He punched the gas and edged half the car into oncoming traffic so he could pass a slower car, the engine straining as the speed accelerated faster and faster.
“Roundabout dead ahead,” I said with a pinched voice.
Nick’s foot never touched the brake. Tires squealed as the Impala leaned into the first curve off Broadway. We were easily going three times faster than any other vehicle. He hugged the inside of the roundabout for a third of the circle, then took a quick glance over his shoulder and jerked the wheel to the right.
Another symphony of horns as we rumbled onto Main Street.
“What’s the foreman telling you?” Terri asked into the phone.
“We’re a minute out,” Nick said.
“He’s doing what? Taking a break? That’s a bunch of bullshit, Longfellow. He’s feeding you a line to give Tripuka a head start. Go find him!”
Nick hung a quick left onto Carter, an area of wall-to-wall industrial buildings and warehouses. Quite a few had broken windowpanes.
“Front or back, Terri?” I asked.
“Back. Meyers and Longfellow entered the office through the front office.”
Nick stabbed the brake and flipped a quick left down a side street. I think the sign said Cross Street, but it came and went too quickly.
“Terri, do you have a mug shot of this guy?” I asked.
“Hold on.” A moment later, she shoved her phone across the seat, just as the car bounced in and out of a pothole. The phone clanked off my head.
“Sorry,” she said.
“No problem.” I could hear Nick snicker as I looked at the screenshot of Vince Tripuka. He had a mullet—long hair down the back and spiked hair on top. I also noticed a tattoo of a boob on his neck.
“Must have lost a bet on that one,” I said, handing Terri back her phone.
“Need to assume he’s armed and desperate,” she said, pulling a Sig Sauer out of her purse. I did the same with my Glock, knowing it was in perfect working condition. That was the first thing I did before I started my shift each morning.
Nick pulled around a warehouse and right into the middle of a jumble of eighteen-wheelers.
“Crap,” he banged the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “We’ll never get through this maze.” He slid the gear into reverse, then quickly hit the brake and looked in his rearview. “We’re trapped in here.”
“Time for exercise, Nick.” I opened the door and started jogging. I could hear doors open behind me, and I assumed Terri and Nick were on my heels. I dodged and weaved around the enormous trucks, looking inside the cabins as I passed each one. I turned and shuffled backward for a moment. As I expected, Terri was about thirty feet behind me, not quite as swift in her rubber boots. But no sign of Nick.
“Any update from Meyers and Longfellow?” I yelled over the drone of the trucks hulking on either side of us.
She still had the phone to her ear as she approached. “They can’t find him. Everyone is giving them the runaround. Big surprise, huh?”
I flipped back around and got beyond the trucks and their putrid diesel-fuel smell. Just ahead, maybe a hundred feet, a man in a blue jumpsuit exited a garage. He looked the opposite way and then toward us. His body became rigid.
“Hands up.” I raised my gun while I jogged.
He paused for a second, then spun around and hauled ass back inside the garage.
“Fuck! Tell Meyers and Longfellow he’s coming back their way.” Pumping my arms, I hit full stride and ate up the distance to the garage in no time. Just before the opening, I skidded to a stop on the rocky pavement and peered around the edge into the garage, seeing no one. I looked again and then slowly stepped inside, keeping close to the wall. I walked heel to toe, with both hands locked on the grip of my gun. I turned forty-five degrees in both directions as I took each step. The space was enormous, filled with delivery trucks, barrels and barrels of… Did I see a beer sign?
A squeaky door opened on a platform to my right, and I quickly swung my gun around. Two men wearing caps and holding clipboards came out, talking to each other. The shorter guy saw me first, and he nudged his colleague.
“FBI. Have you seen Vince Tripuka?”
They stared at the gun.
“I don’t have time to screw around. Have you seen Tripuka in the last five minutes? Did he just pass you inside?”
They shook their heads.
“Get back inside and don’t tell him you saw me, unless you both want to go to jail for obstructing justice.” They hightailed it back through the door in no time flat.
A pitter-patter of shoes clipping the concrete sounded just behind me. I looked over my shoulder and saw Terri pulling to a stop.
“I chased him in here,” I said. “He might be hiding somewhere, or he might have slipped out.”
Terri darted up the ramp, curling her fingers around the metal railing, and put a hand on the metal door.
“Don’t trust anyone,” I said.
“I don’t even trust my own detectives.” And then she disappeared.
A glance over my shoulder, thinking Nick would be right behind her. No sign of him or anyone else, only the distant growl of engines. He must be close, I thought, so I started to methodically search the garage area. I shifted left, while inching forward, my head on a swivel. I swung around a concrete column, fully prepared for an attack, but I found only a small tool belt resting on the floor.
I wondered what kind of weapon, if any, Tripuka was carrying. I doubted he brought a gun to work. Then again, if he had murdered the girl, for him to be at work the next day took some balls. But if he could pull it off, acting like it was just another day would only help his cause.
I shuffled forward, moving deeper into the garage. I passed a delivery truck and finally took notice of the company logo painted on the side. It showed three draft beers, an overflow of suds, sitting next to a keg. I peeked inside the cab and found it empty. Another scan of the facility showed very little light farther in. I could see three floors of crates, maybe seventy feet high in total.
A beeping sound from outside. A truck was backing up. While it was difficult to pinpoint an exact location, it didn’t sound like it was heading into the garage.
A click.
I swung my sights back inside the garage, looking for any movement, any additional sounds. I could smell beer in the musty air. I swallowed, forcing a dry patch down my throat. I got the feeling I was being watched, so I dropped to my knees and scanned the garage floor, looking under the trucks for Tripuka, or his legs or shoes. Nothing.
Back to my feet, I continued my search.
Where is Nick, dammit?
I approached a bay where two trucks sat, one with the hood up. To the left were three other bays, one next to the other. As far as I could see, each bay stored at least two trucks. In the bay closest to me, I could see a small forklift. The arms were stopped halfway up, with a keg sitting on them. Maybe Tripuka had been working that forklift when he got word that the cops wanted to talk to him.
As a line of perspiration formed on my back, I made a note to personally admonish the team of Meyers and Longfellow. Those guys really fucked this up.
A quick glance over my shoulder and still no sign of my partner. Was this some type of setup? I blinked twice, thinking the notion was preposterous.
I glanced inside the one truck with its hood closed in the first bay and then started to move to my left to inspect the other bays. Nick was on his way, I reminded myself. They’d have to shoot him in the leg to keep him from coming. He was that reliable.
In the blink of an eye, an engine roared to life and tires the size of me lurched forward. I stumbled, tripping over some type of tire iron, and tumbled to the slick concrete floor. The truck came at me like a demonic freight train. I scrambled to get to my feet, the engine growling so loudly it vibrated my gut. It was practically on top of me, the tires just inches from crushing my torso.
The sole of my shoe finally caught a grip on the floor, an
d I dove straight into a workbench just as the frame of the truck clipped my foot, further propelling me into a rack of tools that sent shit flying everywhere. As I hit the floor, I realized my gun was still in my hand. I swung around on my back just as the truck barreled out of the garage. I held my breath for a second, took aim, and fired two shots into the left rear tire. It was the same truck from before—the one with its hood up. Within two seconds, the truck veered left and rammed into a concrete support column. The truck growled extra loudly, and steam coiled into the air.
I exhaled, my heart still peppering my chest. A second later, Tripuka kicked open the dented front door, hopped out, and took one look at me. Blood trickled down his forehead. Before I could shout or point my gun, he darted around the column and out into the alley.
Dammit! Where’s Nick? I scrambled to my feet and started running after Tripuka. I rounded the column and the truck, and that was when I saw Tripuka—airborne. He landed on his back with a heavy thud. Nick stood over him.
“Sorry I’m late to the party,” he said, wrenching his shoulder while hobbling on one leg at the same time.
I glanced at Tripuka, who was writhing in pain on the ground, then walked toward Nick.
“Did you get mugged between here and the car?” I tossed a thumb over my shoulder.
“Not even a thanks for saving your ass and catching a killer?”
“You’re right. Thanks.”
He tried to put weight on his right leg, then winced and gripped his lower leg. “Don’t say a thing about my injury. It has nothing to do with my age. There’s a story here; just give me a minute to work the kink out of my shoulder.”
Lots of stories would need to be told to sort through this arrest, not the least of which would be coming from Tripuka. I just hoped we could stick with nonfiction.
6
Twenty-five years ago
The kid inspected his face in the mirror in search of his first whisker. Ninth grade isn’t so bad, he thought. With his adept ability to read people, he had stayed out of the crosshairs of the upperclassmen bullies. In fact, on more than one occasion, they had actually included Junior in some of their fun and games. He played along, assuming the role of the young kid learning the ways of the pranking world from his older and wiser schoolmates.
But to Junior, while the pranks gave him a laugh or two, they seemed rather childish at times. He knew he was put on this earth to accomplish so much more than shooting fireworks into people’s homes or scrawling obscene pictures on brick walls around town. He felt like a young colt, ready to burst out and really show the world what he was all about.
His mother, while an overbearing pain in the ass throughout his childhood, had repeatedly shared her opinion on what was in store for his life: “There aren’t many people put on this earth who can truly make a difference. But with your intellect, you will impact the entire world. You have that special something. My son, they will speak of you in the same breath as Gandhi.”
He ran a brush through his thick hair. He momentarily pondered the idea of adding a bit of gel to make him stand out more, thinking one of the junior or senior girls might take notice. As his mother often said, if the girls don’t like him for who he really is, then they’re not worthy of his affection.
His mother drove him to the fall dance at the high school, and as if on cue, she reminded him about some of the temptations of a being a teenage boy. “Your father always treated me with respect, and I expect you to do the same whenever you are courting a young lady.”
“Mom, no one uses the term courting anymore. We date.” A few seconds of a clip played in his mind, a recent encounter with one of the young ladies in town. She had introduced a few things to him that at first seemed so unnatural, but now he craved a repeat performance. And this time, he would choose his mate.
“Junior, you will not talk back to your mother. It is rude and disrespectful. I know it’s been a while, but I’m sure you remember spending a few cold nights in that hall closet, alone in the dark, yes?”
New images popped into his mind as his hands got sweaty. He didn’t like the feeling of being enclosed, of not being able to see a thing three inches from his face. Perhaps his mom had known that when she set out his punishment. But she’d said it was to teach him a lesson.
“Sorry,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster, picking at a loose piece of plastic on the back of the headrest.
She adjusted the rearview and offered one of her patented smiles. “We all make mistakes, Junior. But how we grow from those mistakes sets us apart from animals. Don’t forget that, especially as you start looking ahead and setting your goals in life.”
He nodded, letting a few mixed thoughts comingle.
She dropped him off by the tennis courts, on the other side of the school from the gymnasium where the dance was taking place. He’d told her that he was responsible for sweeping off the courts, which allowed him to go to the dance for free. Both were fabrications, but he knew his mom could only handle so much.
Once he snuck inside, he hung out with a few of the brainiacs, anything to nudge the mental stimulation needle at least a tad. Some kid was pontificating about various theories in physics, acting as if he had more knowledge than the forefathers in that field of study. After about ten minutes, Junior could take no more.
“You might as well have diarrhea of the mouth, Samuel. The fact is you’re nothing but a fucking blowhard who loves to hear himself talk. The fathers of modern physics were brilliant. Sir Isaac Newton formulated three laws of motion and the law of universal gravitation. At age nineteen—yes, just a few years older than your sorry ass—Galileo discovered the isochronal nature of the pendulum and developed the first theories about properties of space and time outside three-dimensional geometry. And then we have Albert Einstein, who proclaimed that the speed of light was constant in all inertial reference frames and that electromagnetic laws should remain valid, independent of reference frame. This later became known as the theory of relativity.”
By the time he took a breath, Samuel had slouched in his chair, his chubby chin resting on his chest. But something else happened. Something wonderful.
“You are absolutely brilliant. What is your name?”
He turned around and looked up at Vanessa, the most beautiful girl in the school, with eyes that practically made his heart melt.
She took him by the hand and guided him to the dance floor. A slow song had started playing through the speakers. He rested his face against her breast and swayed back and forth for what seemed like an eternity. Urges came over him, and he found his hands moving down her backside. Just before reaching paradise, he felt the grip of God around his wrist.
“This punk thinks he’s going to score with my girlfriend.”
It was the school bad boy, Will.
Junior swallowed once, wondering how this would play out.
Like a dog on a leash, Junior was dragged by Will to an area near the bleachers, where a couple of Will’s ogre buddies were hanging out. They provided cover as Will raised his fist.
Junior quickly said, “You ever thought about making straight A’s? I can make it happen.”
“Did you just talk back to me, punk?”
Junior just stood there, refusing to raise an arm to defend himself. “Let me ask it another way. What kind of job do you want when you get out of here? Something that pays a lot of money, I bet.”
He could see the boy with more facial hair than a thirty-year-old man ponder the question. “I don’t need school. But I do need to kick your ass for touching my girl.” He cocked back his fist.
But Junior only crossed his arms and pondered the Neanderthal further. The bully didn’t throw the punch. He appeared distracted, like a little kid, then he started to roll up his sleeves.
“You know you need that diploma if you’re going to get any type of job that will pay for you and your girl,” Junior said.
“What’s it to you, you little punk-ass brat?”
&
nbsp; “Clearly you haven’t learned about bartering.”
“Bartending. I’ve watched my old man make a stiff drink.” He laughed and shoved one of his buddies for the hell of it.
Junior continued to keep his cool, waiting for this kid with no future to finally get the point.
Will waited a few seconds, looked around again, then finally said, “Okay, I give. What the hell is bartering?”
“I perform a service for you in trade for you doing something for me.”
“I’ve got something you can service right here, bitch,” he said, grabbing his crotch.
“Isn’t that why you’re with your beautiful girlfriend?”
Will sniffed, and Junior wondered if that might ignite a coherent thought.
“I see where you’re going with this. You don’t want me to beat your face in. So you want to offer me something. Right?”
“You got it. It’s how small businesses operate in the real world.”
This meathead probably thinks I’m talking about the show on MTV, Real World. What a fucking moron.
Will scratched his skin. “So, I spare you from the beating of your life. How do you plan on getting me a diploma?”
Junior rubbed his hands together. “I was hoping you’d ask me that.”
With the ogre and his buddies providing cover, Junior sneaked into the administrative offices, hacked into the simplistic computer system, and changed Will’s grades just enough so that no one would notice, but high enough so that he’d graduate in the spring, as long as he didn’t blow off every single class.
Leisurely walking back to the gymnasium, he found Will in the hallway making out with his girl. Junior tried not to look, but he could see her eyes following him as he tiptoed past them. But he wasn’t quiet enough. Will turned around and clocked him right in the nose. Tears pooled as he tried to push himself up off the floor. With blurry vision, he could see another younger girl had entered the hallway. She looked just like Will, only a rounder version. It was Will’s sister, Lora. She started laughing uncontrollably, and then her brother joined in. She laughed so hard her belly jiggled. The three of them left Junior in the hallway, where he wiped away his tears and then decided to leave. He walked home and thought about the humiliation he had just suffered.
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2) Page 27