The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  “This is all your fault, Ashling…if you would just give me another chance, baby!” he spat, using the knife to punctuate his words in the air.

  “Fuck you, Spike! You’re nothing but a lying, cheating bully. And you just assaulted an FBI agent, asshole.”

  He shut his pie hole, apparently processing what Ashling had just said. A second later, I plowed into him a second time. I felt his rib crack when my shoulder hit him. I drove his chiseled body into the ground and made sure my knees connected with his groin on impact. He howled, but still didn’t let go of the knife.

  He rolled onto his side. As I reached for the knife, the nice man put his shoe on Spike’s wrist. A second later, his hand released the knife. And then we heard an enormous boom, followed by white dust spraying around the waiting room.

  We all looked over to the desk. Dr. Strickler stood there with a shotgun pointed at the ceiling.

  “The great equalizer,” he said, his pipe dangling off his lips. “Now call the cops and put this piece of shit in jail.”

  9

  Deep in a dream that included me, Brad, and a steamy hot tub in the middle of the French Alps, I felt thin fingers pushing against my shoulder. I fought to stay in my happy place, but it began to fade away. Something cold slid down my cheek. Drool.

  “Mom, are you awake?”

  I opened my eyes to see my daughter Erin leaning over me like a mother hen. “I am now.”

  “Ooh, what is all that white crap in your hair?”

  I brought a hand to my hair, but a sharp pain in my shoulder altered my motion. It was the same shoulder that had tackled the piece of granite—Spike, a.k.a. George Schallot—twice in a span of a minute the previous evening. My fingers felt small granules along my scalp.

  “Oh, that’s the remnants of the ceiling from Dr. Strickler’s office.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s fine. He was the one who fired the shotgun. But he wanted me to tell you that’s not the best way to solve a problem.” He didn’t really say that, but I couldn’t let her think that her former shrink had stored a shotgun in case one of his more unstable patients fell off the rails. I brought myself to my elbows, then pushed up from there to lean against the headboard. I tapped the bed. “Sit down for a second, sweetie.”

  “I’ve got to go to school, Mom.”

  “Just a quick moment.”

  She sat, her arms crossed. She had on a halter top, one of the many pieces of gear from her stint on the Salem High School tennis team. I could actually see nice definition in her shoulder and triceps. She was my daughter.

  “You’re old enough to hear this. Dr. Strickler’s assistant, Ashling…”

  “Yeah, I remember her. She could blow a wicked bubble.”

  “Well, as I learned after the incident, her boyfriend has been abusing her for the last year. She put up with it and didn’t tell anyone. He would always promise to change, but he kept drinking or whatever, and it only got worse. All hot air and no change.”

  She didn’t respond instantly, which was a good sign. “Is she okay? You know, not just physically, but up here?” She pointed at her head.

  “I think she will be, after a good amount of therapy. The reason I’m telling you is because no one would have guessed that Ashling was dealing with those issues. She seems like a free spirit, no cares in the world. She’s smart, reads a lot, and is a fun person to be around. But she hid a dark secret because she was ashamed. And once it started, she didn’t feel comfortable telling anyone.”

  Erin’s shoulders dropped a couple of inches as a wrinkle formed between her pretty brown eyes.

  “I just want you to know that it can happen to anyone—fooling yourself into the thinking this big, protective guy is good for you, but when the doors shut, he turns on you and beats you.”

  A tear pooled in her eye. “That’s so sad, Mom. I wish she would have asked for help.”

  “That’s why I’m telling you. Please don’t let yourself get involved with boys like that. And if you do and something happens, please know that you can tell any adult about it, and we’ll put a stop to it. Start with me first, please.”

  She nodded. “What about Brad?”

  “Yeah, he’s good too.”

  “Good, because he’s younger and he can probably kick anyone’s ass.”

  She ran off as I rolled out of bed and shuffled down the steps at half her speed, thinking more about her comment. I was glad she felt comfortable in looking at Brad as someone who would have her back, but damn…that age issue always seemed to creep back up. Even my kids could see a major difference between me and the man I’d been dreaming about just moments ago.

  And what a dream it had been.

  I made a mental note to call or text Brad today as I waltzed into the kitchen and saw Luke fixing his own lunch, Ezzy at the sink cutting fresh vegetables.

  “Looks like you’ve got the troops stepping up and taking some extra responsibility this school year.”

  She looked over at me and winked. “Luke is growing up. He said he needed to accept more responsibility. He wants to be team captain on his basketball squad this year.”

  “Cool. Luke’s the man,” I said.

  “That’s kind of lame, Mom.” Then he ran over and gave me a tight hug. I kissed the top of his head. He was a sweet kid, but at twelve years of age, I’d already been able to pick up signs of his teenage alter ego, the cynical, glass-half-empty side.

  He’d yet to hit a major growth spurt, so he angled his head to look up at me, big, brown eyes reminding me of those times when he was my snuggle bear as a toddler. I rustled his thick mane of hair.

  “You need a haircut.”

  He flipped his head to the side.

  “Are you trying to grow Bieber hair?” his sister asked from across the kitchen.

  “Hell no. Just being me.”

  “Cussing before it’s eight a.m.?”

  He ignored me. “You’ve got a little something,” he said, pointing to the side of his lips.

  I reached up and felt the dried saliva that was left over from my slumber. I tried to wipe it off.

  “Dr. Alex, do you actually think you’ll join us for dinner tonight?” Ezzy asked as she shaved carrots in the sink.

  “I should, why?”

  “Just fixing an old family stew recipe. It will knock your socks off.”

  I waddled over to the coffeepot, working out the kink in my shoulder. As the coffee brewed, I pulled out my phone and saw a text from Nick.

  Can’t pick u up, but meeting at 8 w/Gretchen. Will u be there?

  “Crap,” I said, quickly moving back over to the coffee.

  “Work calls again,” Ezzy guessed, her tone flat.

  “Right. We’ve just got this crazy case where we think we can crack this ten-year-old murder based on a guy we picked up for a murder that took place two nights ago. But if we don’t start putting holes in his stories, then he might walk. Then again, I’m not sold that we have the right guy. Whatever, I’m late.”

  I felt a hand on my back. “Dr. Alex, there is always a big case. While I know it’s important, don’t forget the kids would like to see you around every once in a while.” She raised her silver eyebrows and gave me one of those Ezzy looks—the kind that served as a gentle reminder to heed her words.

  “Yes, work-life-health balance. I’ll repeat that ten times on my way out the door.”

  She actually laughed at my response. Cupping the mug of hot coffee, I turned back around just before exiting the kitchen. Erin walked by just then and tossed an orange in the air on her way to where she was packing up her lunch and snacks for her daily tennis workout. I snatched the orange out of her hand, then held it up so everyone could see. “This is proof that I will eat breakfast. A healthy one at that.”

  I left the house to a string of I love yous. And that made my heart sing all the way to the office.

  ***

  Gretchen blew her nose into the tissue, which she then tossed onto the pile at
her feet. The mound of used tissues reached her knees, and I was beginning to wonder if she might suffocate in her own snot. It was a little gross, but it also made me feel badly for the woman, whose string of bad luck lately was now punctuated with some type of allergy/cold combination she just couldn’t shake.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked.

  “No.” Her nose actually honked when she spoke. “I think I have everything I need right here.” She glanced around her section of the worktable in the same war room we’d used for a number of other high-profile cases. Three boxes of tissues were stacked off to her left, along with bottles of ibuprofen, allergy medicine, three types of cold medicine, and some leftover chicken soup that Nick had ordered for her from the diner down the street from our office at One Federal Plaza in Boston’s West End.

  A metal rattling sound brought my attention to the other side of the room. Nick had just wedged his way through the frosted glass door while maintaining his balance on two crutches. The ER doctor said he had suffered a grade 3 sprain in his ankle. He had a look of determination on his red-blotched face, but he stopped every few shuffled steps and twisted his shoulder a few times.

  “Need any help?” I asked as I propped my legs on the chair next to me and rocked a bit.

  “Something about this just doesn’t feel right. I go a few steps and…I don’t know. Probably just getting used to this new mode of travel.”

  I sat up and took another look at the asymmetry of how he was hobbling along. When he finally reached the table, he fell into a chair, and I took his crutches and did a quick inspection.

  “I see the problem.” I turned one crutch upside down.

  “What?”

  “You’re five-ten, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Not sure if you saw this, but your crutches have different levels for each inch of height. This one here is set to five-eight.” I pulled out the metal two more inches until it clicked into place, then I rested it next to the other one on the floor.

  “Thanks. I thought my workout regimen was getting me in good shape. But this one-legged mode is kicking my ass. And this really puts a damper on me qualifying for the Boston Marathon.”

  My partner had made a remarkable life change in the last few months, committing himself to eating healthy, working out like a maniac. He had lost forty or fifty pounds while adding definition and muscle. He looked five years younger and seemed to have the energy of two kids. Plus, his general attitude had improved. I was really impressed. Well, I was impressed with everything up to the point when he sprained his ankle.

  “How’d you do it?” Gretchen said in the nasally tone, her sinuses so clogged it was difficult to distinguish individual words.

  “It’s all because of that asshole locked up in the Somerville jail.”

  “All because of him?” I asked with a wink.

  “He started it.” He paused. “Okay, I know I sound like one of your kids.”

  I held my thumb and finger close together. “Just a wee bit.”

  He turned to Gretchen, who grabbed a handful of tissues, brought them to her mouth, and sneezed. “Bless you.” Nick and I spoke at the same time.

  “Thanks. Your ankle?” she asked, shifting her red-rimmed eyes to Nick.

  “My first step out of the car and my damn shoe got wedged in a grate. A few of the truck drivers saw me struggling to get out, so they decided to help. They were all pulling me in different directions. Then I heard a pop. My ankle swelled up to the size of a cantaloupe within about ten minutes.”

  “This all happened while I was in the garage looking for Tripuka,” I said to Gretchen. “Then that maniac tried to run me over. He crashed when I shot out the tire, and then Nick showed up just in time to clothesline the guy.”

  Nick and I both twisted our shoulders while glancing at each other, but neither of us said a word. I was tired of dwelling on his or my ailments.

  “Tripuka tried to act like the model citizen during our first formal interrogation. He had an answer for everything.”

  “They all do. In fact, the smoother they are, the higher likelihood they’re guilty,” Nick said.

  “Gotta admit, he’s convincing. Given his crime résumé, I wasn’t expecting Mr. Smooth. But that’s exactly what we got. He actually sounded…authentic.”

  “I know I wasn’t there, but you’re not going to fall for that crap, are you?”

  “Falling isn’t how I operate, Nick; you know that. But we need something to charge him with.”

  “He threatened the vic. Someone overheard him. Start with that.”

  The war room door opened. “We will.”

  It was Terri, wearing a visitor’s badge on top of another well-tailored pantsuit, this one gray with thin, black pinstripes. But I was really salivating over her purse.

  “Michael Kors?”

  She smirked. “It was a gift to myself.”

  “Celebrating something big?”

  “It was a Friday night, and I was sitting at home eating a tub of ice cream. I told myself to stop, which I did, and so I bought this as a reward.”

  “Very strange how the female mind works,” Nick said with a shake of his head.

  Terri and I exchanged a smile. I looked over at Gretchen, whose veins were popping out of her neck as she put everything she had into her nose-blowing effort.

  Terri grimaced. “You might want to sit over there.” I pointed at the far end of the table.

  “Okay, just for a quick moment,” Terri said. “We’ve got an appointment in thirty minutes with the guy who overheard Tripuka. Works at Lenny’s Pub, where Emma used to work.”

  “Great. I was about to tell the team that Tripuka is likely to lawyer up soon.”

  “Maybe twenty-four hours, if not sooner, I’m guessing,” Terri said.

  “When that happens, we’d better have solid evidence of his connection to either or both murders—Emma Katic from two nights ago, or our cold case, Gloria Lopez. Otherwise, the lawyer will demand bail, and Tripuka will be walking the streets. He could either drop off the radar, or he might have the balls to strike again,” I said.

  “Neither is a good option. We have to find the evidence. I won’t take anything less.” Terri poked her finger into the table, her emotional spigot nearly fully open again. Something about Tripuka or this crime lit a fire inside the detective. Then again, I’d just met her, so maybe she was this emotional about every case.

  “For now, Nick, given your mobility issues, I think we’ll be more efficient if Terri and I work the field on this one. You can be the lead back here at the office, working with Gretchen.”

  “I don’t like sitting on the sideline, but it’s the only way I’ll heal. I think we need to focus on where Tripuka was ten years ago. See if we can connect him to Gloria Lopez. While the idea of two people with the same warped desires and skill sets to carry out these murders seems hard to fathom, maybe Tripuka met someone in prison and developed some type of twisted mentor relationship with the original killer, then got his jollies by mimicking the same act ten years later.”

  A stunned silence filled our space, three pairs of eyes staring at Nick.

  “That’s a brilliant theory.” Terri nodded repeatedly, her eyes never leaving Nick.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  I could tell he was starting to feel a bit uncomfortable. “Double that, Nick. I think you and Gretchen just added to your task list. While digging into Tripuka’s full history—and somehow verifying that history—find out who his contacts were in prison, and then work it from there.”

  “But how do we go about finding cellmates, other people he might have come in contact with in prison? They call it prison for a reason,” Gretchen said with a tissue at her nose.

  I opened my mouth, about to offer some guidance.

  “Between this…” Nick held up his cell phone. “This…” He rested a hand on his laptop. “And this…” He put a finger to his head. “…I think we’ll be able to piece together something. If it’
s there, we’ll do everything we can to find it.”

  “We need a warrant to search Tripuka’s garage apartment. Nick, think you can—”

  “My guys are working on that right now,” Terri said.

  “Meyers and Longfellow. The same two who—”

  “I’m giving them a chance at redemption. Shouldn’t be difficult.” She twisted her lips, obviously thinking about something. “Nick, if you don’t mind, can you follow up with them and make sure they don’t, you know…”

  “Fuck it up?”

  “Right. That.”

  “Good,” I said. “It’s a lot faster at the local level than at the federal level anyway. We should get the search warrant today.”

  I was then distracted by a text from my daughter Erin.

  Mom, need your help with a class project. Can u give me some time after school?

  She never asked for help. So I knew I couldn’t ignore her.

  I typed a quick response.

  No problem. Mom and daughter time.:)

  As soon as I punched send, I regretted adding the last sentence. It only took her a few seconds for a new message to pop.

  Ok. Just need help on a project, nothing big.

  That was Erin. She didn’t like to think anything was forced or pre-planned. I had to take my moments in ten-second intervals when I least expected them.

  I set my phone on the table.

  “Nick, Gretchen, keep in touch with both Terri and me. Who knows how many hours we have until the attorney vultures start hovering over the Somerville Police Department?”

  I turned my head to Terri to ask if she needed to make a pit stop before we headed out, but she was already out of her chair and walking toward the door.

  “We’ll be late if we don’t hustle,” she said with a hand on the door handle.

  I picked up my purse and phone, wondering if this was how others felt when working with me.

  10

  Skip Binion thumbed through several pages of crumpled paper on his clipboard. Even with the bottles clanging together while being stacked around the bar in Lenny’s Pub, I could hear his slithering wheeze. My son would probably offer up a Darth Vader analogy, but Skip’s appearance said Mad Max: he had a bleached-blond spike for a goatee, which matched the bed of white thorns on his head. I counted six piercings in his right ear, seven in his left, three more in his nose, two in his lip, and a single hoop attached to his right eyebrow. He wore enough eyeliner to make a raccoon jealous.