“Same way that envelope got into Heather Moss’s purse. Someone had to get close to him. So until we know who’s ultimately pulling these strings, I’m keeping Heather and her daughters safe.”
Another gecko ran out onto the walkway, stopped, jittered a moment and then darted back beneath the shrubs. The sun was starting to shine down between the buildings. Blythe’s mouth formed a thin line, her eyes hard and cunning. “I’d like to speak to Mrs. Moss now, if you don’t mind.” She stood up, smoothing out her pants, brushing off her backside.
“Absolutely. And then, let’s pick up Whitcomb and talk to Trenton in jail, check the stolen vehicle. Somebody fired on Heather’s house from a Tahoe. And then it was out last night on the street where Coby died. We need that vehicle.”
“I know we do. But it’s all the more reason, Lange, why this still looks like Palumbo or Vasquez; even if some of these elements seem to militate against it, these are mob-style executions and drive-by shootings. We just need evidence that Declan was working for Palumbo. We find that, and we’re solid.” Blythe’s eyebrows went up. “What now?”
“Well, it was a drive-by shooting, yeah — where no one was hit. Twenty-eight shots were fired, not a single injury. Doesn’t sound like a pro to me, Lauren. Sounds like a thug with bad aim.”
* * *
The two girls were sitting around Tom’s kitchen table. Olivia’s blonde hair was a wild nest of spun gold, her eyes bleary from sleep. Abigail’s darker hair stuck out in clumps and there was a princess sticker caught on the sleeve of her pajamas.
Heather was going through the cabinets. “Okay, girls, a can of tuna, or these year-old pretzels? Your choice.”
“I haven’t been here a year . . .” Tom said from the doorway. He grabbed the bag of pretzels and gave it a look. “Okay . . . brought these from my other place. Busted. Good morning, everybody. How did you sleep?”
“Seep!” Abigail patted the table and swung her legs in the chair.
Heather slowly closed the cabinet door, taking a look at Blythe.
Blythe nudged past Tom and walked into the kitchen. “Mrs. Moss, how are you doing?”
They shared a quick handshake. “Nice to see you again, Agent Blythe.” Heather moved to the table and sat down.
Blythe smiled at the girls. “Hello.”
The girls just stared back.
“Olivia,” said Heather. “Say hello to Agent Blythe.”
“Hello.”
“I just thought I’d check in with you, see how you’re holding up,” Blythe said.
Tom thought Blythe sounded peculiar but was coming to understand that his supervisor wasn’t always natural with people. A lot of the time he wasn’t sure he was, either.
The door opened and Culpepper stepped in, his arms loaded with grocery bags, a duffel hanging from his shoulder. He dropped the duffel in the living room, walked into the kitchen and halted when he saw everyone. “Whoa. It’s a party. Hello.”
Or, Tom thought, some kind of strange, dysfunctional family. “Agent Culpepper, this is Agent Blythe.”
Culpepper set the groceries down by the sink, then shook with Blythe. Tom nodded toward groceries. “More tuna and pretzels.”
Heather stood, smirking, and went through the bags, pulling out boxes of cereal, oatmeal, eggs. Culpepper headed for the door. “You know where to find me.” He tipped a nod at Blythe before leaving.
“Well,” said Blythe. “I know this probably isn’t what you expected when you agreed to witness protection. If there’s any—”
“This is fine,” Heather interrupted. “We’re very grateful to Agent Lange. To both of you.”
He’d never seen Blythe quite so flustered. There were times he’d wondered if she even had a touch of Asperger’s — she could be brusque and distant — but he’d never seen her at a real loss for words. She smiled at the two girls again, then pursed her lips, glanced at Heather, and backed out of the kitchen.
Tom followed her into the living room and found her standing in front of his wall. He was getting used to the reaction: “You got to be kidding me, Lange.”
“I’m going to take it down. With them here, I just haven’t gotten to it.”
“Let’s go. Right now. We’re talking to Turnbull.”
She walked out the door without looking back. Tom jogged upstairs, changed into his suit, slipped into his shoulder holster, jotted down a note. When he came back down, Heather was leaning in the kitchen doorway, wearing an expectant expression.
“Agent Culpepper will be here all day,” he said and handed her the note. “If you need anything, I wrote down my new number. Okay?”
She nodded. He held the gaze of her arresting eyes. Then he hurried outside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“We can’t tell him,” Tom said. Blythe drove her Crown Vic and he rode shotgun. “I don’t know how deep this goes.”
“Tom, I think you’re losing it. You’ve got a witness locked away at your own house and you don’t want to tell our regional director.”
“I’m going to draw up the paperwork and submit it to the U.S. Marshalls. Until then, I want her location undisclosed.”
“You want her . . .” Blythe was too pissed off to finish her sentence. A dark vein protruded on her temple. “Jesus. Jesus, Tom. Alright, listen. You’re probably not going to like what I say next. I know you’re not going to like it.”
“What?”
“A reminder that we’re both mandated reporters for any child endangerment.”
Tom felt the hairs on the back of his neck. “You wouldn’t — Lauren, you can’t. She’s a single parent. Heather is all those girls know—”
“And those girls are potentially at risk.”
“How? How are they at risk? Between me and Culpepper, we’re watching them around the clock. It’s a gated community. No one knows where they are. Lauren, no—”
“Tom, they were shot at! Whether or not they’re at imminent risk is for a judge to decide. That judge okayed the girls released back to their mother per witness protection. But wit-pro is out and the DFS needs to do their investigation.”
“Stop it, Lauren, come on . . .”
“And you called Coby out to the hotel — look what happened to him. Look at his kids. People can get hurt, Tom, clearly. Around you, they can get hurt.”
He punched the roof of the car. He hadn’t expected to do it, he just suddenly lashed out.
Blythe jumped. She gouged him with her eyes.
“That’s it, Tom. Let that violence out. God, I feel like we were just here. You’re part of the risk, Tom! What is it? You like her? She ask you about your brother, make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?”
“Aw fuck, Lauren.”
She turned into the ROC a bit fast, the tires giving off a squawk. When she hit the brakes for the parking spot, Tom lurched forward. He’d never been so angry with her. Even if Coby had been a friend, even if she was hurting — she made him feel small. He already felt bad enough.
“You’ve got to give me time, Lauren. Get the paperwork together, contact the Marshall’s service . . .”
“And when are you going to pull together that paperwork? Before or after we’re shaking down two ex-cons who happen to drive Tahoes? Before or after we figure out who’s been sending messages to your own phone, or before you tear down sensitive information on an organized crime figure from your fucking wall? Tom, I feel like your mother. And I don’t like feeling that way. It was a mistake to bring you back in. You’re not ready.”
Blythe threw open the driver’s side door, stepped out then leaned back in. “You may never be ready.”
He stared at her. “We have no idea how long this investigation could take. If a judge finds for imminent risk, those girls could get placed in homes. They could be separated.” He gritted his teeth. “You’re cold, Lauren.”
Images jumbled through his mind, memories of him and Nick as kids. Nick crying, people in suits standing around. Tom being pulled away from his broth
er.
She slammed the door in his face. He got out, feeling heavy and buzzed. For early February, the day was blazing hot, waves of heat coming off the tarmac. It suddenly seemed like hell.
Blythe swiped her ID card and pushed in through the main doors. Tom slipped in after her, followed her path down the corridor to Turnbull’s office. When she reached his door she gave it a hard rap of her knuckles, but didn’t wait for an invitation.
They barged into the room with Turnbull on the phone. The director glared at them, instantly getting the picture. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up, and stood. “What is going on?”
Neither of them spoke. Tom just stood, simmering, feeling the anger emanate from Blythe.
“Lange? You want to tell me where our witness is for the Declan case?”
“I told you I’d work something out, sir. I did.”
His eyebrows climbed onto his forehead, and Turnbull leaned across the desk, as if to better hear. “And?”
“And I don’t think it’s safe to say right now, sir. I’m sorry.”
Turnbull just blinked. His eyes flitted to Blythe for a moment, then fixed on Tom again. “You’re not going to tell me where the witness is?”
“I have reason to believe that County VNB could be compromised. And that the infection could also be here at the state bureau. I don’t know for sure, but I’m being cautious.”
Turnbull glanced at Blythe once more, and then stood fully upright and crossed his arms. “This is about last night. What was Sergeant Coburn doing at the hotel in Orangetree?”
“Confessing,” Tom said.
“Confessing?”
“Yes, sir. That sensitive information on open cases — including civilians — has been stolen and someone is acting on—”
“Stop,” Turnbull said. He came around the large desk, darted past the agents and closed his door, drew the blinds. Then he loomed behind them, like a drill sergeant. “Sit down, both of you. For God’s sake.”
Tom moved into one of the two chairs facing the desk. Finally, Blythe did too.
Turnbull resettled in his chair. “Coby’s unit has leaks?”
“Someone got information on Howard Declan, and who knows how many other people, inside Palumbo’s organization and outside. They came in through the computer system — VNB have been upgrading to digital file-keeping for years now.”
The director absorbed this. “So, what do you want to do?”
Blythe sighed demonstrably, clearly irritated Turnbull was willing to entertain any of Tom’s ideas. Tom ignored her and ticked off the plan on his fingers.
“I think we have to put aside Palumbo and Vasquez for good. Start looking closer to home. Someone had to get close to Coby to poison him, someone he knew, maybe trusted.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Maybe ex-cops.”
Blythe swore under her breath. Tom pressed on: “We start with Everglades County, maybe anyone who’s gotten entangled with IAB, resigned, or even retired. Plus we ought to take a look at the jail staff — and not just the ones on shift during Declan’s death — even prosecutors and defense attorneys.”
“That’s a hundred people,” Blythe muttered.
Tom ignored her. “The idea is, it could be someone who’s grown frustrated by the system. Seeing people slip through the cracks, getting off with a slap on the wrist, or missed altogether. Someone who thinks they’re righteous, doing the work that the law is too slow, or too complex, to handle.”
“It’s ludicrous to assume this is someone in law enforcement, or some random civilian,” Blythe said. “This is someone hitting back at Coby’s unit. Wasn’t this all about counter-surveillance? Palumbo hires someone to hack Coby’s unit, weaken it, create all this chaos. Coby has been after Palumbo for two years. This is Mario Palumbo’s move against him. You’ve got nothing but wild paranoia to support your ideas.”
“I’ve got a vehicle that Heather saw the morning Declan died, that later showed up at her house and opened fire, but only two rounds penetrated the house. You’re right, I’ve been studying Palumbo on my own. This is too out there, too sloppy for him. And I’ve got Coby telling me that the VNB had nothing on Howard Declan, just that he was some guy who showed up to gamble on greyhounds. Then Coby died, and it was someone close enough to poison him.”
She avoided his gaze and spoke directly to Turnbull. “I think Agent Lange has become a danger, Director Turnbull. He’s making unilateral decisions, and this is something personal for him, to do with his brother. It was a mistake to bring him back in; it was too soon, there are too many conflicts. And he’s emotionally unstable.”
“Emotionally unstable?”
She jammed a look at him. “Was that you who slammed a fist in my car just now?”
Turnbull’s gaze dropped to Tom’s hand. Fresh blood seeped from one of his reopened glass cuts.
“That’s enough,” Turnbull said. “Both of you.” He let out a sigh and leaned onto his elbows. Then he bent further forward, threading his fingers into his thick red hair. Tom had never seen the director lose composure. He suddenly felt guilty, like this was all his fault. Like Blythe was right, and he was way out of bounds, running on emotions.
Turnbull spoke slowly, raising his face to them again. “We’re the FDLE. And part of our charter is to investigate law enforcement corruption.” When he looked at Blythe, there was sympathy in his eyes. “I know Coby was a friend. I know this is hard. But we’ve got to consider the possibility that leaked — or hacked — information is being acted on by a civilian or in some back-channel way. Blythe, you’ve been all through the interviews with the deputies there, and the other County clinicians?”
She nodded. She still wouldn’t look at him, but Tom thought she’d mellowed some. “I have. While it’s still in the realm of possibility that someone working for the county passed on the details about Heather Moss slipping through security, I tend to abide by the theory that the CCTV was hacked, and security spied on. For one thing, as we’re seeing, it’s easier to get around firewalls and break codes than to deal with people. And to confirm that, if you think about it, anyone who was involved or knows about it is winding up dead. But none of the staff or outside clinicians have been threatened that we know of.”
“Agent Blythe and I are in agreement here,” Tom said when Turnbull looked at him. “I went to the school and the day care. No real clean lines of sight at either place. But the school has cameras, the day care had a laptop with a camera. I don’t think someone was there personally, but I think the girls were being watched all the same. I’m only acting in the interest of Heather Moss.”
“You’re not her lawyer,” Blythe muttered. “And you had her pegged as innocent from the first moment you laid eyes on her.”
“Again, not true. Heather Moss is like anyone else — she’s protecting her family. And she protects her clients. I’m actually not sure she’s been completely forthcoming with me about who she thinks might have targeted her.”
“Targeted her? Does she think she’s been targeted? How aggrandizing.”
“My words, not hers.”
Turnbull leveled a hand in the air to silence them. “Listen, this is someone with some high-tech capabilities. And we’re thinking Brian Hamer was responsible for finding the lapse in county jail security, and perhaps now this hack of Coby’s unit. When did Coby say this happened?”
“Two months ago,” Tom answered.
“Okay. So let’s say Hamer gets into Coby’s files two months ago. And he’s spying on the jail. But then he dies. So who’s texting you now?” He read from a sheet of paper on his desk. “Who’s saying, You’re very persistent, Agent Lange?” Turnbull looked at each of them. “Give me a guess. Give me something.”
“We’ve got nobody,” Blythe answered.
“I don’t know who’s making the calls,” Tom admitted. He felt like he needed air.
“God,” Turnbull said. He leaned back and his chair squeaked. “Then it sounds like these t
wo felons, Whitcomb and Trenton, are our next move. And searching for the stolen Tahoe. Otherwise, this list of former mental health clients, disgruntled ex-cops and persons in criminal justice is a mile long.”
Tom stood. He glanced around the room, not really seeing anything, unsure of whether to leave or not. But he suddenly needed to get out. The intense urge was on him to escape, like he was trapped.
“Lange?” Turnbull cocked his head.
Tom thought about Heather’s girls getting taken away from their mother.
“Lange? You with us?”
“I just need a minute. I’ll be right back.”
He opened the door and headed down the corridor before Blythe or Turnbull could object.
* * *
Outside, Tom put his hands on his knees and bent forward. He drew in a few deep breaths through his nose, feeling the heat beat down on his skin.
He thought about Iowa Schnell, upset about cops digging into private lives. Coburn saying how time wore a cop down, made him or her see things differently.
His foster father, Marvin Johnson, quoting scripture — how every way of man was justified in his own mind.
The ends justified the means, especially when you believed fully enough in the results. Was this really some ex-cop or para-law enforcement going after Declan for pedophilia? Acting in the dark because the police couldn’t do anything legally with third-party information? Or was he projecting his own angst, reliving the Gallo case when Blythe had sought to put away a suspect on shaky evidence?
Was Blythe right about him? Had he been getting too riled up? Too attached? All this time, he’d been preaching about adherence to the law while playing by his own rules . . .
A hypocrite.
Things would get better, starting now. Tom stood upright, turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes. He needed to apologize to Blythe. This was his own fault for keeping her at a distance. He kept everyone at a distance — been doing it for years. As a result, Katie didn’t feel close to him. All he wanted was not to be alone anymore yet he pushed everyone away.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 46