DEAD GONE a gripping crime thriller full of twists Read online

  DEAD GONE

  A gripping crime thriller full of twists

  T.J. BREARTON

  First published 2016

  Joffe Books, London

  www.joffebooks.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this.

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  ©T. J. Brearton

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/DARK-WEB-gripping-mystery-thriller-ebook/dp/B00UAVKQZI/r

  http://www.amazon.com/DARK-WEB-gripping-mystery-thriller-ebook/dp/B00UAVKQZI/r

  A compelling murder mystery which you won’t be able to put down

  On a freezing winter night, the body of a teenager is found in the snow.

  Mike and Callie Simpkins moved north to restart their lives and get their finances back on track. Their son Braxton immerses himself in an online game-world of crime and gangs. When he decides to meet some of the players in the real world, tragedy strikes.

  Detective John Swift must untangle a web of virtual and real crimes in order to solve this complex mystery. And as the family copes with unimaginable grief, even Braxton’s stepfather Mike comes under suspicion.

  http://www.amazon.co.uk/FARMHOUSE-gripping-fast-paced-detective-thrillers-ebook/dp/B015JNEG6Q

  http://www.amazon.com/FARMHOUSE-gripping-fast-paced-detective-thrillers-ebook/dp/B015JNEG6Q

  A woman found dead in a remote farmhouse begins a gripping series of fast-paced detective thrillers unravelling a dark conspiracy

  For the first time ever, the three best-selling books forming The Titan Trilogy are available in one edition.

  Follow Detective Brendan Healy’s heart-stopping journey to uncover the truth. It all starts when he’s called in to investigate why a young woman called Rebecca Heilshorn was stabbed to death in her own home. All hell breaks loose when her brother bursts onto the crime scene. Rebecca turns out to have many secrets, and connections to a sordid network mixing politicians, wealth, and sex. Can Brendan solve the murder and how does it relate to his own tragic past?

  CONTENTS

  Acronyms used in the book

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Acknowledgments

  Other books by T.J. Brearton:

  Acronyms used in the book

  Florida

  FDLE – Florida Department of Law Enforcement aka the “State Bureau”

  IFS – Investigations and Forensic Science (part of FDLE)

  Everglades County

  CID – Criminal Investigations Division

  CSB – Crime Scene Bureau (part of CID)

  VNB – Vice Narcotics Bureau (part of OCD – Organized Crime Division)

  General

  SOCE – State Officer Certification Exam

  ADA – Assistant District Attorney

  NamUs – National Missing and Unidentified Persons System

  Medical / Forensic

  LCN – Low Copy Number (type of DNA profiling)

  STR – Short Tandem Repeats (method for matching DNA samples)

  ABO – Blood-type groups

  CODIS – Combined DNA Index System

  TOD – Time of Death

  SAFE – Sexual Assault Forensic Evidence

  Also known as: SAEC – Sexual Assault Evidence Collection

  For Joy.

  CHAPTER ONE

  MONDAY

  Tom was awake when the alarm clock buzzed. He switched it off, stared up at the twirling ceiling fan a moment and then went downstairs.

  The sign hanging on the living room wall read: Congratulations, Tom!

  He collected a couple of empty beer bottles and stuck them in the recycling bin. The coffee was already brewing, the timer set for six.

  He stood in his sweatpants, watching the coffee drip into the pot, considering a half-remembered dream.

  Tommy . . . Tommy help me.

  His cell phone rang in the bedroom, snapping him out of it. He bounded back up the stairs and grabbed the phone.

  “Lange,” he answered.

  “Special Agent Lange. Good morning.” It was Director Turnbull.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Well, Lange, looks like day one for you is going to be a big one.”

  “Okay, sir. I’m ready.”

  “Are you familiar with Paddle Creek Tours?”

  “No . . .” Tom found his notebook next to his badge on the dresser and plucked a pen from the coin dish. He scribbled down Paddle Creek.

  “They do kayaking. Like canoeing, but one person per boat. You know where Rookery Bay is?”

  “Yes, sir.” Rookery Bay was a nature preserve, a large mangrove estuary fed by the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Okay, good,” Turnbull said. “Shell Island Road. You drive past the Research Reserve headquarters. Down a half mile on the right is where you want to be. Special Agent Blythe will meet you there.”

  “Blythe, sir?” He wrote that name down, too.

  “Yes. She’s who you’re sharing the field office with, you’ll be taking your cues from her.” Turnbull paused. Tom heard police radio chatter in the background. Whatever was going on, it sounded big. “A body was found in the bay. Everglades County Sheriff’s Office is already there. Check in with Blythe, I’ll speak to you later. Good luck.”

  Turnbull hung up before Tom could ask any more questions. A body in the bay. He shed his sweatpants and took a fast shower. He dressed in a gray suit, stood at the dresser and clipped his badge to his belt. He looked at the framed photograph while he straightened his collar. Him and Nick in the picture, just kids, many years before.

  Tom went to his nightstand and took out his service weapon, a Glock 37 Gen4. He ran through the safety procedure, then loaded a fresh mag and closed the action. He put on the belt holster, slipped the gun in and made sure the retention kept it in place.

  The condo was already getting warm as the Florida sun rose outside. He grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter and went into the adjoining garage where the old white Jeep Cherokee was sitting in the gloom. It would be his ride until he was issued a ve
hicle by the department.

  He jumped in and fired up the engine. When he hit the button clipped to his visor the garage door rolled open.

  He realized his hands were shaking as he gripped the steering wheel.

  Tom sat for a moment, eyes closed. He took a few deep breaths, inhaling through his nose, clearing his thoughts. Once he felt more settled and in control, he drove out into the sun-drenched morning.

  * * *

  The dirt road bisected tangles of brittle underbrush. The Jeep axles squealed and the frame rattled as Tom jounced over the potholes. He passed a speed limit sign — 10 mph — and realized he was going way too fast. He slowed, leaning over the steering wheel, peering out. The next sign was for the Rookery Bay National Estuarine Research Reserve and there was a small building tucked into the vegetation. The last sign along the road read Paddle Creek Tours. Tom could already see the flashing lights before he turned into the dirt parking area.

  Law enforcement was everywhere. Three Everglades County cruisers, several unmarked vehicles, and a truck embossed with the Reserve logo — a wading bird on stick legs. Tom found a place to park.

  As soon as his feet hit the mushy ground he realized he’d worn the wrong footwear. Dress shoes had no business in this place. The mosquitos whined past as he walked over to a tall, slender woman in her early fifties, with grayish blonde hair and angular cheekbones. At least she was wearing a suit, too. There was a badge clipped to her belt. Tom thought this must be Blythe.

  She turned to face him, holding a phone to her ear. He waited, noticing a uniformed deputy talking with a woman dressed in cargo shorts, an athletic top and wide sunhat. Tom bet the woman was a guide for Paddle Creek Tours. Beyond her, a middle-aged couple sat on a log beside the underbrush. They were wrapped in silvery emergency blankets and wore blank, shocked expressions.

  Blythe put away her phone. They stood facing the shallow water surrounded by twisty mangrove. Three kayaks were on the shore, the vessels brightly colored, top of the line. And there was a boat in the water, a flat-bottomed skiff with a small trolling motor on the back. People waded in, loading supplies in the boat. Getting ready to head out.

  “So you’re Lange.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Turnbull says you got a perfect score on your SOCE.”

  Tom blushed. He didn’t like anyone talking about his certification test or his training. Turnbull also liked to call him a Boy Scout. You’re a real Boy Scout, huh, Lange? They all seemed eager to impart to Tom that the world out there was a lot different than it was in training. A lot darker. But Tom just kept silent, didn’t tell them he already knew that.

  “Nice to meet you, Special Agent Blythe.”

  She glanced down at his hand for a moment before she took it. Her grip was cool and dry, strong. She let go and pointed to another woman, short and stocky, dark hair pulled back. “That’s Detective Machado with County CID.” Machado was standing by the kayaks with a man in frumpy shorts and a dress shirt. He held a large duffel bag. “And that’s Dr. Ward, with the Medical Examiner’s Office.”

  Blythe pointed to the woman in the wide-brimmed hat. “That’s Susan Libby. She owns Paddle Creek Tours. She was taking those two . . .” And now Blythe nodded to the man and the woman seated on the log. “. . . out for a sunrise paddle. They’re the VanCotts. Libby only does the sunrise tour twice a week, Monday and Tuesday, they book well in advance.”

  “So what’s Florida Department of Law Enforcement doing here?”

  Blythe gave him a look, raising her thin eyebrows.

  He went on, “This is County jurisdiction, right? Their CID is here, they’ve got the manpower. How come we’re getting involved?”

  “Well, it’s within County boundaries, but Rookery Bay is a state-run preserve. Technically that water is state water, this reserve is partly state-funded.” She was matter-of-fact, her tone flat. “The Sheriff is working it all out with Turnbull. For now, we’re here and we’re observing.”

  Tom pulled his pad and pen from his suit coat and jotted some notes.

  Blythe said, “So, Susan Libby and the VanCotts are out for their morning paddle. There’s an osprey nest, you know, possibility of dolphin sightings. They stick pretty close to the mangrove most of the time, they go down this series of creeks . . . you’ll see.”

  The last words struck him. He’d see? Blythe was expecting him to go out with the body recovery team.

  Another vehicle pulled in, a County crime scene van, and the door slid open. Three people piled out, already dressed in wetsuits. They hauled the dive tanks and breathing regulators down to the small beach where they met with Ward and Machado. Tom watched as they spoke with one another and put on their gear.

  “Libby and the couple found the body about a quarter mile from here,” Blythe said. “They found it floating, sort of tangled up in the mangrove a bit. So we’re going to want to get it out of there, keep it as intact as possible.”

  “Man or woman?”

  Blythe looked at him directly for the first time. “Libby said there was a lot of hair floating. But we don’t know for sure yet if it’s a woman.” She turned away from him.

  “So they came back to shore and made the call?”

  “Susan Libby has a cell phone she keeps in a plastic baggie with her. Once she discovered the floater she dialed 911, who connected her with the Sheriff’s Office. That reminds me — whatever you take with you, bag it up.”

  “There’s cell coverage out here, wow.” He looked at the sky, pale blue in the morning light, a slight haze burning off. Another mosquito whined against his ear and he swatted at it. He was already feeling hot and wished he’d dressed differently.

  “There’s some coverage, yes. It’s spotty, but phones can work.” Blythe folded her arms, finished with the nickel tour and nodded to indicate Machado again.

  “Everglades County is covering the statements, including the two people over there. Getting their background, et cetera.”

  Tom gave the VanCotts one more glance. There was a hollow look in the man’s eyes. “And you want me to go out with the divers. And the medical examiner.”

  “Yes. You’re going out.” She stepped away and gave him a look up and down. “Not exactly the most appropriate outfit.”

  * * *

  Tom left his shoes and suit jacket in the Jeep and rolled his pants up around his ankles. His toes squished in the muck as he made his way down to the beach. Bottleflies skittered about in the wet, grainy sand, and he caught a fishy smell. Then he was in the water, which wasn’t much cooler than the air, like standing in warm milk.

  The divers were further out. One of them submerged, leaving a froth of bubbles, then resurfaced and gave a thumbs-up to another diver floating nearby. They both started toward the open water at the mouth of the bay.

  A conservation officer in a khaki uniform held out his hand and Tom grabbed it, then stepped aboard. The small boat was wobbly in the water and Tom quickly sat down on one of the benches. He gave the man a nod of thanks. “I’m Special Agent Lange, IFS.”

  “Randy Ramirez. Estuarine Reserve Officer. IFS . . . that’s part of the state bureau?”

  “That’s right. We handle violent crimes, among other things.” They shook hands and Tom twisted around to the other man seated near the front. “Dr. Ward? Nice to meet you.”

  Ward was lithe, somewhat effeminate, his handshake quick and light. His eyeglasses flashed in the sun as he placed a hat on his balding head. The large duffel bag was now at his feet. Beside him, a woman in an Everglades County crime lab T-shirt with a camera in her lap introduced herself as Katie Mills from the Everglades County crime scene bureau. The last person Tom met was Susan Libby, seated in the center of the boat, looking wary. Libby gave him a warm smile though, the same she probably offered her kayaking guests. Then she looked past Tom at the shore.

  Tom glanced at Blythe, standing amid the vehicles and the twirling lights of the County cruisers. Th
ere was something powerful in her posture.

  Ramirez gave the boat a shove to get it going then hopped in while Tom held on to keep his balance. He wasn’t used to boats. He didn’t grow up in Florida, on the water, or anything like this place.

  Ramirez started the small motor with the push of a button and the root-like tangles of mangrove began to slide past. Tom risked a look over the edge and saw the water rippling away from the aluminum boat.

  Blythe receded into the distance as they started on their way.

  His first day, his first case, and he got a dead body.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The sun beat down. Not quite eight o’clock in the morning and Tom could already feel its power, burning against his skin. He thought of all the crime scene workers who would be working the area for hours, examining ingresses and egresses, looking for any signs of passing, trace evidence. It would take days to cover the wetland area, and they could never really scour every inch of it. Hopefully they wouldn’t have to try, and the medical examiner would be able to ID the body.

  One of the first things Tom wondered was if the person in the bay had suffered a boating accident. A party yacht, maybe, and someone went overboard. Accidentally or on purpose.

  “Can’t use big boats out here,” Ramirez said. He piloted the boat across open water toward a mangrove canal. “Too shallow, for one thing. For another, it’s a preserve. Big engines, gas engines — too pollutive, too invasive.”

  Ahead of the boat, the divers led the way, leaving trails of air bubbles.

  “What about in the channel?” Tom could see a couple of buoys beyond a swath of seagrass. One red, one green. There was a large wooden sign in the water that read SLOW: MANATEE ZONE. A bird’s nest perched atop the sign.

  “No. Small motors only.”

  Susan Libby moved closer to Tom, rocking the boat some more. Tom’s stomach felt like putty. “The Florida EPA is partnering with the Reisen Group to help restore two hundred twenty-five acres of mangrove to Everglades County.”