DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  Tom felt like saying something — Eileen seemed so vulnerable standing there, clutching her purse, lip quivering.

  “You have every right to take Carrie home,” Ward intoned. “But it is an ordeal and you shouldn’t have to do it alone. On your own, you’d need to contract a funeral home in the area for ship-out service and then you’ll also need the services of a funeral home at the destination airport that can handle collection, import protocol, and manage the ongoing funeral arrangements . . .”

  It was an ambush. Eileen Gallo looked flustered and upset. Tom stood up, feeling his temperature rise.

  “If you work with us, Mrs. Gallo,” Ward rushed on, cutting Tom a glance, “together with the dispatching funeral home we will coordinate everything on your behalf — collection and removal, embalming, filing of documents, a combination-shipping unit and delivery to the departure airport. The service we typically work with is well established and has expertise in mortuary shipping, and will have a funeral contact in Boise.”

  Tom felt increasingly sympathy for the woman as she sat back down. Ward, who’d never gotten out of his chair, had subdued her. With his flat expression, Tom couldn’t help but feel the medical examiner derived some perverse pleasure from this. Like being in control got him off. Tom and Blythe took their seats again.

  “Well, sure we can do all that after I see her?” Eileen asked. She took a wadded tissue from her purse and wiped her nose with it, hand shaking.

  “Of course,” Ward said. “Just one more thing first. These officers need to ask you a few questions.”

  It was about time.

  Eileen Gallo reluctantly turned her attention to the agents. She took a deep breath. “Okay.”

  Blythe began, “When did you last speak to your daughter, Mrs. Gallo?”

  “About two weeks ago. On a Wednesday.”

  Tom figured the woman had had plenty of time to recall that final conversation since learning of her daughter’s death, playing it over and over in her mind. It reminded him of something — he had yet to listen to the 911 call. Everglades County had listened to it and the transcript was in the murder book. But he’d yet to hear if for himself.

  “And what was the nature of that conversation, do you remember?”

  “Sure I do. She asked me how I was doing. She was always concerned about me.” Eileen Gallo’s lip quivered.

  “What else?”

  “We spoke about the weather. How hot it was in Florida. We had a late snow in Boise. I had the neighbor’s boy, that’s Finn, come over and shovel the driveway. I pay him ten dollars.”

  “Good to have that help. So Carrie seemed alright? Did she talk about anything in her life? Anything specific?”

  The tears fell, but Eileen Gallo didn’t seem to notice. She shook her head. “No. Carrie didn’t talk about herself. She was more concerned with other people. With me.”

  “It sounds like she was a wonderful daughter.”

  Now Eileen Gallo’s chest hitched with a sob, and her word was nearly lost — “Yes.”

  “I know this is hard,” Blythe said. Tom thought Blythe was something else. Her tone was smooth and genuine, real empathy on her face. “Did you know what Carrie did for work, Mrs. Gallo?”

  Tom had been wondering the same thing.

  Eileen Gallo’s forehead rumpled again. “Well, yah. She worked as a dancer. Big shows, and that.”

  Tom looked at Blythe, who kept her gaze on the older woman. “Where did she dance?”

  “She traveled all over. She worked in Disney World off and on. But she did other shows — concerts, you know.” The frown deepened and Eileen looked between the agents. “You don’t know what she did for a living?”

  Tom waited to see how Blythe would handle this. Blythe went straight for the unvarnished truth. “She also worked as a dancer at a gentlemen’s club called Hush. It’s in Tampa.”

  The room fell silent. Tom glanced at Ward, but the man’s face was unreadable.

  Eileen Gallo seemed to be stuck, not knowing how to accept this. “A gentlemen’s club?”

  “Yes,” said Blythe, not faltering. “A strip club.”

  “No. You’re mistaken, there.”

  “We have her employee records. It was actually thanks to one of her co-workers we were able to first identify Carrie.”

  Tom thought Eileen Gallo took it rather well. After her initial incredulity, she seemed to resign herself to the idea. “I didn’t know.”

  Blythe moved right on to the next question. “Mrs. Gallo, do you know Steve Hobson, Carrie’s ex-husband?”

  The woman’s face darkened. It happened so suddenly Tom was surprised. Eileen Gallo’s tears dried up. Her mouth dipped down at the corners as she spoke with a quiet, conspiratorial tone. “Yes, I know Steve.”

  “According to Steve Hobson, Carrie hadn’t spoken with him in five months. Is that consistent with the information you have?”

  “Carrie was not the type to talk poorly of other people, you know. But she didn’t have to. I knew that Steve Hobson was no good.”

  “How did you know?”

  “He didn’t treat her right. He was always on his computer. I think he met women that way.” Eileen wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think much of that. Computer dating, or whatever you call it. Carrie never said, but I think that’s how she met Steve. On her phone, if you can believe it. Using it as a computer, I guess. I think she was lonely. Her life on the road, all the coming and going. But you can get involved with some real bad eggs that way.”

  “And you think Steve Hobson is a bad egg.”

  “I think he uses that son of his, that poor boy, to attract kind-hearted people like my daughter. He acts like he is the . . . well, see, now I’m speaking ill.” She shook her head.

  “Had Carrie talked to him more recently than five months ago, to your knowledge?”

  “Not that I know of. But she didn’t say a lot about herself. And I tried not to pry.”

  “Mrs. Gallo, do you think Steve Hobson might’ve had something to do with what happened to Carrie?”

  The woman looked mortified by the thought, but there was still that hard glint to her eye. “I think you need to ask him that.”

  “I know you don’t like to speak negatively about people, Mrs. Gallo. I think that is very noble of you. But I really would like to hear what you think, just plainly. Is Steve Hobson capable of hurting someone, of hurting your daughter?”

  “Who isn’t capable?” Eileen said, taking a turn for darker territory. “We all have it in us.”

  Blythe leaned back and gave Tom a look. He took it as an invitation to ask his own questions and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Gallo, I’m so sorry for your loss. I only want to ask one thing, and then Dr. Ward can take you to your daughter.”

  Eileen glanced at Ward, who was still sitting there like some kind of chaplain.

  “This is a personal question,” Tom said, “but it’s important. Was Carrie sending you any money?”

  Eileen blinked at him, hesitant. Her thoughts seemed to clear and she said, “Yes. Carrie was always concerned about me. Clifford — that’s her late father — he struggled. He had a temper . . . it wasn’t his fault. He had a tough career. Then when he got the cancer . . . We had a lot of trouble with our insurance.” Eileen dropped her eyes. “There are a lot of bills left still, even two years later.”

  “About how much was she sending you?”

  Her head came back up, and he could see it wounded her to talk about. “A little here, a little there.” She got to her feet again. “I want to see my daughter now.”

  * * *

  The four of them entered the viewing area, where they were joined by Andrea. The storage area was connected to both the main autopsy suite and the viewing room, the door laden with heavy locks on the viewing room side. Tom and Blythe waited with Eileen Gallo while Ward undid the locks and disappeared into the storage vault.

  Tom looked around the room, which was appointed like a funeral parlor. Threadbare carpet, a
potted plant on an alabaster plinth against each of the two side walls. A pair of wing-back chairs, pastel pink, a table between them, magazines fanned out. A long chest of drawers against the opposite wall, various vases and urns for decoration. He saw a directory of funeral services and a brochure for one in particular — Young & Sons. Tom bet that was the “well-established” mortuary service Ward had spoken of. Ward had been like a salesman in the conference room. Tom figured it came with the territory. Still, the guy continued to irk him.

  “I thought Ward was going to ask for her credit card right then and there,” Tom whispered to Blythe.

  She seemed distracted. “Yeah.”

  “What’s with you and Ward?”

  Her eyes focused on Tom. “What do you mean?”

  “I just . . . You two remind me of people waiting for the divorce papers. Hardly ever in the same room, and when you are, you don’t talk.”

  There was music playing faintly through speakers in the wall, classical, Tom thought it was Mahler. Blythe just looked at him, then moved away.

  Tom’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Nick. Tom had continued to ignore Nick’s calls but he was getting worried. Blythe nodded her head at the door, indicating he could leave, take the call. He apologized and stepped into the hallway.

  “Nick, I’m at work. I can’t talk.”

  “Bro,” Nick said.

  “What is it?”

  “I need a ride, man.”

  “You gotta be kidding . . . Why? What’s wrong with the Escalade?”

  “I sold it. Well, you know, I’m using it to—”

  “Jesus, Nicky . . .” Tom figured it out. Nick was turning over his luxury SUV to pay down his poker debt.

  “Hey, it was either that or liquidate the office. And I love that office, man.”

  Despite the grave circumstances, Nick sounded upbeat, almost cheery. That meant he was either having one of his manic episodes, or he was using, or both. Maybe drinking, too. Tom looked at his watch. It was going on three in the afternoon. “I can’t do anything for you right now, Nick. How about tonight? I’m in the middle of this thing . . .”

  “It’s gotta be today. Bonita Springs, six p.m. That’s when I gotta meet the guy, turn over the vehicle. I need a ride back, Tommy.”

  “Take a bus. Call a cab. I’m up to my ears in a murder case.”

  “Please, Tommy.”

  Tom closed his eyes and massaged his temples. Taking care of Nick was enabling him. That was what Dr. Camden would say, anyway. But, Tom couldn’t help it. Nick could’ve called a car service or made do with public transportation, but he hadn’t. He obviously needed support. Tom opened his eyes.

  “Alright. Give me a few minutes to get free here and then I’ll be at your place.”

  “Oh man, thanks, Tommy. Really, tha—”

  Tom hung up and stared at the door to the mortuary viewing room, debating whether he was going to tell Blythe the truth or make something up.

  The second he stepped through the door, he sensed his presence was an intrusion. Ward, presiding over the body, gave him an annoyed look.

  Carrie was draped in a cloth, only her face visible, her skin waxen. They had combed her hair, but it looked terribly thin and dried out. Eileen stood beside Ward, racked with tremors, tears falling.

  Blythe escorted Tom out of the room and closed the door softly behind her. “We can give her a few minutes.”

  “I need to go.”

  Blythe raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s my brother,” Tom said, and left it at that.

  Blythe studied him. “When will you be done?”

  “Should just be a couple hours.”

  “The meeting with Coby is eight o’clock. We’ve each got to read the full affidavit in order for vice narcotics to share anything with us. Then we might find out who Coyote is. If it’s Raymond Bosco, I’m going to want to move on it right away. Have Tampa pick him up for questioning, tell him it’s follow-up, routine questions about Carrie.”

  “I hear you, loud and clear. Two hours.”

  He hustled away.

  Outside, the day was darkening as an afternoon storm rolled in. Tom wondered if it was another pump-fake, or if this one would finally unleash.

  Jumping in the Jeep he thought, if it turned out Bosco was working with George Parsons, and was part of the cocaine trafficking out of Everglades City, then they would have to seriously consider Carrie’s death drug-related. It lined up easily enough — cocaine being distributed from the strip club, maybe the dancers doing some of the selling, a dime bag here or there to a gentleman customer. Guys like those young execs who’d caused a stir.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Tom pulled up to Nick’s house. The sky was heavy with thunderheads. The Escalade was in the driveway. Thunder rumbled and Tom beeped the horn. When Nick didn’t come out right away, Tom wandered into the backyard. He stared out at the creek, remembering how all the waterways were connected. He could get in a boat right now and make his way to the open ocean from Nick’s backyard. He could also make his way from here to Rookery Bay.

  “Tommy?”

  Nick was calling from out front. Tom walked around the house.

  “Hey man,” Nick said. “You ready?”

  When Tom wore a suit, he looked like he belonged in a board room. When Nick dressed up, he looked like some kind of gangster. The brothers stood sizing each other up. Then Tom moved to the Jeep, feeling sour. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “Look, if this is going to be a big problem for you . . .”

  Unbelievable. Tom slammed the door and crunched across the gravel driveway to Nick. The thunder growled again, louder, closer. “Get in your fucking car, Nick. Let’s go.”

  “Listen to you.” Nick was smiling, but his eyes were wild. He was definitely hopped up. Jesus, here was Tom, working on a murder case possibly involving cocaine trafficking, and his own brother was zooted. “Mister big time,” Nick said. “All bent out of shape because I need one fucking favor. You know what? Forget it. I’ll take care of myself.”

  Nick opened the door and Tom caught it in his grip. “You kidding me right now? You call me up, you get me over here — I just left a woman with her dead daughter — and, what? If you just wanted to pick a fight, Nick, you could’ve done it over the phone.” Tom was almost yelling.

  “Pick a fight? I wasn’t the one to pick the fights, Tom. I tried to stop them.”

  Tom felt sick. “You’re going to play that card now?” He knew it embarrassed Nick to ask for help like this. He was selling his beloved SUV, the symbol of his self-made success. Nick was an addict. Drugs, women, gambling. Trying to fill a hole inside himself.

  “You know,” Nick said, “it’s like you’re still locked in that fucking closet. Right where Dad put you.”

  The remark hit hard. “You tell me you can take care of yourself,” Tom fumed, “and yet here I am, helping you out . . .”

  Nick surprised Tom when he started laughing. “You’re just like him, in a way.”

  “What? What are you saying to me?”

  Nick jerked his head toward Tom’s Jeep. “Driving around in that old piece of shit. You know Dad had a Jeep Cherokee, right?”

  Tom looked at his vehicle. He’d gotten the Jeep, used, his senior year in college.

  “Dad was cheap as hell,” Nick said. “He drove that shitbox Jeep up until the day he died.”

  It made Tom anxious to talk about their parents with Nick. Nick knew things Tom didn’t remember.

  Despite his grin, the sadness in Nick’s eyes was deep and unsettling. “You’re driving the same make of car Dad drove. Right up to the end.”

  Nick took a step closer and Tom braced for a punch. But Nick put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You say you don’t remember, or you put it all away somewhere. Fine. I get it.”

  Tom was trembling. “I don’t remember, Nick. I was just a fucking kid. Seven, eight years old.”

  But he did. He did remember some things. He remembered hi
s father shoving him in the closet. Maybe his father just didn’t want him to see. Maybe Tom, the way he saw the world, even at that tender age, was different, and his father knew it.

  A fresh kettle drum boom of thunder tumbled across the sky. The air was electric. Tom felt incensed, and stepped away from Nick. “Are you really leveraging Mom and Dad to make me . . . what? Feel guilty? I already feel guilty, Nick. I feel guilty about everything. You tried to stop Dad from hitting her. He kept hitting her . . .”

  Tom bent over forward, suddenly feeling sick, flashes of his father punching his mother, viewed through the crack in the door. Nick stepping in between them.

  Nick squeezed his shoulder.

  “I feel guilty that you waited for me before you came down here,” Tom said. “That you’ve taken care of me, helped me get set up. Guilty that I don’t know how to help you.”

  “You can help me by following me to Bonita Springs. Giving me a ride back home. That’s it. You know, without the big tough-guy attitude.”

  Nick let go of Tom and jumped in the Escalade. He rolled down the tinted window. “And you didn’t stay in the closet, Tommy. You came out and tried to help me, to help Mom. That’s how you got that scar right there. That’s who you are.”

  Emotions still churning, Tom wandered back to the Jeep. He followed the Escalade out of the driveway in a daze.

  They made for the interstate, and were speeding north to Bonita Springs when the skies finally opened up, dumping buckets of rain.

  * * *

  As they approached The Bonita Springs Greyhound Track, Tom saw the second story, walled in glass, hanging over the concrete stands. The dirt race track was just out of sight.

  Tom followed the Escalade around to the side of the building where a sign declared “Clubhouse” and “Heroes Lounge.” Nick parked the Escalade off to the side, blocking access to a double set of dumpsters.

  Tom maneuvered into a nearby spot. The storm pummeled the Jeep, loud as a bucket of coins dropped from the sky. Nick came running over, holding an arm over his head. When he jumped in the Jeep he was soaked.

  He pointed at the lounge sign. “I’m going in there,” Nick said. “Shouldn’t take long.” There was a walkway in the shadows toward an unmarked door.