Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  “Sure — I’m just headed back to my office. Would you like to meet there? Listen, I just want to say, right off the bat, I’m sorry if anything I said in court was offensive. I really have great respect for what you do, and I know you’ve done your best on this thing.”

  Tom thought he detected cool condescension behind the veneer of warm words. But, who knew, maybe it was just lawyer-tone. Maybe it was his own suspicions. “Thank you, Mr. Ernst.”

  “So, what can I do for you? I have some appointments this afternoon, but I could try to move a few things around. Is it important? Is it about Heather Moss?”

  “Indirectly, yes, I think so. Here’s what it is: it’s recently come to our attention that André Rapp is one of your past clients.”

  “Rapp, you said? Rapp . . . well, I can check that back at my office.”

  “He did a bit at Hardee Correctional for methamphetamine distribution. Relatively small time, but connected to Mario Palumbo.”

  A silence. Then, “Yes, okay — let’s see . . . I represented Mr. Rapp on a matter concerning his right to possess a gun. So, is that who you’re referring to? How can I help you?”

  “Can you tell me, what you’re permitted to given confidentiality, how he came to be your client?”

  “Well, ah, if I remember . . .”

  You remember, thought Tom.

  “He contacted me,” Ernst said, “after he was out. Said he had a felony record, but needed to protect himself. He was worried about retribution from his former associates. And he hadn’t been in any trouble since his release and had undergone drug rehab. Does that help?”

  “Mr. Rapp recently stole a black Chevy Tahoe, and a vehicle of the same description was seen outside Heather Moss’s house, the morning she was shot at, then later at the scene of Sergeant Coburn’s death. The plates are a match.”

  “Oh my God. You’re kidding. I had no idea. I haven’t heard from him . . . Is there something more I can do for you?”

  “I’m curious about your relationship to him.”

  “Oh . . . okay, well, like I’ve laid out, it was strictly professional. I haven’t seen or heard from him since we won his case.”

  “What about your relationship to Heather Moss?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Outside of being her counsel.”

  “Okay. That’s a strange segue.” There was a sharp bark, and Tom realized Ernst had just laughed. “Well, you know I went to school with her husband. I guess I’d say I’m a family friend. That’s it.” He paused. “I’m not sure where this is headed, Agent Lange — I really do have some things to tend to this evening. Maybe we could meet tomorrow?”

  “Sure. One more question for now. You graduated from law school in New York, but you took your bar in Florida. Why here?”

  “Well, because it’s Florida, I guess. Because I spent my life shoveling snow before that.” Ernst finally sounded agitated. “What do you really want to know, Agent Lange?”

  “Did you encourage Heather to move down here after her husband died?”

  “‘Encourage’ her? I would say I suggested it, sure. I was already set up down here, I went back for the funeral. I called her once or twice after that, asked how she was doing. During one conversation, she told me it felt impossible to go on. I suggested a fresh start.”

  “You suggested Florida.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any romantic component to your relationship with Heather Moss?”

  Silence, except for the sound of the lawyer breathing. “She’s the widow of a friend. I tried to help her out as best I could. I don’t control her. I suggested a fresh start, I suggested Florida, yes. And then she came down sometime later. Now—”

  “My brother was the one who suggested I move down here,” Tom said. “I went to school here, then got my job for the state bureau.”

  “Agent Lange, I’m trying to understand, but I really—”

  “Listen, if I had a problem — you know, if I had done something I shouldn’t have done in order to get this job, is that something you could help with? Like the way you’ve helped Heather and her children, or Mr. Rapp?”

  Another moment of silence, and this one felt heavy as radon gas. “Are you asking me to represent you, Agent Lange? If so, we can set up an appointment . . .”

  Tom stared out into the parking lot, nerves chattering, but feeling okay, too. “I’m just wondering. If I did something as a juvenile, and that came out; if it could cost me my job — is that something you could help with, in a professional capacity?”

  When he spoke again, the lawyer’s voice was deadpan, flat of affect. “Meet me in Palmona Park in one hour. I’ll move some things around. At the Windmill Café. You know where it is?”

  “I do. Thanks so much, Mr. Ernst. Can you make it two hours?”

  A long silence. “Alright.”

  “I really appreciate it.”

  * * *

  Palmona Park was a small town of about 1,300 over the Caloosahatchee River, north of Fort Myers. Tom took the exit off 41 and cruised Pine Island Road through a residential area of single-wide trailer homes and palm trees drowsy in the late day heat.

  The Windmill was a small café frequented by landscapers and business people who worked in the area. This late in the day, the small plaza where it was located contained only a few cars.

  Tom parked the Durango where the parking lot edged against a lush wall of green Mexican heather, dotted with purple blooms. He dug out his phone and placed a call to Culpepper.

  “All good here,” the agent said. “Heather came back with the little ones just a few minutes ago. Man, even I missed them. Glad they’re back together. She’s inside putting Abigail down for a late nap. Olivia has the tube on, watching something with pink and purple animals.”

  “Great. Damien, listen, I’m working on getting you some reinforcement, I promise. We’ll let you get outta there for a couple hours.”

  “Sounds good, boss. But I’m good to go, long as you need me. I just sleep standing up.”

  “I’m getting you relief. Thanks, Damien.”

  He started to dial Turnbull to see about another agent to replace Culpepper when there was a knock on the window.

  Tom started, looking around. Robert Ernst stood outside the vehicle on the passenger side. Tom rolled it down.

  “Hi,” said Ernst. He smiled at Tom, the bright sunshine beating down. He pushed his dark sunglasses up onto his scalp and leaned in. “This your ride?”

  “It’s department-issue.”

  Ernst looked in the back. “Comes with car seats and everything, huh?” He smiled wider. A different guy than the one on the phone, who’d gotten a bit morose at the end; Ernst seemed renewed, even chipper.

  “Hop in,” Tom said.

  The lawyer popped the door open and slid into the car. Tom tensed, felt a bead of sweat trickle from his armpit.

  “So, the Windmill,” Tom said. “Why this place?”

  “Oh, this is my favorite coffee spot.”

  “It’s a bit out of the way, though.”

  Ernst shrugged. “Good coffee is good coffee.”

  Tom rolled up the window and dialed up the AC. He felt his heart softly knocking against the gun holstered to his chest.

  Stay calm.

  Ernst’s eyebrows drew together in a pensive scowl. “So, you’re in some trouble, you said on the phone. You want to go in and we can lay it out, see where we’re at?”

  “Yeah, that would be great. And thanks again for meeting me on such short notice.”

  Ernst held up his hand. “It’s no problem. And, listen, sorry if I was brusque with you on the phone. I get defensive some times. But, hey, I’m a defense attorney, right? Comes with the territory.” He flashed a crooked smile and grabbed the door handle.

  “It’s fine,” Tom said. His eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. The parking lot behind them remained inactive. “But, you’re not always a defense attorney, right?”

  The lawyer�
�s face darkened, but he kept that airy voice. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean when you represented André Rapp. That was civil, not criminal.”

  Ernst let go of the door. “Well, I don’t know how much you know about lawyers, but the vast majority of us have to hustle to stay afloat. Have to diversify. I do it all; criminal, general, domestic.”

  “That’s a full load.”

  Ernst looked out the windshield. “When you’re a lawyer, you have a kind of intimacy with your clients no one else has. It’s not dissimilar from what a therapist does, with their own clients. You learn secrets, you know the most personal details.” He turned his head and met Tom’s gaze again. “Like you, Agent Lange. Seeking my counsel. Now you and I — we’ll be connected by that. It’s really something, when you think about it.”

  “And you’ve helped others in this way,” Tom said carefully. “You started early. You helped Brian Hamer when he got into some hot water with the IRS and the FBI.”

  “Who is that now? I don’t think I know that name . . . unless, was that the young man found in Everglades City? A fisherman, or on a fishing boat? I didn’t know he was involved with any of that. But it’s interesting. I wish I had helped in a situation like that . . . Government overreach and the erosion of privacy is something I’m passionate about. With the technology we have today, it’s a real mess . . .” He shook his head.

  Tom flicked his finger between them. “It’s a two-way street, that intimacy. A client needs to know their lawyer, too. I have to do my due diligence, right?”

  Ernst threw his head back and laughed. “That’s right,” he said, nodding. “That’s exactly right, Agent Lange. You need to know what you’re getting into.”

  “Brian Hamer. You worked with him. You and Ayaan Anand. This intimacy you’re talking about . . .”

  Tom’s eyes dropped to the man’s hands. One of them had disappeared into the dark suit jacket he was wearing.

  Tom started after his gun, but Ernst pulled out a small notepad, then a pen, clicked it on. He flicked a look at Tom, then wrote something down, turned it so Tom could read.

  I won’t tell you what you want to know like this.

  His pulse started pounding. “What does that mean? You won’t tell me ‘what’ like this?”

  Ernst scowled. “Sorry? I’ve lost you . . .” and he quickly jotted another phrase:

  Lose the wire, we can go somewhere.

  Tom wasn’t surprised by it, and let out a slow breath. If Ernst was who he was starting to believe, then the lawyer was too smart to walk into a recorded confession. But he’d also know that none of it was directly admissible, since Florida had a two-party consent rule for taped conversations, and there was a lack of predicate — Ernst hadn’t identified himself, used a slightly different voice; he could later say someone was impersonating him.

  Even so, he was requesting Tom remove the wire before they went any further. And Tom was more anxious to go further than proceed with an already shaky method.

  “Blythe,” he said, looking away from Ernst, “I’m going off air.”

  He reached up under his t-shirt, ripped off the microphones, pulled them off his chest and held them palm up toward Ernst. Two little black disks, thin as dimes. “Okay?”

  “Where’s the transmitter?”

  Tom popped open the dashboard compartment, pulled it out, no bigger than a box of matches. He dumped the batteries, threw everything back into the compartment and closed it up.

  Ernst smiled demurely. “Now you can follow me. I’m the beige Acura.” His voice had dropped back to his more usual pitch. He put a hand on the door again, paused. “Tell your supervisor to stay back — she follows, and it’s over. And I’ll know if she’s following.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The sun was slipping toward the Gulf. Tom followed Ernst in the Acura south on 41, back over the river on the Edison Bridge, then back into Fort Myers. He took a left on route 82, past low homes, yards patchy with dirt, then a right turn on Ford Street, into a rundown section of the city. A kid on a bicycle gave him a look as Tom drove past.

  The Acura slowed in front of a fence, turned in. Tom waited on the street, checking to see if Blythe was anywhere behind him. She’d texted twice along the drive and he’d texted back, Am OK, stand by.

  The fence was made from hubcaps, stacked upright and wired together. Two corrugated sheets of metal formed the gate. Ernst undid a padlock, shoved the doors open, glanced at Tom, then drove the Acura in the rest of the way. Tom began following, but Ernst stepped into his path, holding up his hands. With the window down, he could hear Ernst’s instruction: “Leave it in the street.”

  Tom thought for a moment, decided.

  Let them think you’re crazy.

  He pulled the Durango over, killed the engine and got out. Ernst stayed standing in the entryway, and Tom walked through the gate.

  An auto salvage yard. Rusted shells of cars, hills of tires, a scraggly pile of lumber, a squat, one-story building, a trailer up on blocks, and a garage.

  Who’s place? Ernst’s? Or someone else’s — Howard Declan, the auto mechanic’s?

  He stopped walking, keeping a little distance from Ernst, watched as the lawyer closed up the gate, this time snapping a padlock closed on the inside. He glanced at Tom, called over, “That’s not for you; this just isn’t the best neighborhood.”

  “It’s your place? You a lawyer who moonlights as a junk dealer?”

  Ernst uttered that short bark laugh, then headed for the garage. “Come on.”

  They stepped inside, where it was at least ten degrees cooler, and dark. Ernst flipped on the lights.

  An empty space, five hundred square feet. Two load-bearing angle-iron pillars in the center. Concrete floor blackened with oil stains. There was a desk in the far corner, dunes of paper piled high. Two large doors with runner tracks that curved up onto the ceiling. Windows blacked out with paint.

  The hydraulic arm hissed and the door snapped shut.

  Ernst glanced at his watch. He was wearing leather driving gloves. He walked in a ways, stopped beneath the overhead arc sodium lamps, turned back to Tom.

  Tom tensed. “So, I’m here. You want to show me something, Robert? You ready to talk?”

  The lights shone brightly off the lawyer’s scalp and filled his eye sockets with shadow. “One of my clients was an anesthesiologist. Loved to talk. He even knew where people could get powerful sedatives on the street.”

  Tom felt a rush. Ernst was dying to lay out his whole fucked-up escapade for an appreciative audience. An egotist.

  Tom stayed just inside the door. “Okay. So for Declan it was the pill, for Coburn it was his chewing tobacco. What about Hamer?”

  “Hamer had a sensitive stomach. Drank a lot of that stuff, Milk of Magnesia. Pepto Bismol.”

  Tom remembered seeing the bottle in Hamer’s medicine cabinet on the boat. The lab had had it for a couple days. It sounded like they were bound to find traces of potassium chloride inside of it.

  “Okay, Robert. So Declan, he’s a pedophile. Coburn, what did he do?”

  “Come on. Information dragnets? Everyday citizens walking around, being spied on? It violates the Constitution; it’s fascism, end times. You know better.”

  “What about Hamer? What was his offense? He seemed pretty anti-government — thought you’d like that.”

  “Please, Tom. This is beneath you. Hamer was wasting his considerable talents. There’s probably nothing worse.”

  “Fair enough. So. Where do we go from here?”

  “Well, the rest of it is up to you, really.” Ernst stepped beyond the throw of light, his complexion fading to gray.

  “Okay . . . and what does that mean?” There was a catch in Tom’s dry throat, and he coughed after the question.

  Ernst gave him a bemused smile. “You know what the Russians call it? Kompromat. There’s a reason I’m an excellent trial lawyer, Tommy, and it’s because everyone can be leveraged. You just have to
know where to look, how to look. If the CIA can do it, I can do it. Really it should be power the people hold. We can spy right back.”

  Tom shook his head. “If you’re talking about my application with the FDLE, I don’t think that’s going to take you as far as you’re thinking. For all you know, I’ve already told my supervisors.” He held up his hands. “I don’t know what else I have for you, Robert. You know all my kompromat.”

  Ernst chuckled, walked to the desk on the far side of the room, sat down, glanced at his watch again.

  “You waiting for something?”

  Ernst just looked up, his eyes shining across the space.

  “So, here’s what we’ve got, Tommy. You live at Beachwood, a gated community in Bonita Springs. A fairly recent development — not bad — two pools, tennis courts, a gym, nice set-up. All the houses look alike, but who cares, right? You’ve got all your amenities. Recently you had a nice woman playing house, there with her two daughters. But she’s gone now, because you blew it.”

  “Heather Moss is under constant watch.”

  The lawyer affected an understanding scowl, stuck out his lower lip and nodded. “Of course she is. Sure.” He slipped a smart phone from his inner pocket, faced it toward Tom.

  Tom slowly started across the garage, feeling heavier with each step. The image was small, but he could make out what was there:

  Heather’s kitchen. Seated at the table were Heather and her two daughters, eating dinner. The camera looking at them had to be above the sink somewhere. Seeing them sit there eating and laughing silently at his table filled Tom with dread. And guilt — he’d obviously gotten cocky, been outplayed by Ernst, missed something vitally important.

  “We’ve been all through that house,” Tom said. “This is video from some earlier time.”

  “I knew you’d go through the house. I didn’t put these cameras in until I met with Heather last night to prepare for this morning. I had to improvise, what with your partner throwing Heather under the bus on those kids, but it’s all worked out. Better than I could have even planned, I think. You want another view?”

  He hit a button and a camera showed the bathroom from a high corner.