DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by T. J. Brearton

  “Whoa, whoa.” Mandi tutted. “Not everyone here has read the affidavit and Sergeant Coburn can’t divulge any more information or he’s in danger of jail himself! We’re talking about two very different cases here, and we need to keep them that way . . .”

  “How do you have the element of surprise after George Parsons?” Blythe said to Coburn, ignoring the prosecutor. “I mean, Bosco’s got to know that forty-six kilos of coke weren’t seized because Parsons had tinted windows . . .”

  “He didn’t have tinted windows,” Coburn said. “He had a gun rack that was obscuring his rear view.”

  Coburn said it straight-faced, but the vice narcotics officers grinned. Still, the tension of the room was still palpable.

  “Well, there we go,” Blythe said. “He’s no dummy. He’s ‘Wile E. Coyote,’ and he’s been doing this for years. He knows the heat is around the corner, Coby. He knows that’s why we’re here. And he probably even knows he’s protected, because you’re protected. He’s banking on it.”

  They all looked at Raymond Bosco again, fiddling with his empty coffee cup. He tipped it to his mouth to get the last few drops. Tom noticed a discoloration along Bosco’s hand, but it was hard to see it clearly on the monitor. Then Bosco turned and looked right at the camera. Like he was watching them.

  “See?” Blythe said. “He already knows. I bet he knows what you’re thinking, right now. That he’s going to slide right out of here because you don’t want to rock the boat. But the boat is already rocked. You need to let me keep him. And take him down.”

  Coburn stayed glued to the screen, sucking at something in his mouth, a hard candy. Tom heard it rattle around the big man’s teeth.

  “I’m telling you,” Coburn said at last, “the only reason you’re looking at him for Hobson’s murder is because of what we gave you. We’ve cooperated, we’ve shared what we could share, and that’s it. He has an alibi for the time of death from the wiretap and from his co-worker stripper there.”

  “Coburn is right,” Mandi chimed in. “Right now we’ve got nothing to prosecute. No murder weapon, no opportunity, no motive.”

  “Opportunity is he works with her at the same club!” Blythe was exasperated. “Motive is she screwed him somehow on a deal. Either she pocketed the money or something else happened. He could have passed the phone to anyone. Coby, you didn’t have eyes on him, right? No surveillance was close enough to actually see Bosco there at the club.”

  “True . . .” Coburn admitted.

  “We’re going to need to show where the money is,” Mandi said. “You’ve been to her apartment. No drugs, no money. If she’s a facilitator, where’s the evidence? You said she’s got a mother who maybe she was sending money to for medical bills?”

  “We’re working on the bank stuff. We’ll get Eileen Gallo’s bank statements, show the checks cashed.”

  “What about Carrie’s bank account? What’s in it?”

  Blythe gave Tom another quick look. “Not much. Two hundred and eighteen dollars.”

  Mandi shrugged. “I’m telling you, it’s a hard sell.”

  They fell silent again. Bosco was bouncing his knee now. He kept checking the clock on the wall. Sasha had barely moved.

  Tom drifted closer to the screens, really studying Bosco’s hand. He pointed at it, knowing he should probably keep quiet, but he couldn’t help himself. “What happened to his hand?”

  They all stared at Tom for a moment. Then Gomez answered. “He just had stitches out this morning.”

  “For what?”

  “Ah, he sliced it. Cutting limes or some shit. You know, slicing them up for the bartender, prepping for the night shift.”

  “How long do stitches stay in?”

  Gomez looked around at the others in the room, like Get a load of this guy. “I don’t know, Lange. A week? Two weeks? Should we factor that in?” It was sarcastic.

  “Coby, this is Agent Lange,” Blythe said, sounding displeased.

  Coburn turned to face Tom.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Tom asked.

  “Okay . . .”

  “Let me talk to Sasha. One-on-one. But not here . . . I’ll go to her. She works the other club tonight.”

  Coburn’s frown deepened. “What club? Caliente?”

  “Kronos.” Tom looked between Coburn and Blythe, feeling the room getting smaller. “Sasha went looking for Carrie. She was the one who checked NamUs. And I have a rapport with her. I’ll find out if she’s covering for Bosco. If she is, then we’ve got reasonable grounds to charge him, because he lied.”

  No one said anything. Coburn and Blythe traded long looks, then the lines on Coburn’s forehead cleared. “Sounds okay to me.”

  “Good idea,” said Mandi.

  Blythe was stone-faced a moment longer. Then she looked away, swallowing her pride. “Fine, alright.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Kronos was in the heart of the city, surrounded by dazzling skyscrapers and long bridges. Tom took the Dale Mabry Highway past the football stadium to the red-light district known for its strip clubs. He left the Jeep in a parking garage and walked the streets which teemed with people in skimpy clothes. Hush had been all male customers, but Kronos was more fashionable with as many women as men waiting to get in. He waited in line and paid a thirty-dollar cover charge to enter.

  Kronos had two floors and several private rooms. The lights were as bad as the music, neon glaring, a red wash over everything. Velvet chairs and leather booths. It was early, only ten o’clock, but the place was already half-filled. More customers streamed in through the doors.

  He found an empty table in the corner and sat down, his back to the wall, facing the door. A cocktail waitress sauntered over, dressed in a shimmering silver bikini and high heels. She looked like she’d stepped out of a modeling catalogue, her sinewy body perfectly plucked and tanned, hair long and lustrous. Probably a weave. He ordered a Heineken and watched for Sasha.

  As he waited, he imagined someone from Coburn’s vice narcotics team posing as a Hush customer in another part of the city. Coburn would be all over Hush. They had the line on Bosco and knew he was selling in the club. Tom bet Sasha would go down, too, when Coburn finally pounced. Tom was operating under strict guidelines not to reveal any of this.

  The DJ announced a new girl taking the main stage, which was twice the size of the one at Hush. The surrounding lights twisted into a new pattern, the musical number opened with a flourish of drums, and the dancer flung her hair back, kicked out her leg, and took the pole. She flipped herself inverted then slid down, landing on her shoulders. She arced backwards until her feet touched the stage, then spread her legs, flexible as a gymnast. The crowd whistled and cheered.

  The dancer got back to her feet and teased the crowd, unclasping her top with a deft move and holding the fabric against her breasts as she leaned toward a trio of men. She wagged her finger at them, taunting, and they howled and elbowed each other with delight.

  The cocktail waitress came back with Tom’s beer and he pulled out his wallet, dropping a couple of bills in her palm. He caught sight of another waitress holding a tray of drinks. Sasha. He slid out of the booth and headed over.

  As he crossed the room something soft hit him in the neck. The dancer onstage grinned and made a coy face, touching a finger to her lips. The customers cheered as Tom placed her top on the stage. Down on all fours, she picked it up with her teeth, her breasts dangling, and cocked her head. He dug out his wallet again, and, feeling clumsy, set a ten down in front of her.

  She rose to her knees and playfully shook her head, no. She pushed her hips toward him, slowly gyrating with the music. Tom glanced across the room and realized Sasha had seen him. She watched as Tom picked up the ten-dollar bill and put it in the stripper’s G-string.

  He caught up with Sasha at the crowded bar, where she was loading drinks onto a tray. She knew he was there, he was sure, but she avoided looking at him. He got in step with her as she walked away.
r />   “Hey, can we talk?”

  “I’m working.”

  He trailed her through the crowd. Once she’d delivered all the drinks, she turned to him. “You want a dance, or something?”

  “I just want to talk.”

  She wore glittering earrings, hair done up high like the others, eyelashes made thick. “I’m on shift. I can step off the floor if you want a private dance. Otherwise I’m done at three.”

  There was no way he was hanging out here for another four hours, so he leaned in, speaking close to her ear. “Alright.”

  She took his hand and led him away from the main room, stopping at a waitress station to drop off her tray. As she pulled him along, people clapped.

  Sasha took him down a hallway which fed several rooms. A huge man in a suit occupied a stool in the hallway and they stopped there. He was so big he looked like a circus bear on a beach ball. Beside him was a narrow desk with a laptop, six images split on the screen. He spoke to Sasha as he moved toward Tom. “How we doing tonight, honey?”

  “Good, Brett. This big stud here would like a one-on-one.”

  “Of course he would, look at you, you’re gorgeous.” Brett smiled at Sasha and she winked at him. Then Brett turned to Tom and the smile dropped. “Raise your arms.”

  Tom pushed aside his blazer, revealing the holstered weapon. “This is all you’re going to find. And it’s not coming off.”

  “No guns in the one-on-ones. I need it, or you’re not going in.”

  Tom pulled his badge. “It stays on.”

  Brett eyed the badge, licked his lips and looked at Sasha.

  Sasha shrugged. “It’s okay with me.”

  Another girl was leading a man into the private area. He was red-faced, wearing a starchy dress shirt and glasses, like an accountant. He looked embarrassed. They waited for entry and Brett glowered at Tom. “Okay. Whatever. Keep it. But I’m cutting you short. You two have got fifteen minutes. One simple rule: No touching. She can touch you, you can’t touch her. Got it?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Okay, you guys are right here. Room four.”

  The room was tight, walled in mirrors, a bench rail running along three walls. There were small drink tables and a riser in the center of the room. Sasha took his beer and set it aside. She touched his chest, lightly pushing. He followed her lead and moved back until his legs bumped against the bench and he sat down.

  The music started — low, deep beats. Sasha climbed onto the riser and moved slowly at first, undulating her body in sync with the music, dragging her fingers over her skin, up from her thighs, her buttocks, further along her rib cage, then grabbed the back of her head.

  “Sasha . . . You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Tom glanced at a camera mounted in the corner.

  “I don’t think you told me everything about Carrie.”

  She threshed her fingers in her hair and swayed back and forth. Then she stepped down off the platform and came closer.

  “I think she was involved in something . . .” Tom said.

  She touched his knees, moving in and out. Then she stood, removed her top and came back again, grabbing his legs, tossing her hair back. She climbed up and straddled him, her breasts inches from his face, his mouth.

  “You need to talk to me,” he said. “If you’re in trouble, I can help you.”

  Sasha curled into Tom as she continued to grind into his pelvis, and her lips grazed his ear. “You smell like him,” she whispered.

  “I smell like who?”

  She rocked against him, raked her fingers through his hair.

  “Tell me what you know!”

  She stopped. She stared into his eyes a moment, then pouted her lips. “Carrie’s a small town girl. Just like me. Small town girl with big dreams.”

  “Did Bosco do something to her? Did he hurt her? You don’t have to protect him.”

  She caressed the sides of his face. She brought her lips so close to his he could almost taste her.

  “Bosco is all bark and no bite.”

  She nipped his ear and resumed her gyrations. It was everything he could do to keep focused. Even though he was here for a reason, even though he’d been in a room this size with a dead woman for an entire day, his body was responding. He gripped the leather seat, trying to ignore the way her legs felt straddling him, the way she was undoing the buttons of his shirt.

  “If you know why Carrie was killed, please tell me.”

  A spark of defiance in her eyes. “This wouldn’t be because of that bust down in Naples, now, would it?”

  And there it was. Blythe was right — Bosco and Sasha and whoever else was involved in drug-dealing at Hush were no dummies. They knew the cops were closing in.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” he lied. “I want to find out who killed Carrie.”

  “Well. . .” She came closer again, pressing against his chest, legs squeezing his hips. “. . . Carrie had nothing to do with any of that.” Her breath was warm in his ear.

  He moaned involuntarily as she slid back and forth on his waist. Fine, he was going to let the cat out the bag. “No? She had nothing to do with it? She didn’t steal any money from him?”

  “No. She didn’t steal any money.”

  “And you would tell me if she did?”

  She nodded. He let go of the bench a moment and feathered his hands over her naked back, not touching, but wanting to. Wanting to grab her.

  He knew this was all a part of it. He’d only been to a strip club once as a civilian — Nick had brought him to a dive in Fort Myers for Tom’s thirtieth. It hadn’t really impressed him. Nick liked the clubs, but Tom knew what could happen at places like this, what went on in some of the VIP rooms. Coercion. Forced prostitution.

  Tom turned away from Sasha. He couldn’t touch her, couldn’t even push her off, unless he wanted Brett banging in the door and throwing him out on his ass.

  She relished his resistance and played into it. “Would I tell you if Carrie was involved in something? Yes . . . yes, I would. I like you.”

  She licked his lower lip, then kissed him.

  “Come to my house tonight. Come over after I’m done here.”

  The words suddenly excited him more than anything else. He knew he wanted it. But there couldn’t be a worse possible mistake. “I can’t.”

  “You can trust me. I cared about Carrie. I went looking for her, remember?”

  “I know you did.”

  “She was my friend.”

  She kissed him again, so quickly he didn’t have time to get out of the way. He kissed back, arcing his spine, close to wrapping his arms around her.

  The door opened. Brett stood there. “Alright lovers, time’s up.”

  Tom shared one more look with Sasha. Her emotions were masked, but he glimpsed what was genuine, hidden beneath her persona — a real person seeking a real connection. Then it was gone. She swung her leg and stood up, picked up her top from the floor and snapped it on, brushed the hair from her face. “Thanks for the dance.” And she sauntered out of the room.

  Brett remained, filling the doorway. Tom got off the bench, a little embarrassed about what might be showing.

  “That’s one hundred,” said Brett.

  Tom dug the money from his wallet. This case was going to clean him out. He only had a twenty and a couple of ones left after he paid Brett. He grabbed his beer from the table and Brett stepped aside, letting Tom through.

  Brett followed him into the hallway. “She’s something, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sasha’s my favorite.”

  Tom detested the look in the man’s eyes, like Brett thought they shared something now. Tom headed straight for the exit, but looked for Sasha as he made his way. He spied her back by the bar again, but she wasn’t watching.

  He drank the rest of the Heineken, taking the empty bottle with him as he left.

  The street was even busier, the line outside Krono
s longer. Tom headed toward the parking garage through the balmy air, his head ringing from the music, pulse still running high. He pulled a plastic baggie from his back pocket, dropped the Heineken bottle in the bag and sealed it up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  FRIDAY

  Tom awoke in the hotel room. He could still feel her hands on him from the club, her body heat lingering.

  He kept the water cool in the shower and let the powerful jets beat down. He shaved, dressed in the fresh shirt and slacks he’d had the intern drop off when they picked up the beer bottle. He set himself up in a corner of the room overlooking the Gulf.

  He had an email from the First Bank of Florida with data on Carrie’s deposits and withdrawals. He scanned through these and made a few notes. Then he called the ROC crime lab and asked for either of the IFS chemists. Veronica Morley came on the line. She sounded her usual grouchy shelf.

  “We received the bottle you sent down last night. We’ll lift the print and check it against the two distinct sets from the baseboard piece.”

  “Thanks. Listen, do me a favor . . . Have you searched the system yet for a match on the baseboard latents?”

  A pause. “What do you think we do here? Yes, a search is ongoing.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good times last night, Agent Lange? The intern said you were near the red-light district. Sounds like fun.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “Not really.” He wanted to hang up on her but thought better of it. “Hey, Veronica, I know we can’t rush the toxicology . . .”

  “It takes as long as it takes.”

  “I know. But I also know you’re a good chemist.”

  She hesitated, and he thought the hook was in. “Yeah . . .?”

  “You’ve got to have a feel for the results, something preliminary. I want your honest opinion. It’s not for the prosecutor, it’s nothing I’m going to act on directly, it just—”

  “Clean.” She cut him off. “At this point it looks to me like Carrie Hobson’s blood toxicology is going to come back clean. Just the minor traces of alcohol, no drugs. Not prescription, not illegal. Clean. Does that answer your question?”