He could start to make amends. They were going to get to the bottom of this whole thing.
As he started to feel calmer, better, Tom felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He thought maybe it was Heather, and pulled it out.
It was a text, and the number started with the digits 945.
How do you live with your secrets?
Do they keep you up at night?
He glanced around the parking lot, feeling panicked again. A few agents were coming and going through the side door. A plane was flying low, likely headed for the Fort Myers airport.
His thumbs dabbed at the screen and he sent a return message.
How did you get this number?
The small red words finally appeared beneath his attempted text:
Message failed to send.
* * *
He strode back down the corridor toward Turnbull’s office, a darkness stirring in the back of his mind.
Secrets? What secrets?
He slowed his pace. The heat was creeping up his neck again. He needed to assume the worst. Otherwise he could lose everything.
He slipped the phone into his pocket. Couldn’t show them. Not right now. If the secret was what he thought it might be, the only thing it could be, maybe never. He grabbed the doorknob and found Turnbull’s office locked.
Blythe opened up and stepped aside to let Tom through. He stopped in front of Turnbull’s desk. He knew they’d just been carrying on without him, but the air felt charged.
“Everything okay?” Turnbull took a sip from a mug bearing the FDLE shield logo.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
Turnbull relieved Tom of having to explain, waving a hand in the air. “It’s alright. You’ve been under a lot of stress. This is a lot for an agent to carry around.”
Blythe was on her feet. She barely looked at Tom when Turnbull continued, “So, a couple of things: We’re going to talk to the judge so we can have a look at Coby’s files. If we can get through the protective order we can see what was going on with Coby these past few weeks. In the meantime, I just called Lee County, and they’ll meet you at Todd Whitcomb’s house on Sanibel Island. We’ve got the PC with this guy’s record, his registered Tahoe, we can have a look. Okay?”
Turnbull stood up behind his desk and gave them each a heavy look. “I want this all done by the book. Lange, you’re one pen stroke away from being back in Governor Protection and back in therapy. Blythe — you two better kiss and make up.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
They sped across the Sanibel Causeway; sparkling, turquoise water spread out on either side the curving strip of land. People were parked off the road, gathered at picnic tables along the narrow shore, fishermen casting their lines. Pelicans circled above, their dark shapes like pterodactyls.
Blythe drove, exuding an icy cool. Tom thought his phone vibrated and surreptitiously gave it a look. She noticed.
“Everything good?” There was an edge to her tone.
He put the phone away, just a phantom sensation. “Look, Lauren, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?”
He searched for the right words. “I know we have this . . . thing between us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on. Why you making this so hard?”
“Maybe because I don’t know what you’re talking about. The only thing we have between us is how cocky you are, how you think you can do whatever you want when you want to.”
“I’m not cocky—”
“Oh please. You could stand to do some time in a human resources workshop, let’s put it that way. I do what I have to do, but I’m a professional, and I keep it that way.”
He wanted them to be past it, but it seemed like there was more to come out: “Lauren, you froze me out during the Gallo case. How long did you know about Nick’s involvement with Palumbo? Maybe you could have come and told me but you had it in for Raymond Bosco and nothing was going to stand in your way. Not even your own partner.”
She gave him a look that could cut steel, then jerked her eyes back to the road. They were almost to the island. “So that’s it, Tom. That’s it. You been saving that up, waiting for just the right moment to blame me for your brother? I couldn’t say anything to you. That’s what professionals do. I keep my distance, so what? At least I’m not sleeping with any cops.”
It was a cheap shot, and Tom felt his muscles turn to gristle. He tipped his head back and let out a boiling breath. “Goddammit, Lauren . . . Goddammit.”
It was like she’d lost all respect for him. He never realized how much he needed approval until Blythe. Busting his ass in college to double major in criminology and sociology, graduating cum laude, getting top marks on his Officer Certification, working for the Investigations and Forensic Science arm of the FDLE — was it all just because he’d never feel good enough?
You’re very persistent, Agent Lange.
How do you live with your secrets?
The anger was on him like an animal. “You still planning to report to DFS about Heather Moss’s daughters?”
“I’m going to do what is required of me by law. Try to remember when you used to feel the same way.”
They arrived at Todd Whitcomb’s mid-island townhome. It had views of the ocean, a decent-sized lawn, trimmed to perfection. A Lee County cruiser was sitting in the driveway next to a white luxury car. Two retirement age women rolled past on bicycles, giving the police concerned looks.
Blythe parked on the narrow street and got out. Tom followed into the hot day, gripped by the sense that this was all some sort of manipulation, someone pulling their strings. The Chevy Tahoe thing was bait, and he’d taken it. He just didn’t understand. Bait for what?
“Afternoon,” said the Lee County deputy. He stood beside the cruiser. Another deputy got out the other side.
“Yeah, we know all about this guy,” the first said, leading them up the steep steps to the front door. “He’s a real prize. Slept with two girls a couple years ago, one fifteen, the other sixteen. Then flies off to New York the next day to make millions from other rich people’s money. These masters-of-the-universe types think they’re above the law.” The deputy knocked on the door.
Tom and Lauren crowded together on the small porch, barely enough room for them and the deputy. The other officer stood on the front lawn, keeping a watchful eye. The first pressed the button and the doorbell rang.
Whitcomb hadn’t responded to their initial phone call, and now he failed to come to the door. Tom left the porch and circled the house. No grass growing, the yard was made of sand. He found a back door and tried the knob. Locked. He gently rattled the door in its frame and looked for trip wires. Nothing, and no deadbolt. It was easy to use a credit card, slide it over the lock plate and pop the door open.
“Hello?” He cautiously stepped into a laundry room: white towels neatly folded on metal shelving above the washer and dryer, the air perfumed by detergent. “Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Todd Whitcomb? You here?”
He passed through the laundry room and into the main area. “Hello?” The townhome was well-appointed but didn’t look lived-in. According to their information, Whitcomb considered it his full-time residence, and there were no other properties he owned.
Tom saw the shadows of Blythe and the Lee County deputy behind the curtain hanging over the front door. He unlocked it and opened up.
Blythe stepped past him without meeting his gaze and moved deeper into the house, the officer trailing behind her. He spoke to Tom. “So this guy is a suspect in that jail-poison murder?”
Tom swung open the refrigerator door as Blythe climbed to the second floor. The fridge was empty except for a bottle of San Pellegrino and some condiments in the door. “He’s one of two Chevy Tahoe owners from this county with a felony record.”
“Oh,” said the deputy.
Everything was tidy and clean in the dining area and living room. A remote control sat on the coffee table, placed at an
angle. Tom leaned into the bathroom, listening to Blythe’s footsteps upstairs. The roll of toilet paper was folded into a point. A housekeeper had been here recently. Either that or Whitcomb had OCD.
Tom found the door to the adjoining garage. Empty. He pulled out his phone and first dialed Fort Myers airport. Afterward, he made two more calls, finally discovering that there was a 2014 Chevy Tahoe parked in the lot for airplane travelers. Whitcomb had taken a flight out of the area six days prior.
Great.
He was about to go up to tell Blythe when he noticed another smaller building between the townhouse and the beach. The sky beyond was bright blue, the Gulf breezes keeping the clouds pushed back over the mainland. He walked to the outbuilding, probably used to store a boat, beach items, but the door was locked and he cupped his hands against a pane of glass.
Not a boathouse after all. The place looked remodeled.
The deputy had wandered out behind Tom. Tom turned to face him, jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Deadbolt on this one.”
The deputy shrugged. “I mean, you guys have the PC, right? Like you said this guy owns a vehicle seen at a couple of crimes . . .”
Tom spun back around, got his balance, and kicked. The door rattled but didn’t open. He kicked again, letting all the frustration of the past few days come blasting out his shoe heel, and the door gave way.
He looked over the damage, doing a quick calculation of the cost. A couple of hundred bucks was a small price to pay if this was a domestic terrorist’s center of operations. The place was dark, thick curtains enclosing the windows against the sun on the beach side. He found a light switch on the wall and snapped it on.
“Holy shit.”
Expensive-looking computer equipment dominated a long desk including an iMac computer with two huge screens. Two walls bore inlaid shelves stocked with Blu-ray movies and unmarked DVDs. A digital video camera sat on a tripod in the center of the room. The camera was aimed at a Queen-sized bed, neatly made up with satin sheets. In the far corner was a short bar, and on top a couple half-full bottles of liquor. With his gloves still on, Tom slid a random DVD case from the shelves and read the cover. “Marlena” had been handwritten in marker. There was no date.
He moved to the computer and gave the mouse a shake. The system booted up and the home screen asked for a password. Tom looked around, found a flat screen TV with a Blu-ray player hooked up and turned it on, slipped in the DVD, then stood back to watch.
An image showed a bed — the one in this room. The lighting was much subtler, the camera placement about the same.
He heard the sounds of kissing from the computer speakers. Then a woman stepped back into the video on screen, followed by a man. She looked of age. They continued to make out, then he pulled the silk teddy she was wearing up over her head. Her breasts bobbed into place, and she shook her hair. The man groped and kissed her, started sucking on her chest.
Tom recognized him. Todd Whitcomb.
“Well, okay,” the deputy said. “A little homemade porn?”
Whitcomb gave the woman a push and she bounced onto the bed. She was smiling as he stripped naked, kicking off his shoes. Then he climbed onto the bed after her.
“What the hell is this?” Blythe darkened the doorway, then stepped into the room.
On the screen, Whitcomb pulled down Marlena’s underwear, kissed her leg, and moved on top of her.
“What . . .?” Blythe moved closer.
Whitcomb and Marlena had sex. Tom realized he was holding his breath, wincing, wary of the moment it became violent and Whitcomb started to hurt her.
He never did. Two and a half minutes into the recording, Blythe said, “Shut it off.”
“But he could—”
“I said kill it.”
Tom hit the pause button on the player. Whitcomb and Marlena froze on screen, mid-coitus, her hair thrown back as she rode on top of him. His face was just visible around her body, his eyes wide open, staring up at her.
Blythe browsed the items on the long desk. “What is all this?”
Tom dragged his eyes from the screen and went through the equipment on the desk with her. There was a device for copying DVDs, something called a “mixer”, and another box labeled “Xtended Graphix”.
“He’s got some kind of home video studio,” Tom said.
Blythe quickly browsed the library of movies and DVDs.
“I checked with the local airports,” Tom continued. “Whitcomb’s been gone almost a week.”
She gave the deputy a look, then turned to Tom. “Then what are we doing in here?”
Tom felt a sinking sensation. “Nothing. Let’s go. He can bill me for the door.”
* * *
They separated after Todd Whitcomb’s house, deciding they’d cover more ground each on their own. But Tom knew the real reason Blythe was headed off to the jail to speak to Daryl Trenton on her own — they couldn’t stand to be around each other anymore. He made the long drive south to Marco Island wondering if they would ever be on the same page together.
Marco was more heavily developed than Sanibel, full of business plazas, marinas and golf courses. Jack Vance sometimes spoke of Florida from years past. He’d made yearly trips down with his then-living wife long before his retirement. Back then, he’d told Tom, southwest Florida was still wild. There was little left that was wild about Marco Island; the inland waterways were man-made, the southern tip was stocked with resort hotels.
Brian Hamer met Iowa Schnell at a party near Tigertail Beach; Tom got the exact address from Agent Rhodes. The Silver Shell Hotel and Resort was right on the water, with white sand beaches and Palapa bars with bamboo roofs. It was still early, not quite two in the afternoon, but the bars were crowded. Tom entered the restaurant, Starfish Grill, the scent of smoked salmon in the air, dining room filled with chatter and the clash of cutlery as patrons tucked into their meals. A hostess gave him a bright smile.
“Hello sir, one for lunch?”
“I’m actually looking for the manager.”
The smile faltered. “Oh — is everything alright?”
“Everything is fine.” He showed her his badge. “I just have a few questions.”
“Right this way, sir.”
The hostess led him to the bar toward the back of the dining room. An attractive older woman was drinking a glass of red wine, talking with some guests. She looked over at their arrival.
“Mrs. Shannon? This policeman would like to have a word with you.”
“Thank you, Kayla.” Mrs. Shannon was Blythe’s age, dressed in a black skirt and black V-neck, subtle eye shadow and glittering earrings. “Can I help you?”
“Tom Lange, Department of Law Enforcement.”
Shannon smiled demurely at the guests beside her. “Excuse me,” she said to them, and they huddled together, turning their backs. She gave Tom a studied look. “FDLE? I spoke with one of you a couple days ago.”
“I know; just a follow up. Sorry about the intrusion. Is there a private place we can talk?”
He wasn’t sure if she was going to cooperate. Shannon took a drink from her goblet of wine and then stepped down from the bar stool. “Follow me, please.”
She led him back through the kitchen. The chef tossed a piece of fish into a hot pan, sending up billows of steam. A busser with a huge tray of dirty dishes nearly ran into them. Two servers, dressed in black, stood in line awaiting their food and gave Tom a look. Shannon pushed through another door, they went down a short corridor and she keyed into her private office.
“Please, have a seat.”
The room was small, completely cluttered with a mixture of kitchen items and paperwork. They sat facing across her desk. “Okay. What can I do for you?”
He opened the file he was carrying, placed a picture of Brian Hamer on her desk. She glanced at it for half a second, sighed. “Like I told the other detective, I don’t know who that is.”
He laid a picture of Iowa Schnell beside the one of Hamer. Anoth
er cursory look from Shannon. “No, not her either.”
“You’re sure.”
“Mr—”
“Agent Lange.”
“Agent Lange, this was — what? A little over two months ago? We had a party to celebrate our tenth anniversary here, so December 1st. There were three hundred people invited, plus all the guests. The other agent went through our guest list, and neither of these two people was registered.”
Tom set out another picture. She continued to gaze at him for a moment, then had a look.
“He’s a financial manager. Name is Todd Whitcomb. May I see your guest list again?”
She looked dismayed. “I don’t have the guest list here for the hotel. This is the manager’s office for the restaurant. You’ll have to go into the lobby and ask for Mr. Burton. Or, just get it from your other agent. He has it.”
“I will. But, you don’t recognize him?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”
Tom had one final picture. Shannon stared down at the photo of Edgar Vasquez, the recognition showing on her face. “Yes, I know who that is.”
“Was he here the night of your party?”
Her eyes snapped up. “No. He’d just been in his accident by then.”
“So, you know him from before.”
“Mr. Vasquez and his wife Carmella have been guests at the hotel a few times, yes.”
Tom put the pictures away and stood up. “Thank you for your time.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Heather’s face fell when she saw him. “Oh man. Tough day at the office?”
He tried to smile but probably failed.
She pointed to the kitchen. “I made some dinner. Culpepper said you called him, thought you’d be home around now. I fed him already. It’s not much, just some pasta.”
The mention of food brought him out of it a little bit. He set down his bag and pulled out a chair at the kitchen table. “Where are the girls?”
“Upstairs. They’re in the bedroom, watching a movie. Hope that’s okay.”
“Of course.” He took a seat, watching as she plated some spaghetti. He didn’t have the heart to tell her about Blythe and DFS coming to evaluate Heather and the girls, to take them away. Not just yet. He needed a minute first.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 47