“You’re just doing your job,” Heather said, anguish beneath the surface.
“Yes, ma’am,” Parker said. “While we conduct our investigation, the girls will be very well taken care of.”
“When will we go in front of the judge?”
“With luck, you can see a judge as soon as tomorrow, or maybe the next day.”
Two nights without her daughters. Tom was sick at the thought, and they weren’t even his kids.
The man with the ponytail squatted down near Abigail. “Hi. Do you remember me? My name is David. And you’re Abigail, right?”
Abby clung to her mother’s leg. David slowly held out his hand. He turned it over in the air. “You see this? I have a little caterpillar, right here.”
Abigail stayed rigid, but Olivia had a peek. “That’s not a caterpillar. That’s a tattoo.”
David smiled. “It’s a tattoo of a caterpillar. Gnome sayin’?”
Olivia moved closer for another look. She reached out and took David’s hand. The man was incredibly gentle, letting her get a real close look at it as Olivia spelled out, “G-n-o-m-e. The G is silent.”
He laughed. “That’s right. Good memory, Olivia.”
By this time Abigail had edged away from her mother’s leg, just a little, to try and see the caterpillar. Tom glanced up at Heather. She was smiling at it all, but her chin quivered, her eyes shone with emotion.
It took another five minutes of David easing into Abigail’s confidence before they were ready to go. Heather helped Olivia into her sneakers. She hugged them both several times. Tom and Heather followed the DFS workers to the car. David carried Abigail, who was now chatting with him in her broken speech. Olivia held her mother’s hand. They embraced again at the curb, then the agents were strapping the girls into child seats.
He knew it was right. He knew it was the system working for the benefit of the children.
It made him feel sick.
The car turned around in the street and drove off.
Tom didn’t move or look at Heather.
A garage door rolled open at one of the townhouses in the block across a small, man-made pond. A nice, white sedan pulled out into the street, the headlights popped on and it drove off. The sounds of a TV — evening news — drifted from an open window. Eight months of the year, windows were closed, central air regulating the inside temperatures, but in early February, the nights could get cool.
Heather left the lawn and walked back to the condo. He followed her. Culpepper was standing by in the breezeway, looking like he’d witnessed a tragedy. Tom wanted to talk to Heather, but once inside she moved upstairs and he heard the door close. A minute passed, and she was coming downstairs with her bag.
“I’m going home.”
“Heather. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She stopped in the living room, the two of them standing in front of the collage wall.
“I understand that, Tom. But I want to go home. I want to be in my house. I can’t stay here. Can someone drive me?”
He searched for an argument, but nothing would convince her. And he had no grounds to force the issue. “At least let Culpepper keep an eye on things. He’ll sit outside.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll drive you.”
* * *
The house on Tangerine Drive still looked like a crime scene. Forensics had finished processing the evidence, but it wasn’t in their job description to make repairs. Gunshot windows looked like broken teeth, caution tape crisscrossed the front door. Even the palm trees on the front lawn seemed to bend with remorse.
A mist hung suspended as they stepped out of the Durango, diffusing the streetlights into soft orbs. Fresh orchids scented the humid air. Tom walked Heather to the front door. He felt like they’d been on some long, crazy date, and now it was over.
He slashed the crime scene sticker spanning the door seam and Heather used her key.
“You’re going to be alright,” he said. “We’ll get the girls back. Are you going to call your lawyer?”
“I will, first thing in the morning.”
She walked into the gloom, through the living room, leaving him behind in the doorway. In the kitchen, she turned on the overhead light and looked around at the mess and the dishes. Wordlessly flipped on the faucet, let the water run, then shut it off. She started picking toys up from the floor.
After a moment she seemed to remember he was still there and offered a broken smile. “Can I get you anything? You want to come in?”
“No. I’m sure you’d like some time to settle in.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “But I’m just going to wait in the car until Culpepper arrives.”
“That guy has been working some crazy hours.”
“I know. I’m going to get him some relief. And remember, I’m just a text or phone call away.”
“Okay.” She resumed tidying up.
“Heather, who would do this?”
She held a doll in her hand, stripped of dolly clothing, a smudge of paint on its plastic head. “I told you what I thought. I’ve considered old clients, new clients. And I came up empty.” She looked at him. “You thought this was the man on your wall. I hope you find out, Tom.”
Then she turned away, set the doll on the counter and ran the tap water again for the dirty dishes.
Tom left.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Tom watched the shadowy palms shake in the gusting wind and listened to the distant turbulence of thunder as he peered out from the Durango, waiting for Culpepper.
Thunder rumbled again and the first fat drops of rain smacked into the asphalt.
Without turning on his wipers, he watched Heather’s home, gone rubbery through the deluge. The houses and vegetation along the street became amorphous shapes.
When Culpepper arrived, Tom traded a few brief words with the agent, promised him shift relief, then drove off.
* * *
He pulled into parking lot at the dog track and found a free space, stared through the windshield at the large, dark building. From his angle the grandstands and racetrack were blocked, but he could see the green awning covering the poker room entrance.
His phone burped, and he answered the incoming call from the ROC.
“Ms. Holman,” Tom said to the researcher. “Working late?”
“Well I just love my tiny little office so much I can’t bear to leave. Listen; wanted to just follow up with you — I sent you an email, don’t know if you saw it yet, I know how busy you are.”
“I’m finding things to do with my time.”
“It’s in reference to Charles Moss, the late Glenn Moss’s brother. You asked me to find what I could on him, so, here it is — Charles Moss is older than Glenn by two years. Before the Air Force, he worked as a manager for a couple different department stores. Sort of like Glenn, working for Home Depot — but looking at Charles’s tax returns, I’d say Home Depot is much more lucrative than the places Charles worked. Anyway, no criminal record, good health, joined the Air Force and took about seven years to get promoted to technical sergeant, and . . . that’s really it.”
“Were you able to get an address for him? A number?”
“He’s in Stamford, Connecticut. Unmarried, though, no kids, and he’s currently on active duty. The trail sort of went dark — I guess the next step is to contact him through the Air Force, but I thought I’d call you first.”
“Thank you, Cheyenne. That’s good for now.” He put the phone away.
The rain pounding the area began to let up. Poker at the track ran late into the night. The doors beneath the awning were propped open and he could see people inside.
He undid a couple of buttons on his white dress shirt, took a breath and got out of the car, traversed the wet asphalt and went inside.
Three men sat belly-up to the bar, a half dozen more at the small round tables spread through the room. The air smelled like stale beer and cologne. The carpet was terrifically gaudy, meant to resem
ble confetti spilled across the floor. Lounge music played from the speakers above the bar. Tom thought he recognized Tony Bennett’s singing.
The bartender was a skinny older man with dark smudges under his eyes.
“Help you?”
“How about a Jack and Coke.”
Tom glanced around as the bartender fixed the drink. Just about everyone was giving him the eye. Older men, fifties and sixties. One man had jowls that hung below his jawline. They wore suits and floral-print shirts.
“Five-fifty, pal.”
Tom fished the money out of his wallet. He smiled and said, “I’m looking for a poker game. Not sure how this works.”
The bartender took the money and examined Tom with dark eyes. “Tonight is five hundred dollar High Hand, every half hour. Ends at midnight.”
The clock on the wall above the racks of liquor read five minutes to ten. “Great.” Tom nodded toward the doors at the back of the bar. “So I just go in through there? Who do I pay?”
The bartender, still holding Tom’s cash, blinked down at him. “You gotta qualify first. Full house or better. Then it’s two-dollar jackpot rake on all pots over ten dollars.”
He was speaking English, but Tom had no idea what the man was saying. Nick used to talk a bit about poker, and Tom had generally tuned-out.
The bartender tilted his head, still trying to get a read on Tom. “You want no-limit, you gotta come in on Fridays.” He turned away with the money and rang up the purchase on the old-fashioned register between the liquor racks, looking at Tom in the mirror as he made change.
He set the change on the bar, gave Tom one more look-over: wet hair, unbuttoned shirt, jeans. “You go through those doors, up the stairs. Good luck, buddy.”
Tom pocketed the money. Could feel the eyes burning holes in his back as he picked up the drink and left. The heavy double doors closed behind him, smothering out Tony Bennett, but there was music playing from speakers in the stairwell — smooth jazz.
On the next floor, a wide hallway fed several rooms. Murmuring voices drifted out, the clack of poker chips, someone either coughed or farted. At the back of the hallway was a door with a sign that led to the grandstands, but it said “Closed”.
He moved past the rooms, giving them sidelong looks, sipping his drink as he went.
What are you doing here, Tom?
At the end of the hallway he pushed against the crash bar, the door gave. The blue-gray nighttime lighting filled a large space with deep shadows. A wall of glass overlooked the dog track below, the dirt oval lit up by two towers, the drizzle glittering. He thought of Declan. Tall, gangly body, hungry eyes fixed on the track.
Tom moved past the concessions stand, toward the back of the long, rectangular room, to the booths where racing bets were placed.
To the right of the booths, a corridor. His footsteps echoed past closed doors for administration, maintenance, security. The air smelled antiseptic but musty.
“Hey, what are you doing?”
A broad-chested man in a dark suit was standing back at the mouth of the corridor by the betting booths. His slicked hair shone in the lights.
“Poker rooms?”
The man took a few steps, then stopped. He pointed. “Back that way.”
Tom sipped his drink to keep up appearances and started walking back. “Sorry,” he said as he neared. “Got a little lost I guess.”
The man glared at him. “Got lost? What’re you doing out here?”
Tom held up his injured hand in peace. “Alright, alright. Sorry. Just wanted to look around. This place is really something, you know?”
In proximity, Tom recognized Rodney Lamotta. His picture had hung on Tom’s wall for months, just to the right of Palumbo.
Lamotta scrutinized him and put out an arm to keep him from walking past.
“Let me see some ID, guy.”
Tom stopped walking. Took a slow breath. He pulled his badge and showed it to Lamotta. “Okay? Can’t a fella get a late game of cards?”
“Yeah, right. I saw you come in, smart guy. Pidgy told me you don’t know cards from your ass . . .” He glanced up, eyes a bit wider, like he recognized Tom’s last name.
“The fuck are you doing here?”
“Where’s Palumbo? He around?”
“The fuck do you want?”
“What do you think?” Tom stepped close. He was on the tall side, but Lamotta was taller. Heavier. Tom stared up into his face.
Lamotta kept clocking him, cold in the eyes, mouth twitching a little bit, then he said, “Hold on.” He stepped away, looking aside at Tom, but punching at his phone. A moment later he was mumbling into it, still watching Tom, then said, “Yeah, alright.” He slipped the phone into the pocket of his double-breasted suit coat.
“Let’s take a drive.”
“He’s not here?”
“No. He ain’t here. You coming or what? You wouldn’t be sneaking around back here if you had a warrant, so either let’s go or you can fuck off.”
Five minutes later, Tom was riding in the back of an SUV — a blacked-out GMC Yukon, two guys flanking him, Lamotta driving, watching him in the rear-view mirror, unspeaking. Tom kept up with where they were, he’d driven the route enough times, like they were going to Nick’s old house, in Naples. But where it would’ve been one turn for Nick’s, Lamotta took another direction, and they were cruising along Gulf Shore Drive, where millionaires kept their gigantic homes, most of them occupied only a couple of weeks of the year.
Palumbo’s was like so many of the others: big gate out in front, looking like some Mediterranean castle, perimeter lights trained up on the house, blanching the yellow walls white. Tom spotted at least two guards on the upper levels, hidden behind the palm trees, one of them stepped out onto a balcony as the Yukon rolled up the driveway.
Place was worth twenty-million, at least. Probably ten thousand square feet, would be glorious views of the Gulf on the other side — he could hear the waves slopping against the shore as the men got out and walked him inside.
They were greeted at the door by a guy wearing all black, bald-headed, half-frame glasses perched on his nose. He gave Tom a big smile and Tom saw the fabric of the guy’s suit stretch over the gun he carried in his own shoulder holster. They’d already patted Tom down, looking for wires, weapons, found his Glock, and he told them there was no way he was letting them take it.
“I’m Franco,” the bald man said. “You must be Tom. Come on in.”
“He’s carrying.”
“I know he’s carrying, Rodney. What’s your choice, officer?”
“It’s a Glock Gen4.”
“Gen 4? You asked me they didn’t make any improvements on the Gen 3. Did you know, Gaston Glock had no experience with gun design when he started out? Knew polymers, though. But like any Glock model, the sights are poor. And it’s a tough trigger pull, don’t you think?”
Franco led him into the house, the men, including Lamotta, trailing. Pretty understated for a big ego like Palumbo, Tom thought, ignoring Franco’s rambling. Marble floor in the main room, coffered ceiling, some maple millwork detail. Franco opened the door to a room with a big limestone fireplace, and a desk, just as big, sitting by a window overlooking the dark Gulf water.
“It’s the kind of gun that’s all show, but doesn’t deliver. But that’s just me.”
“Uh-huh.” Tom couldn’t help but notice the rack of wine against the other wall, the Crestron home theater system. If Nick had seen this place, he would’ve gotten weak in the knees. Tom never cared about this kind of shit.
“Is Mr. Palumbo coming?”
Franco sat behind the desk, framing himself in the window overlooking the water, and motioned to the men flanking Tom. One of them pulled out a chair, and Tom sat down. Lamotta took the chair beside it.
“So,” Franco said, “Rodney tells me you were at the track. Looking for a poker game.”
“My brother Nick’s dead,” Tom said. His heart was in his throat, but he
figured it would be better not to draw this out. “And my understanding is, he died owing Palumbo some money. From poker losses. I’ve been handling Nick’s estate — you probably know that — but this is a matter that’s off the books.”
Franco glanced at Lamotta, then folded his hands, tilted his head at Tom like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever heard. “And you’re looking to settle up? That’s very respectable of you.”
“I’m here to find out if Mario Palumbo, if any of you, had something to do with recent crimes. The murders of Brian Hamer, Howard Michael Declan, Danny Coburn.”
Franco grinned so wide the folds in his cheeks pushed his glasses up a bit. He looked from man to man, and Tom heard one of the goons behind him give a little titter. Then Franco looked at Tom, a puzzled expression overcoming his weirdly bare features, asked, “And you think I would just tell you, one way or the other?”
“If it has something to do with me, with Nick, any of it, then yes. I’m willing to settle Nick’s outstanding debts. I don’t need to be blackmailed; I’m here, I’d like to work it out.”
“Blackmailed?” Franco laughed again, then stuck a finger in his eye, worked it around, examined what was there, flicked it, and looked over the men surrounding Tom another time. “When you patted him down, you checked this man for a wire, right?”
Lamotta said, “Yeah, we checked him.”
“You check him for balls, too? Find a nice big set? Because this is an interesting tactic for the FDLE. Just walk right in, boom!” He slapped his hands down on the big desk. If it was meant to make Tom flinch, it didn’t work. “Boom,” Franco said again, “just walk right in and ask point blank.”
Tom said nothing, just looked at the bald man, waited.
Franco seemed to lose interest, or cease to be amused. “No, Agent Lange. That’s the answer to all your questions: No. Mr. Palumbo runs a respectable business, everything on the level. Some people, like your brother, or Howard Declan, they might have a problem, but that’s their own problem, that’s not on Mr. Palumbo. There are ways to get support — I hear gamblers’ anonymous has a high success rate.”
“What’s the debt right now?” Tom asked.
Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set Page 49