Special Agent Tom Lange Box Set

by T. J. Brearton

  “Okay . . . so . . . I bet they drove it off the road, parked it. They took the bodies out because they knew the storm would do something. They could’ve taken it but didn’t. If there were two guys on the job — and I’d be almost certain there was at least that many — I figure the Hollisters come along, surprise the guy on lookout. The shooting of Brian Hollister looks spur-of-the-moment. That’s the arm shot. Then the head shot, it’s not double tap but, given the conditions . . .” He trailed off, suddenly craving another cigarette. Were they going to set him loose to look for the girl? There were already people out doing just that, but it itched at him that he was just sitting here. On the other hand, with one body on the roof and the man’s wife still missing, a little girl could’ve been carried by the storm right out into the Gulf. He looked at Skokie. “You said what got taken from the house were T-bonds, jewelry, cash . . . but you’re domestic security. Naples PD has robbery people and jurisdiction. It’s because this house is owned by the statewide’s husband?”

  Skokie smiled. “What if you could do that sort of thing, that kind of private investigator thing, but do it for us?”

  “Come on . . . you’re talking about the girl? What are you talking about?”

  At last Skokie turned to Blythe, handing it off to her.

  “What do you know about Pedro Vasquez?” she said.

  Something tickled the back of his neck, like gooseflesh. “He has a commercial fishing business in Everglades City. Vasquez uses the boats to make dope purchases out over the water and distributes up the Gulf Coast.”

  Skokie nodded again, looking pleased, while Blythe stayed poised as she spoke. “A while back, after months of wiretapping and surveillance, county vice narcotics made a bust. We’re talking about a hundred grand a year profits. So, not the biggest operation, but a nice piece. Crack-cocaine. Doing the deals offshore. Pedro Vasquez got arrested, got his bond reduced to 350 thousand and bonded out.”

  “I remember. Bob Mandi was the prosecutor.” Tom was stuck on the possibility of a seven-year-old girl in the hands of two hardened criminals — maybe criminals working for Vasquez, if he were to jump to a conclusion.

  “Correct. It was Mandi.”

  “Bob was a good statewide but . . . you know . . .” Skokie said.

  “Stephanie Balfour is a bit tougher.” There was a tinge of pride in Blythe’s voice. “Mandi let Pedro Vasquez bond out with the requirement that he wear an ankle monitor. Vasquez’s attorney then filed a motion to remove the tracker. So Vasquez and his attorney come into court—”

  “He’s bold,” Skokie interrupted. “I mean, this guy . . . what’s his deal? He can’t go dancing?”

  “Let me tell it. Yeah, he’s bold. He says he needs to go to Miami to get engine parts. He says it’s because one of his boats has no serial number.”

  Tom slumped back, temporarily forgetting his anxiety. “You’re kidding.”

  “Pedro Vasquez basically declares, in open court, that he’s committed a third-degree felony. He tries to walk it back, of course — says, ‘No, I didn’t mean that’ — but by then it’s too late. Balfour is all over him. His admission is on the record and it gives the cops a search warrant for the boat. They use their marine patrol guys, have Vasquez’s crabbers picked up, stop them from pulling crabs so they can get a look at the HIN number. There are cops all over the Marco River, all looking to find the right boat — and then they do. They find a covered-up serial number and a plate from a different engine — so now there’s the possibility of a stolen motor. Boom. At this point, they’re looking for anything that will keep Pedro Vasquez locked up, so this is perfect. They get an arrest warrant, arrest him and the 350 grand bond is revoked — it goes up to half a million. Now he can’t afford to bond out.”

  Tom was pleased to see Blythe enjoying herself just a little bit. It was always nice when she showed her human side. Not that she was under any obligation to act a certain way, but it was good for any cop to have a moment of enthusiasm in a job that could feel fruitless and frustrating.

  “Stone crab season starts,” she said. “Last year, October fifteenth. Starts up as all this is going on, and now county vice narcotics is listening in on jail phone calls. Pedro’s in there trying to conduct business while vice is listening. Then about six months ago, they get a call from some random inmate who says he wants to work with them. Cut a deal. Inform.”

  Skokie tried to interrupt again.

  “Hold on, let me finish,” Blythe said. “His name is Wilbur Beck. He’s this guy who got himself arrested for a meth deal. He’d come down in a stolen vehicle with his girlfriend and her little boy in tow. Now he’s freaking out because his girlfriend and her son are essentially stranded. So, he talks to county vice narcotics and tells them there’s a cellmate he ingratiated himself with. Says, ‘I can go to work for you, I’m your guy,’ things like that. And the cellmate bites, and the cellmate is . . . drum roll please . . .”

  “Pedro Vasquez,” Tom guessed.

  “You got it,” Blythe said.

  “That’s a pretty tight CI.”

  “You don’t know the half of it yet. Not only does Vasquez bite, he tells Beck he’s got a plan to kill the statewide attorney who put him there . . . Balfour. And then Beck tells vice narcotics.”

  Tom felt the muscles in his face slacken as he looked between the two agents for a moment. “A death threat against Stephanie Balfour, the statewide attorney.”

  “That’s right,” Skokie said. “Bingo.”

  Blythe looked away. “Statewides get threatened all the time, of course, and the FDLE is charged with their security. So, once county vice narcotics get this information, they call us up.” Her gaze slid back to him. “The new sergeant over there . . . his name is Jarvis. He took it over when Sergeant Coburn died.” Tom saw the weight in her eyes; Coburn had been a friend. “Jarvis has been surveilling everyone in Vasquez’s outfit, sixteen hours a day, trying to find out who’s gonna attempt to kill Balfour. And we’ve been keeping her safe.”

  “But the break-in wasn’t an attempted murder,” Tom said, looking between them. “Right? It was a burglary gone bad. She wasn’t even staying there and they’d have to know that. Even low-rent guys would know that.”

  “Right.”

  “How did I miss this? About the threat? I mean, I may have been pushing papers, but I never heard one word about this.”

  Skokie took over again. “We’ve kept it as quiet as possible. Totally contained to a small group in the department. Just minimizing risk. And it’s federal territory, too. Well, they were keeping their thumb on it because the whole reason county vice narcotics got rolling with the Vasquez operation started with the FBI. It was multi-agency. But the Bureau have backed off now, left it to us.”

  “The death threat came two months ago,” Blythe said.

  “Two months? And nothing from the CI who signed up?”

  “Jerome Correctional is a controlled facility — vice narcotics can’t just go in anytime they want. They were putting money in his commissary account and he was calling twice a day with information, but then it started to dry up. At one point he said there was a cell phone in there — Pedro had a cell phone — and so things were going on that the CI couldn’t have known about. In the meantime, county vice narcotics had surveillance up on Pedro’s mistress, his brothers, his ex-wife back at the house — but then Hector came churning through, knocking out a lot of surveillance. County is scrambling to piece everything back together.”

  “That’s where you come in,” Skokie said.

  Tom studied him, then asked, “What does the break-in have to do with the death threat if Balfour’s not home when it happens? Steal from her and her husband to hurt them financially? What’s the latest word from the CI — Beck? Did he know anything about it or not?”

  Skokie shook his head. “He’s not there anymore.”

  “The CI is out? I thought this guy was giving up good intelligence.”

  “He was. He got out on bond. Abou
t a month before, he told County about a rim shop in Tampa. It’s one of Vasquez’s money-cleaners. Vasquez told Beck he’d get his girlfriend to bond him out if he’d sell five kilos and clean the money up there. Prove his mettle kind of a thing. So he’s out on bond put up by Vasquez’s girlfriend,” Skokie said. “County had him tagged but then lost him in the hurricane.”

  “Huh. Jesus.”

  “Okay here it is, Tom . . .’ Skokie said. ‘The statewide was evacuated for the hurricane and when she returns, she’ll be put in a safe house. When Blythe called you a couple days ago, that was the thing — she was going to ask you to help with security. Now things have changed with the burglary. To answer your question about the connection between break-in and death-threat . . . it’s possible Pedro Vasquez had Balfour burgled with a plan to use the money to pay a triggerman. Or he might have been stupid enough to use it to subsidize his own bond. But we can’t prove any of that. We’re linking them because we don’t believe in coincidence.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Skokie drew a sharp breath, let it out and said, “Find out everything you can. On the burglary and the threat against Balfour. You’d be working directly for me. Not in IFS, but with Domestic Security. As kind of a probationary period. And you’d be undercover.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of ongoing operations with Everglades County vice narcotics, Hillsborough County and Tampa, for starters. Surveilling any of the Vasquez family or their employees is—”

  “No, I get that. I mean, why me?”

  The hosting agents shared another look and Skokie said, “You’re in a unique position because you haven’t been active for months. You’re not going to show up on any counter-surveillance. And as you know, these people are good at counter-surveillance.”

  “And we want you for this because of your background,” Blythe said. “You’ve . . . you know, you’ve had some experience on the street. This type of thing . . .”

  Skokie finished where she left off. “This type of thing sometimes requires a little coloring outside the lines.”

  Tom sat back and ran his hands over his face. “What about the girl?”

  “The whole state is looking for her,” Skokie said. “Maybe she turns up in the Gulf — we hope not — or maybe she hid out somewhere and got trapped.”

  “Or maybe these guys took her,” Tom said.

  “Right. It’s all connected. The threat against Balfour, the burglars . . . the more information you get, the closer we could get to finding her.”

  Blythe looked at him. “This has to be your decision, Tom. This thing . . . it could involve some serious risk. You’ll have Skokie keeping in touch with you and I’ll be there when I can. But you’ll basically be on your own.”

  “I’m your man.”

  For a moment, Skokie looked like he was going to get up and hug him. Blythe kept a poker face.

  “Excellent,” Skokie said. “So now —”

  “The first thing is to go through the usual suspects,” Tom said. “Run down the list of B & E guys plus any known fences for these T-bonds and the jewelry that was taken. But — and this is the whole thing — if the girl has been taken, these guys are just going to hold onto that stuff for a while.”

  “We’re working on it, but I think you’re exactly right,” Skokie said.

  Tom looked away, thinking some more about a little girl with a couple of thugs on the run. If they — one of them at least — had been willing to execute two adult witnesses, her chances of survival were low. Even if one of them had a heart, how far could you get with a kid? “I’ll start with the rim shop in Tampa. See if I can get eyes on the CI, Wilbur Beck. Maybe he’s there, maybe not, but it’s a good starting point.”

  Skokie clapped his hands once and smiled at Blythe. “There we go. Sounds like we’re all set. The rim shop is called Tireman Teddy’s. I’ll let Hillsborough County and Tampa know you’re going to be in their back yard.”

  Tom looked at Blythe. “I don’t even know the results of my hearing . . .”

  She waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Ed stepped in and spoke on your behalf, laid this out for Captain Turnbull and Internal Affairs and everyone, and they went for it. You’re still an agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. Now you’re just an undercover one.”

  Tom felt his heart rate picking up speed. Assessing the threat against a statewide attorney was important, but the prospect of finding the missing girl turned him sanguine, made his vision seem sharper and brighter, his fingers twitchy.

  The thing was, after they’d chatted a bit more, shook hands and left, he realized both Blythe and Skokie considered the girl as good as dead. It had been there in their eyes, their body language, in the things they hadn’t said. In their eyes, recovering her would be a bonus, not an expectation.

  He wondered how he felt about that and realized it didn’t matter. If there was any chance she might still be alive, he wouldn’t stop until he found her.

  CHAPTER FOUR: ON THE JOB

  For his first move, Tom met Jack Vance at the older man’s favorite diner — he’d skipped breakfast and had to eat if he was going to be on the go all day. Vance swirled some milk into his coffee and said, “That was, ah — that was something.”

  “Up on a roof . . .” Tom said. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Me neither.”

  “They still haven’t found his wife, Ann.”

  Vance looked up at Tom. “Tell me they’ve got you looking for this little girl.”

  Tom sipped his Coke and stared out the window.

  “Good,” Vance said.

  Tom set the glass down. “They discouraged me from talking to you because we’re friends. But it wasn’t very strong discouragement. And I have to get going. But I needed to talk to you first. About something else.”

  He tried to meet the older man’s eyes. It was tough with Vance because Tom admired him. Therapy sessions had helped him understand his fear of disapproval, and there was nobody he admired more than Vance, so nobody whose approval mattered more.

  “Yeah?” Vance asked like he already knew what was coming or had been expecting this.

  “The whole reason I went through this thing with IAB . . . what happened was—”

  “What happened doesn’t have to be my business, Tommy. You know I’m all right with that, right?”

  “I know. And I figure you already suspect something. I just, you know, wanted to clear the air.”

  “If that’s what’s good for you. Clear away.”

  “It is.” Tom took a breath. “I lied on my application to the state bureau. When it came to my background, I omitted that I’d been arrested as a juvenile.”

  Vance sipped his coffee, looking at Tom but not staring. There was always something going on behind Vance’s eyes, something you could chase but never quite catch.

  Tom said, “It was for assault and possession of a controlled substance. This was — you know . . . it was up in Yonkers. But I was cleared of the charges and the whole thing got sealed away in my juvenile file. I just . . . I should’ve been up front about it. And I wasn’t.”

  “But it came out somehow.”

  “It came out, yeah. Someone tried to use it against me. I’d already confessed to Blythe about it by then. Anyway, they’ve been trying to figure out what to do with me since. Then this thing with the Balfour burglary fast-tracked me and I’m back in. Sort of back in.”

  Vance was quiet a long time, watching the traffic go by on 41. “It’s not a problem for me, if that’s what you’re worried about. I know you who are.”

  Their food came and the smell ignited Tom’s appetite, but he waited, watching the older man closely. Vance’s color wasn’t great and he looked to be in some pain.

  “Can I ask you something?” Tom ventured.

  “Shoot.” Vance took a bite of his eggs.

  “You doing okay? Everything — you know — good?”

  “I’m fine, Tomm
y.”

  Tom gave it a moment. “You know these people? Who work for the Hollisters? The little girl’s father is Miguel Madras. Mother is Sasha Madras. I understand he landscapes and she’s their housekeeper.”

  “I’ve seen them, yeah. You know . . . hard working, never miss a day, that kind of thing. The Ingrams use a different crew for landscaping.”

  “Ever meet the Hollisters themselves?”

  “No.”

  “What about the Balfours. Run into them? Anything like that?”

  Vance’s eyes came up. “You interviewing me?”

  Tom smiled, dropped his gaze and took a bite of his food.

  “You can always tell a state cop,” Vance said. “They’re always interviewing you. You can see it in their eyes.”

  And that was it.

  * * *

  He headed for Tampa with the sun high overhead. He pushed the pickup truck to ninety, knowing Vance had lied about his health.

  It had been a while since Tom had made these runs up the Gulf. On his first case, a woman who worked in a Tampa strip club had been found dead in an estuary near Naples. Back then, he’d gone back and forth to Tampa so many times he’d lost count, but he hadn’t returned since her killer’s trial.

  He stopped at the Regional Operations Center in Fort Myers and got information on the missing girl and her picture. Her name, Lemon Madras, sounded like a drink. She looked adorable, smiling in her third-grade school picture, two front teeth only halfway loaded in.

  Both of her parents worked for the Hollisters, though Miguel Madras’s landscaping company had various other clients, including the city of Naples. Sasha was a housekeeper for almost twenty customers. Tom wanted to speak to them, but Blythe had warned him off. Miguel was out looking for his daughter, along with the FBI, state police, and county deputies. Pictures were going around. Lemon was in MEPIC, the statewide missing persons’ database. The parents had already been questioned multiple times and were sticking to their stories.

  People like the Madras family didn’t evacuate for a hurricane. For one thing, they had nowhere to go. For another, they couldn’t afford the time off.