown uniform, the ot
her in a cowboy hat and leather boots.

  “You Rhodes?”

  The man tipped back the hat with his finger knuckle and looked up at Tom through reflective Aviator sunglasses. He wore blue jeans and a rumpled short-sleeved button-down shirt.

  “I might be.”

  “Is she here?”

  “She left.”

  “She left?” Tom looked around at the wall of green vegetation on one side, the gas station at the intersection of 41 and 29, and thought he saw a female figure walking.

  “Relax, amigo. She just wanted to go get herself a sandwich. We’ve been waiting on you awhile.”

  Tom squinted in the distance to determine if the figure was coming or going. It looked like she was headed in their direction.

  “This is Sergeant Mackey.” Rhodes said. “He was the first to respond to the 911 call.”

  Tom remembered him from the video and leaned in for a quick handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

  Rhodes was balancing on the back two legs of his chair but leaned forward so all four touched down. He stood slowly and drew closer, close enough that Tom could smell traces of tobacco on his breath. The agent looked like he hadn’t shaved in a few days. He stared off at Iowa Schnell, making her way back to the station along the road shoulder, taking her time. “This one’s a real hoot. I don’t know how much more you’re going to get out of her than I did, but I’d like to see it.”

  Tom glanced behind them at Mackey, who was suppressing a smile.

  “Me neither,” Tom said. “But will you do me a favor? Will you bring her to me when she gets here?”

  “Sure.”

  He turned and strode in through the glass doors into the cooler climate inside the precinct.

  The officer at the front desk gave Tom a look. “Help you, sir?”

  “Bathroom?”

  “Right there.”

  He’d needed to void his bladder since leaving Bonita Springs. Probably half the reason he’d driven so fast.

  After he finished his business and washed up, Tom walked around inside the small station. There was one corridor feeding three rooms. One door was ajar, revealing a set of lockers, one led to the single holding cell. The only other door had to be the interrogation room.

  It was drab, one scratched-up table, two chairs, and no windows. A camera hung in the upper corner. He sat down and composed himself, setting out his notepad and pen and audio recorder. When Rhodes walked in with Iowa Schnell a minute later, Tom pursed his lips and remained seated.

  Another thing he’d learned growing up: the guys in charge were always sitting down, quiet, waiting for you.

  She gave him a wary look as she took her chair across the table. Her hair was frazzled with the humidity — either that or purposely teased to look unkempt. Peroxide blonde, the darker roots showing, the curls reminded Tom of later Meg Ryan years. She had fuller lips than Ryan, though. Eyes light brown instead of blue. Skin deeply tanned. She wore a white tank top over a black sports bra and a ripped pair of blue jean shorts. She set a plastic bag in front of her.

  “I gotta be at work in an hour,” she said. “Lunch shift starts at noon.”

  “I appreciate your patience. You work at the diner on 41?”

  “Yup.”

  Rhodes closed the door. He folded his arms and leaned against the wall. He still had his cowboy hat on but the shades dangled from his shirt pocket. His eyes were light blue, so much so that the pupils looked like floating flints of coal. His gaze flitted back and forth between Tom and Iowa Schnell.

  “First,” Tom began, “let me say I’m very sorry about what happened to your boyfriend, Brian.”

  “Did you know him?” She pulled a sandwich from the bag and started to unwrap it. Tom thought he smelled pastrami.

  “No. But, my condolences,” he said.

  “Thanks, that’s nice.” She picked up the food — a feat, considering how long her peach-colored fingernails were — and took a big chomp out of it. She chewed a moment, picked up a napkin with equally impressive dexterity, and wiped her mouth. Her many bracelets clacked together. “Sorry,” she said around a mouthful. “I’m so hungry.”

  “I know you’ve already gone over all of this—”

  “First with the deputies, then with Agent Rhodes. Uh-huh.”

  “Right. I’m not asking you to rehash everything. That’s on tape and I can watch it anyway. Just a few questions and then I’ll let you get on your way to work.”

  “Yup.” She tilted her head and took another swift bite.

  Tom glanced at his notes. “You told the Sherriff’s Department that you met Brian Hamer two months ago, correct?”

  She dipped her head in a nod, chewing, then, partly covering her mouth with her hand, looked between the two agents. “How does it work again? There’s just so many of you guys. You got agents and troopers and deputies . . .”

  “I know. It’s complicated. Agent Rhodes and I are with the state bureau.”

  “That’s like FBI?”

  “Well — the FBI is federal. But think of us like a mini-FBI, just for the state of Florida.”

  “Okay. ‘Mini-FBI’. I like it.” Her eyes flashed, and Tom thought she was flirting.

  He shot Rhodes a look but the agent’s expression was inscrutable, his pale blue eyes fixed on Iowa Schnell as she destroyed the pastrami sandwich. She paused, tore the cap from a bottle of Snapple Iced Tea, and took a long gulp. Set the bottle on the table and burped. Then she giggled. “Excuse me.”

  “Not a problem. Now, Miss Schnell—”

  “Call me Iowa. I hate the name Schnell. Almost changed it a few times. But then I kept it, on account of the property.”

  “The property — you mean the trailer on Chokoloskee Island?”

  “No. I bought that. I mean my daddy’s place on the river. You know, where the boat was.”

  She picked up the sandwich again.

  “Iowa, can you just pause for a few minutes? Focus on me, if you can, and we’ll get through this more quickly. You met Brian two months ago. Where, here?”

  “No, on Marco Island.” She turned to Rhodes. “You didn’t say he was going to be this uptight.”

  Rhodes said nothing. Iowa pouted and looked over the wreckage of her lunch.

  “So you met on Marco Island. Was it exactly two months ago?”

  She blinked at him. Then glanced up at the ceiling, as if in thought. “Uhm, eight . . . maybe eight or nine weeks. Better?”

  “What were you doing there, on Marco Island?”

  “A party.”

  “You were at a party.”

  “Mhhmm.”

  “And he was at the party?”

  “That’s right, sir.” She pulled apart a bag of potato chips and stuck one in her mouth, staring defiantly at him as she chewed.

  “Okay. So you meet, and then what?”

  “I thought you said . . .” She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Here it all is again. I met Brian, he had a boat, we went on it, we did a little — you know. We partied, we messed around. He was nice.”

  “Whose party was it?”

  “Oh, just some resort. Jenny knew about it. It was on the beach, well, the beach at this swanky resort. They own it, or, I don’t know. They were having some anniversary or something.”

  “And it was open to the public?”

  “Hey, I don’t ask. Jenny knew someone who knew someone.”

  Tom thought maybe Jenny looked like Iowa Schnell. It was usually no problem for two women like that to cross the velvet rope.

  “I was there for just a couple hours; outside most of the time. I met Brian and he said he had a boat, so we went out on it, stayed out all night. The next morning he asked me if I wanted a ride home. I was like, ‘okay.’ And then he drove the boat back here. We partied some more until I had to go back to work. When I got back from work, he was still around. So I was like, ‘Wow, this guy is something.’”

  “You mean you liked him? Or what? Thought he was strange?”

&n
bsp; She shrugged and poked at her sandwich. “You never know with men.”

  Tom cleared his throat and shuffled through his papers to the 911 transcript. “When you called emergency services, you thought he’d overdosed. Was Brian a heavy user?”

  She glanced at Rhodes as if thinking about whether she had to answer. “Listen, now — I’m not the suspect. I was at work, okay?”

  “We know, Iowa,” Tom said. “These are just questions; you’re helping us understand what Brian was like. Was he a heavy user?”

  “Define heavy . . .”

  “Weekly. Daily. Did he use cocaine? Pills? Anything else? You said you ‘partied’.”

  Another look at Rhodes, then, to Tom, “I just meant we had some drinks. I don’t know if he did anything else, but when I found him like that, he looked like someone who’d overdosed. I mean, didn’t he? What happened to him?”

  “Still trying to figure that out. Did Brian use his computer a lot?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “Do you know what he did for work?”

  “Not really. He was into nerdy stuff. That was the part of him I was like, meh. I mean, he fished a little, but he talked about this boring stuff sometimes.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know. Nerdy computer things.”

  “Iowa, if you can remember anything at all, it would be very helpful. Details matter.”

  She sighed. “RF detectors? He was on the phone once, saying — I don’t know, maybe frequency . . . something.”

  “Frequency finders?”

  “Maybe.”

  Tom scribbled some notes. “Did he ever say anything about wireless detection?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What about artificial voice synthesizers?”

  “What? Look, I really need to get going.”

  Tom waited.

  “No, I don’t know. That was his business. Now can I —”

  “Almost done. If you could just go back to when you met him, he had this boat, you guys drove it down here — was he staying on the boat?”

  “Look, after we met, I don’t know, a couple days later, because Jenny was on shift . . . yeah. So the next day, I asked him if he wanted to come over to my place and stay.”