The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  I inhaled a deep breath, taking in another dose of the wretched odor. I’d asked for a non-smoking room, but it seemed like I’d bathed in smoke all night.

  Rubbing my eyes for a brief second, I begged my brain to break through the haze. I hadn’t taken my first sniff of the hotel room smoke until I saw the sun peeking through the dusty curtains about three hours earlier.

  Using my toes and arms, I thrust my weight forward, sliding off the bed while picking up the phone on my way down.

  “Yes, yes, what is it?”

  I heard three quick knocks on my door before the person on the other end of the line responded.

  “Alex. Need to wake up, darling. It’s your best pal, Archie.”

  I scowled at the door. “Hold on!” I yelled.

  “Alex, it’s Nick.”

  “You too. Hold on, Nick. I gotta put some clothes on.”

  Tossing the phone on the bed, I found my khakis and FBI-issued T-shirt, slipped them on, and then picked up the phone while I walked to the door.

  “What?” I said as I simultaneously opened the door and spoke into the receiver.

  Archie just stood there with that stupid grin and his arms splayed as I pointed to the phone.

  Nick started first. “Alex, just got word that there’s been another—”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Archie interrupted.

  With my jaw hanging open and my mind now craving caffeine, I found myself in this odd state of inaction.

  “Don’t you need to do something to your hair, put your face on or whatever chicks do?” Archie said, glancing around the room as if he might lay claim to it.

  I’d just found the ignite button for my brain. “You can go straight to hell,” I said while jabbing my finger at Archie’s face.

  “Damn, Alex, sorry if you woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Did you not get enough sleep?” Nick asked with an apologetic tone.

  I clutched the phone with both hands, taking my scowl off Archie and turning away.

  “No, no, Nick. Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you. Archie knocked on my door at the same time you called. Confusing as hell, I know.” I rubbed my face. “And by the way, I might have closed my eyes, but I’m not sure I truly fell asleep. What is it, ten, ten thirty?”

  I heard a fingernail-tapping sound behind me, and I turned to see Archie holding up his fancy watch, a face as large as a sundial. I made sure he could see me roll my eyes, and I rotated back to facing the curtains.

  “Nick, I didn’t get in the room until seven. I let Carella get some sleep while I oversaw the crime scene.”

  “Alex? Hey, I’m on the line.”

  “Carella?”

  “Nick conferenced me in just before calling you. Thanks for covering for me last night. Sorry if it sent you over the top.”

  “No worries. I’m good.” I glanced at Archie over my shoulder. He had both hands at his waist, his face etched with deep lines that told me he was irritated. I’d been there tenfold in the last twenty-four hours, and mostly because of him. Well, that and some psychotic murderer who’d decided to include me in her fun and games.

  I blew out a breath, then stepped over to Archie, realizing the last thing I could deal with was him nagging at me for the next ten hours about what I’d learned on this call.

  “Guys, I’m going to put you on speakerphone so Archie can listen in.”

  Archie gave me a single nod and reset his stance, as if I’d followed orders like a good girl. I bit into the side of my cheek as I tapped the icon on my phone. Over the speaker, I heard someone in midsentence say, “...with the CIA, remember?”

  “Okay, real quickly, who is on the call besides Nick and Carella?” I asked.

  “Brad here.”

  A throat cleared and a high-octave voice said, “Sorry. Gretchen here. I have a bit of a cold, or allergies, or something.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Gretchen. Nick, you were saying earlier?”

  Archie butted in. “There’s been another murder, Alex. I tried telling you that when I walked in here. Damn, woman.”

  I looked at him, my nostrils flaring. “Is your name Nick?”

  “But—”

  “Never mind. I’m just looking for a single person to speak without being interrupted.”

  Archie crossed his arms and stuck out his bottom lip. Oh brother, now the CIA tool is upset we didn’t anoint him Dictator in Charge.

  “Another murder,” I said. “Nick, got details?”

  “Jerry called me thirty minutes ago. He’d been contacted by the chief of police in Hershey. Even though we have alerts out to all law enforcement agencies, the chief apparently had seen so much on the news he didn’t even need the alerts to let him know that the man they found was killed by our perp.”

  My gut flipped inside out, knowing we’d let another slip by us.

  “Crap!” I padded away from Archie.

  “Where you going?”

  “Pacing. Helps me think.”

  “By the way, I basically had the same info,” Archie said.

  Shaking my head, I tried to ignore his attempt to build himself up. I asked, “Nick, do you know how long it takes to get to Hershey from here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two, three hours.”

  “We’re going straight there,” I announced as I searched for my purse. “Go pack if you need to,” I told Archie.

  “I’m a guy. What would I have to...? Hold on. I do need to go back to my room for something.”

  “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes.”

  He turned for the door as Nick chimed in with, “These murder scenes keep getting crazier. This poor sap was spotted at the top of a roller coaster.”

  “What?” Archie said, the door already open.

  “Roller coaster. Need me to spell it?” Nick sounded annoyed at Archie. Bravo for him.

  “I hadn’t heard that part,” Archie said, striding back to me and the phone. “We were still waiting on detailed information when I came down here to Alex’s room. Nick, tell them to not attempt to bring him down. No one gets on the roller coaster until they have a bomb squad give the okay.”

  Archie looked at me as he said this, and slowly my brain began to think like him.

  “You and your CIA pals are thinking that Turov is some type of Russian terrorist and that she’s waiting until first responders or investigators get on that roller coaster, and then she’ll blow it up. Is that how you’re thinking?”

  “Alex, you know I can’t get into that. It’s classified...and above your pay grade, frankly.”

  Flexing my jaw, I fought back the urge to delve into a mindless argument with a mindless nitwit.

  “Nick, can you—”

  “I’ve got the number right here,” Brad said. “Let me step away and call the Hershey police. Alex, I’ll tell them you and Archie are on the way.”

  “Cool.” I let the timeline sink in a bit. “This Turov person is on a roll like we’ve never experienced. Just looking at the sheer speed she’s moving and killing, I’d actually lean toward Archie’s thoughts that it could be tied to some predefined hit list that someone put together as an act of ongoing terror. But every person so far has been connected to Turov personally.”

  “Except for Monty at the bar,” Gretchen added.

  “Well, on that one, we made the assumption she knew of him most likely since her residence is next door.”

  “If you ask me, it’s a personal vendetta,” Nick said. “I just can’t get myself to jump from a single tattoo all the way to a terrorist act. What’s next—we learn that this entire sinister plan was developed by a high-ranking official in the Kremlin?”

  I arched an eyebrow toward Archie, who curled his lips inward as if they’d been stapled shut. If only I could be so lucky.

  “I’m mostly with you, Nick.”

  “Uh, thanks. Wait. You said mostly?”

  “Turov essentially recruited then brainwashed Cobb to help her carry out the ring homicides.”

  “It’s alm
ost as if she was outsourcing the work she couldn’t do,” Nick said.

  “That’s an interesting term, but it might match her intentions. She finds someone to do the tasks she can’t do, for whatever reason.”

  The words lingered in my mind for a couple of beats.

  “Alex, Brad here. Just got off the phone with the Hershey PD.”

  “Oh, did you ask that—”

  “Yes. I told them you guys were on your way and to keep the crime scene intact until you got there.”

  “Okay. Thanks. By the way, how did they find this guy on top of the roller coaster?”

  Nick jumped in. “When the chief and I spoke earlier, he said a medevac copter was flying back from a car crash, and they spotted the body.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  “It gets better, or worse, actually. The pilot moved in closer, pulled out a pair of binoculars, and realized he knew the guy. Apparently, they both belonged to the same gun club.”

  “I wonder if the vic was in the military?”

  “He was. A former Marine, actually.”

  “Turov was a Marine, in a support role, of course.” I gazed at Archie, who pretended to turn a key into a lock on his mouth. I almost chuckled out loud.

  “Not sure of his exact unit, but his name was Sam Beck,” Nick added.

  “Let me run with that,” Brad said. “The Pentagon isn’t sharing much, but I’m certain we can get the basic info, even if we have to lie and tell them we’re with the press.”

  Archie guffawed.

  “What?” Brad said. “It’s strange, but sometimes certain government agencies only jump when their practices are about to be exposed.”

  “Good, Brad. Let us know. Carella, you still there?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a muffled voice. The sound of running water could be heard in the background.

  “Are you being waterboarded?”

  “Brushing teef.” Next was a quick gargle and a spitting sound, then the water was turned off. “Okay. Sorry. I’m here.”

  “Now that you have minty-fresh breath, I need you to interview Bruno Chappaletti one more time,” I said.

  “Can’t Munson do it?”

  “He can, but you’re in the middle of all this. So, whether you fly, hitchhike or drive yourself, I need you to talk to him one more time today. Before we get to Hershey, if possible.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Try.”

  “What else am I going to ask him?”

  “We think he’s been in contact with Turov. We think she might have hired him to kill me, or to injure me. I’m not sure which.”

  “He’s just going to keep reciting the same Semper Fi bullshit.”

  “He could. Brad, we need the info on Beck’s Marine background. I’m wondering if he and Bruno are from the same unit. Get that to all of us on this call in the next two hours, please sir.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Carella, if Brad verifies what I’m guessing, then you can share that with Bruno. I want to know what his reaction is.”

  “Yeah, okay. Makes sense. It’s just crazy how many murders and crime scenes we’re working.”

  “Yeah. I bet she’s enjoying every minute of watching us run around like a herd of cats.”

  We ended the call, and Archie went to grab something from his room. The cat comment brought to mind how much I missed being in our home, Pumpkin included. Usually on Saturdays, we’d eat a lazy breakfast, courtesy of Ezzy’s homemade cooking. Then, if we didn’t have to run around to games or practices, we’d try to accomplish two goals for the day: learn something new and do something active.

  While we were stuck with Boston’s harsh winters, we were fortunate to have at our disposal a long list of museums and historical places in which to learn something new. The “do something active” goal was actually more of a hassle in the last couple of months, once again due to the ridiculously cold and snowy conditions. Twice we resorted to jogging around the house. Ezzy had even joined us, although she opted out of the stair-running portion. The funniest moment came when Luke dangled a piece of tuna off a string in front of Pumpkin, who led our procession for a good thirty seconds before he finally lunged with his rolls of fat and snagged the fish with both paws like he was a center fielder with the Red Sox.

  I texted Archie and told him to bring the car around front while I called the kids. I had quick conversations with both of them—it was their decision to make it quick, not mine—but it was still worth it when I heard each of them say “Love you, Mom” at the end.

  Making my way downstairs, I picked up the familiar casino waft of smoke mixed with cheap colognes and perfumes. I’d seen just about everything in this job, and I was physically beat. I knew another assessment of my life was needed. But not until the killing had stopped and Margaret Turov had been caught. It was unfinished business until that happened.

  I pushed through the swivel doors and was met with a stiff breeze and lots of yellow.

  “What the hell is this?” I asked Archie as he rested a wrist over the steering wheel of a sports car that looked more like a bumblebee with its black racing stripes.

  “The casino had a car rental place, so I traded in our vanilla car for this puppy.” He grinned like a five-year-old on Christmas morning.

  Sleazy Archie would be my companion for the next three hours. And I was so thrilled.

  ***

  The pulsating engine grumbled as we coasted into the back parking lot at the amusement park. Heads turned and eyes rolled—the locals apparently a bit turned off by the yellow sports car. I was right there with them. My vision had already spotted the top of the roller coaster in the distance above the tree line.

  “Come on,” I said while stretching into the backseat to grab my FBI jacket. I leaned just the wrong way and brushed my still-bandaged arm off a metal seatbelt restraint while my ribcage endured a stabbing pain that I felt all the way through my gut. A not-so-gentle reminder of my fight with Bruno Chappaletti.

  “Now you want me to tag along with you. We’re making progress,” Archie said.

  “Actually, if they need someone to volunteer to disarm a bomb, that’s what you’re for.” I shoved the heavy door shut and began walking.

  “What are you talking about? I thought we just broke the ice on our relationship?”

  I stopped in my tracks, ignoring for a second the approaching blue uniform heading our way. “What you call breaking the ice, I call survival. I just spent three hours in the car with you. I think I deserve the Medal of Honor.”

  “Hey, that hits me right here.” He thumped his chest, then held his arms open wide. A gust of wind actually shifted one of the tight curls on his head, and I had to hold back a quick chuckle.

  The CIA agent whom I knew I couldn’t trust and couldn’t stand being around had surprised me on the trek across Pennsylvania. He’d opened up about his family life, or lack thereof, given his propensity to leave a trail of heartbroken women—so he said. Shockingly, after our brief discussion, he mostly shut his trap. Given his empty gaze across the roadway, I suspected he’d been doing some soul-searching about his life and where he’d taken it. I wondered if that included an assessment of his habitual behavior of lying.

  “Are you guys with the joint task force?” Thankful for the interruption, I turned and saw the extended hand of a young uniformed officer with perfectly round eyes.

  I pulled out my badge and shook his hand, then introduced my CIA counterpart with as much enthusiasm as I felt—very little.

  “I’m here to make sure you find the crime scene command center.” He turned and headed toward the gate. “Can I get you a soft drink or bottled water?”

  While it was obvious where the officer fell on the Hershey PD organizational chart, I appreciated the courtesy of the chief and the officer’s politeness. Glancing at Archie, I knew those were two words I could never use to describe him.

  As we wound through the amusement park grounds, I pulled out my phone.

&
nbsp; “Anything from Carella yet?”

  Archie had snuck up to look around my shoulder.

  “No, Mr. Nosy.”

  “Hey, I want to catch this crazy bitch too.”

  “I would have thought the CIA would have beaten Carella to the punch.”

  He scratched his chin and looked away. “Between you and me, I called it in, and I think the CIA brass tried. But it was going to require having to share some classified information, and I’m betting that didn’t happen.”

  I held my gaze for an extra second, astounded he’d shared the CIA’s intent—if it wasn’t anything more than a ruse. What would his sudden, albeit brief bit of transparency get Archie and the CIA?

  “I’m wondering if Carella got held up somewhere,” I said as I pocketed my phone.

  “Or Chappaletti could have lawyered up, and they told him to keep his mouth shut.”

  I nodded, knowing Archie’s suggestion was a distinct possibility. On top of sleep deprivation, I could feel an intense pressure building at my frontal lobe, and I knew why. Stopping a lunatic killer took a break, usually an individual with ties to that person coming forward and sharing key information. Bruno was a special case, though, since he had a military background and very possibly had taken orders directly from Turov to assault me.

  “Just up here.” The officer led the way to a temporary open-air tent.

  As I rounded the corner to the tent, I saw an enormous red and white fire truck hulking in the shadows of the roller coaster. The fire truck’s engine rumbled, muting most of the conversation in the tent.

  We soon learned that two rescue firefighters had climbed up the telescopic ladder to inspect the body. It was obvious he’d been dead for a few hours, but they did not touch the body in any way.

  One of the firefighters, a guy named Ralph, who must have stood a foot taller than my five-six frame, handed helmets to both of us. “I know you have those fancy badges that can get you into any building or home in America and a few outside of our great country, but if you intend to go up that ladder, you have to wear these.”

  While I couldn’t see how a helmet would do me much good if I plunged one hundred feet to the ground, I didn’t care much about my appearance. Earlier at the hotel, I’d substituted a shower with a brief face wash and two quick wet hands through my locks. Makeup was hardly noticeable. I was mostly concerned that I’d brought a locker-room odor with me. Thankfully, the command post was outside with a generous wind out of the west.