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

by John W. Mefford

  “Okay, shoot.”

  I held up my hand and tapped one finger at a time. “First, and most obvious, you said he’s got major social anxiety. In prison, his new colleagues are giving him hell for being different. His odd behavior could be connected to the stress and trauma. Very possible.”

  “Possible, yes.”

  “Second, it was all staged, just to throw us in a different direction.”

  Nick’s face suddenly seemed intrigued.

  “Cobb’s a smart son of a bitch. Brilliant, right? He even bragged as much by breaking into the motel reservation system. But he could have been teasing us with this idea that he was working with another person.”

  “A woman at that.”

  “A woman. He knows his trial is coming up. His defense attorney could be telling him to act crazy. That would lead to a guilt-by-insanity defense. Or the attorney could have told him to use every opportunity to throw other theories out there.”

  I looked squarely at Brad. “Have you had time to go through the transcripts of his previous interviews with the assistant US Attorney assigned to his case?”

  “I just started and—”

  Gretchen’s miniature hand touched Brad’s arm. “And I finished it. No mention of any accomplice, any help at all. When they asked him prying questions about how he got the names of his potential victims, he brushed if off. Same response on your wrecks. He didn’t jump up and say he made you crash—”

  “Twice.” I punched out two fingers.

  “Twice, right. He couldn’t provide a plausible reason how that happened. I’m sure the defense will use that to question whether the evidence shows that he murdered those men beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  An air of silence fell over our space, none of us sure what to say.

  It was my awkward moment, so I spoke up first. “Thanks for doing the leg work, Gretchen.”

  Nick began to wag a finger in my direction. “If memory serves me correctly, didn’t you once hypothesize that the ring killer might have had a female pulling his strings? Especially when we thought one of the scorned wives might be leading the vigilante mission?”

  “Yep, I did. And if Cobb’s mumblings are correct, then that theory just might be correct.”

  “Ah shit, Alex. You just want your damn theory to be right.”

  Without looking their way, I could sense Brad and Gretchen tense up. “Maybe. But I only want to be right if it is right,” I said with a little too much ferocity.

  I could feel my heart racing. The thought of being in the room with my husband’s killer was getting to me again. Was I pissed at myself that I didn’t nail him to the wall? Dissecting my own thoughts had started to add to my frustration.

  “Sorry, Nick. Didn’t mean to take it too far.”

  He came up and put his arm around my shoulder. “We’re like brother and sister.” He held up a closed hand. “Don’t leave me hanging, Alex.” We gave each other a fist bump.

  Running my fingers through my hair, I glanced at the paper that showed the COD for Ben Murphy.

  “Did the Lowell PD ever find and question the vic’s wife?”

  “Nancy,” Brad said. “Yes, they did. I got a call from Detective Charlie Tan this morning. He’d just finished questioning her. She’d been at his sister’s house in Gloucester. She was devastated, he said. She personally had an alibi during the window Ben could have been killed.”

  “Murder for hire?”

  “I asked him that.” Brad scratched his face, which had as much growth as a two-day beard. “Said they still need to dig into her personal life more, but he’d be shocked if anything turned up. She was, what did he say, a basket case.”

  “What about the bomb they found in the sewing case?”

  “Turns out the daughter was taking some type of advance pyrotechnics class at the community college, and that was one of her projects.”

  “And our good buddy at the ATF couldn’t figure that out? Sheesh.”

  The table rocked a bit, and I looked over at Gretchen, who’d put all of her weight on it, which wasn’t much. “So where does that leave us?” she asked.

  Biting my bottom lip, I meandered over to the big screen and got a close-up of the murder weapon.

  “The person who killed Ben Murphy must have killed before, Navy SEAL or not,” I said with my back to the group. “Lots of questions to answer.”

  “Starting with, is this perp connected to Cobb or not?” Nick said, walking my way.

  I nodded. “The two vics were killed in a far different manner than Cobb carried out his work. No water, no grandiose vignette with rings and cinderblocks.” I could feel my lungs suddenly beg for more air, perhaps my subconscious trading places with Mark moments before the tide took him under for the last time.

  Nick nudged my shoulder. “You with us?”

  “Uh, yeah.” I flipped around to face Brad and Gretchen. “I know evidence has shown the same weapon was used on Monty and Ben Murphy, but can we be certain it was the exact same weapon? I’m sure the SOG company has made more than one knife.”

  Nick reached for my arm. “Alex, you can’t be suggesting that two different people killed Monty and Ben Murphy?”

  I reached a chair, anchoring my arms on the back. “We need to see if there is any way their lives overlapped. When it first happened, I couldn’t imagine it. Still can’t. But that doesn’t mean something isn’t there.”

  “At a high level, though, I know Ben Murphy fit the formula of the cheating husband. Monty wasn’t married or even dating, according to the Boston PD.”

  I huffed out a breath. “I know, I know. That’s what makes no sense. None. We need to do the legwork and hope that something comes up.”

  Gretchen raised a hand. “I’m on it, Alex.”

  “So, we’re hoping that we have another serial killer on the loose?” Brad asked.

  “Just looking for a pattern right now, Brad. Something to point us in a direction. Which brings us back to the original debate. Do we believe J. L. Cobb or not? Could there be some woman out there taking over from where he left off?”

  “It’s just impossible for me to think that Cobb was able to maintain any type of relationship with a woman. It’s preposterous,” Nick said.

  I paced the length of the room and walked back to the group.

  “What time is the assistant US Attorney showing up for us to debrief her on our interview with Cobb?”

  Nick looked at his watch while fighting back a yawn. “Thirty minutes, I think.”

  I gave him a quick eye nod. “We could be looking at three different investigations here. One with Cobb and his story—fiction or not—Monty’s murder, and then Ben’s death.”

  The group started to break up, but I couldn’t shake my interaction with Cobb. “One more thing. Brad, Gretchen, I need for you to look into Cobb one more time.”

  “I thought that was the responsibility of the assistant US Attorney?” Gretchen asked.

  “It is. She’s going to be focused on getting a conviction. More power to her. But we need to figure out what the hell Cobb is really up to. Is he playing us, in particular, me? We need to check the background on anyone he’s come in contact with. Maybe a chance encounter turned out to be much more than that.”

  Nick started whistling the same tune we’d heard back at the prison.

  “While you’re at it, break down the lyrics of Maggie May,” I said.

  Brad’s youthful forehead creased a bit. “Maggie May?”

  Gretchen touched his shoulder. “Rod Stewart, the British rocker-turned-crooner. Maybe there are a couple of things I can teach you.”

  As they turned to walk away, Gretchen smiled at me as she curled a lock of hair around her ear. I could see she was enjoying her work, or whom she was working with.

  I snapped my fingers. “She added streaks of red to her hair. That’s the difference.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t want to know. Let’s go meet with the US Attorney and get out
of here.” Nick started walking out of the war room, and I followed him.

  I let out a yawn, my eyelids suddenly heavy. “I could use a workout, but I think I just need a slow night at home curled up with a book and Pumpkin at my side. Of course, the kids need to be there as well. Luke trolling the house with his drone and Erin blasting her music.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” Nick said.

  “I can’t forget Ezzy either. She’s the glue that holds us together. But she’s also making me fat with her home-cooked Guatemalan food.” I tried pinching an inch at my waist.

  “Yeah, right. You’re built like a brick house.”

  “If you weren’t gay, I’d say you’re hitting on me, Nick.”

  “Nah. Just a fan of the Commodores.”

  I shook my head as two people entered the conference room. One dressed to the nines—obviously a lawyer—and the other our red-faced boss, Jerry.

  I knew we were in for trouble.

  9

  “What do you expect, Troutt? The crime scene is almost twenty-four hours old.”

  “But your team and the NYPD have only been here for, what, twelve hours or so?”

  I inched closer to the FBI special agent, my forehead just inches away from his chin.

  The man, whom upon first glance an hour earlier had instantly made me wonder if he was a reincarnation of Mark, my deceased husband, stepped over to a portable table that contained several photos, fortunately taking the clue that I was in no mood for anyone’s bullshit. Not after jumping on my second plane trip of the day—now nearing ten o’clock at night. Not after spending hours dissecting the motivations or possible hidden messages of a serial killer…and then trying to figure out how two murders in a span of a few hours of each had anything to do with said serial killer.

  What I’d hoped would be a quiet night at home with my family, a fat cat, and a juicy novel had taken an abrupt turn to the morose when Jerry walked into the meeting room back in Boston. He gave us a quick debrief on two murders that had taken place overnight in Brooklyn, and on the surface, both had similar characteristics to the two we were investigating in the greater Boston area—even though we weren’t convinced the two on our home turf were committed by the same person.

  Regardless, Nick and I knew we couldn’t waste the opportunity to check out the crime scene. Which is how we’d ended up in an abandoned meat-packing warehouse in Brighton Beach, a small enclave in Brooklyn, the largest community of Russians in the country, I was told.

  “Carella,” I called out just as Nick reentered the building.

  The special agent out of the FBI New York office kept his back to me. I could see him hold up a photo just as Nick intercepted my path.

  “Can you believe it? We fly all the way down here, and there’s no body. They frickin’ hauled the body off. Why in the hell would they ask for our assistance if they didn’t wait for our instruction?”

  I could practically feel the steam pouring from my ears.

  “Alex, it sucks, but we can’t do anything about it now,” Nick said, guiding me away from Carella, through a bevy of hooks that would normally hold slabs of meat.

  “But it’s bullshit, Nick.” I slapped a hand into the opposite palm. “How can we be expected to solve all these fucking murders and figure out what role Cobb might still be playing in it when we’re at such a disadvantage? They might as well cuff us too. Fuck!”

  I paced within a ten-foot radius as I bit my lip. Three laps into my attempt to lower my anxiety, I coughed a couple of times and felt my chest tighten. I grabbed my knees as Nick’s voice echoed in my head. Leaning over, I closed my eyes, and for the second time that day, I transferred myself to another time and place.

  A warm breeze tousled my shoulder-length hair as I plodded through the clear, shallow water on South Padre Island. The current receded, and I stopped, only to feel the ocean pulling me from the shore, the rush of wet sand sliding over my feet. I smiled as my feet sunk about three inches. Then I yanked my legs upward and kept walking, my eyes scanning the shoreline for…I couldn’t recall exactly.

  “There’s no way you’re hyperventilating, are you?” I could feel Nick’s hand on my back.

  Opening my eyes, I stared at the stained, chipped concrete, wondering how many times the hooks had been dropped over the years.

  “We’re at sea level, Nick. Hyperventilating would normally occur in the mountains, right?”

  The intensity of my voice had been cut in half. I took in another dose of air, wishing it smelled of the salty sea or maybe sunblock. Instead, I coughed as my senses were invaded by a stench that resembled raw eggs.

  “What the hell has this place been used for since it officially shut down?” I asked, searching for the cause of the foul smell.

  “No idea, Alex. It’s actually a little creepy. Dead girl found sliced up in a meat house.”

  “Going to have nightmares?” I deadpanned.

  “Did I tell you I used to wet my bed when I was a kid?” Nick asked.

  “TMI, Nick.”

  He rested a hand on my shoulder. “My older sister had been letting me watch horror movies and eat junk food late at night when my parents were out of the house. The combination got me all worked up.”

  Twisting my lips, I said, “Is the moral of this story that if I don’t figure out a way to lower my stress, I’m going to need to start wearing a diaper to bed? If so, that sure wouldn’t be a great way to attract a new man in my life.”

  He shook his head and tried to keep from grinning. “Look, you’ve been through some crazy shit the last few months. And now we’re knee deep in the same murder investigation that’s very personal for you. I just don’t want to see you go off the deep end.”

  “There is a pier just across the Boardwalk,” I said.

  “Funny.”

  I reached up and tapped his face lightly. “You’re a good man, Nick. The big brother I never had. I’m good. I’ll be better once we gather up all the crazies and put them behind bars.”

  I heard a throat clear, and then I noticed the black trench coat of Carella approach us.

  “Hey,” he said. “This job…it can get the best of you before you know what hit you. And at times it feels like the psychos are multiplying like zombies. But unfortunately, you can’t tell shit from their appearance. They blend in with the rest of society. Sometimes figuring out who committed the murder is almost as achievable as landing a guy on Mars.”

  “Or a girl.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile.

  “Yeah, that too.” He chuckled a couple of times, lessening the professional tension.

  I noticed his shoulders weren’t quite as broad as Mark’s, and his nose was slightly larger. What the hell, Alex? I’m breaking down this guy like he was a runway model auditioning to play the role of Alex’s next leading man. And yet I knew that was the last thing I wanted.

  Or was it?

  “Do you mind if we start over?” I asked.

  “From the top,” he said, flapping a handful of pictures in front of me. I grabbed them and began to inspect the content of each one.

  “The killer used some type of hunting knife and sliced her up pretty good, as you can see.”

  He reached in and sifted through the photos. “This one here, it’s…” He wiped his face and inhaled. “It’s fucked up, that’s what it is. But it gives you the best vantage point for how the victim was situated when we arrived on the scene.”

  Her mouth had been sliced from ear to ear and half her tongue had been chopped off.

  “The local ME said he can already see that the blade was both flat edge and serrated. So that narrows down our murder weapon right there.”

  “He’s already got a COD?” I asked, lifting my eyes from the photos, focusing less on the gore and more on the facts, if for no other reason than to keep my mind reasonably clear and sane.

  “While it seems obvious by looking at the photos, it’s not. This lady was into all sorts of crap. Needle marks up and down her arms, between her
toes. Who knows the exact COD? Could have been a drug deal gone bad.”

  “If it was a drug deal gone bad, you wouldn’t have called us.”

  “Good point.”

  My eyes gravitated back to the photo, and I tried to imagine how a human being could perform such a violent act. “This perp was…infuriated either at the vic or something going on in his life.”

  “Or her life,” Nick said.

  “Any witnesses?”

  “The NYPD uniforms have scoured the area, and no one saw anyone come down this alley,” Carella said.

  “Tell me more about the vic. What do we know about her?”

  “Actually had her purse on her. We found some marijuana and an empty bottle of narcotics. I think she was a major junkie, so the pot probably didn’t do much for her.”

  I studied the photo closer. “It appears she’s wearing a waitress outfit?”

  “Yeah. It’s hard to see, though, with all the blood everywhere. Name is Karina Leshev. Born and raised here in Brighton Beach. Family either died off, moved away, or went to prison.” He arched an eyebrow, bringing with it another quick image of Mark. “According to her license, she’s thirty-seven years old. We believe she was living with one roommate. We haven’t confirmed her graduation date, but she attended the local high school—Grady.”

  I nodded, ignoring the pictures for a moment.

  “We weren’t called to the scene until just before noon. She’d been dead for at least ten hours or so, the coroner surmised.”

  “Where does she work? Have you interviewed her coworkers yet?”

  “Works as a waitress at one of the more well-known places here in Brighton Beach—Tatiana. It’s a restaurant and nightclub.”

  “She worked last night?”

  “We believe so. I have two agents over there right now conducting interviews.”

  “Surely they have video cameras. We can look through those and try to spot anyone who might have followed Karina out of the restaurant.”

  Carella’s lips drew a straight line. “That was the first question we asked.”

  “And?”

  “They’re old school, they said. No need for cameras since they have a reputation of being a little rough on anyone who screws them over.”