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

by John W. Mefford

  “Ms. Troutt. Have a good night.”

  I shut the door and brought the bags of food over to the kitchen area. My stomach growled at the smell of kung pao, as well as lobster rangoon and wasabi and other spices I couldn’t identify.

  “Thanks, Alex,” Colin said. “Give us a few more minutes, and then we might have something for you to look at.”

  I took the opportunity to check my phone one more time. The screen was blank. I went ahead and set up a conference call and sent out the invite to the team for later tonight. I figured that would give them a few more hours to try to wrangle their contacts for more information, as well as let them have dinner in peace. Pocketing my phone, I picked up my glass of wine and continued walking around Colin’s place, taking a closer eye at the creator of each painting that hung from the wall. While many of the artists’ names were probably noteworthy, I didn’t recognize a single one. And not a single painting by Colin.

  An Asian-style room divider caught my attention. The three panels were positioned near the wall by the living area. I approached it and noticed the edge of a small canvas on the other side. I peered around the other side of the divider and found a number of paintings leaning against the wall. I glanced over at Colin and Erin, who were still focused on her school project. I’d really never seen Erin so engaged with another person who wasn’t one of her teenage friends. She seemed to care enough to slow down and listen, take in the guidance of someone with immense knowledge about the subject of art—his passion, as he called it. He was an absolute savior, and I owed him big time.

  My curiosity was piqued, so I crouched lower and looked closely at the first canvas in the pile. It was a painting of a field with a pond, with brilliant shades of green and cobalt blue. It was done in the Impressionist style and even had Colin’s name on the bottom, signed C. Brewer.

  I then pulled back the first painting to reveal the next one. I was taken aback, initially because of the style—it was painted with precise detail. It was a portrait of a woman, a very striking woman, with chestnut hair as shiny as a thoroughbred’s coat. Sitting at a forty-five-degree angle, she revealed a sensuous amount of skin with an off-the-shoulder chiffon dress, an aqua blue that accentuated her radiant eyes. Her beauty was only outmatched by an aura of quiet confidence. This woman had substance. Kind of like Colin. I instantly wondered if she was a friend or nothing more than a picture from a book or magazine.

  I flipped to the next canvas. Another portrait of a beautiful woman with Colin’s signature in the lower right corner. She wore a reserved smile, as if she were in mid-conversation and someone had just told a witty joke. A simple, blue blouse opened to show a powder-blue camisole; the clothing style, along with her natural curls, gave her a youthful appearance. Her brown eyes were kind and unafraid.

  On to the next one, where a woman wore a stunning, black-sequin dress that showed off nearly all of her taut back. Golden waves of hair draped over her shoulders, like trailing branches of a weeping willow. There was a small scar just under her left eye, the only flaw on a face with perfect bone structure. Her eyes looked like orange stars.

  “You found my stash.”

  I flinched, nearly spilling my glass of wine. “Oh, Colin, you startled me.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’m starving,” I heard Erin say from the kitchen area, followed by her riffling through the Chinese food.

  I moved to my feet and headed in that direction. Colin picked up the bottle of wine from the nearby bar area and held it up. “One more glass, just to ensure you stay relaxed for another hour?”

  I held up my hand. “No thanks. While this has been nice, if I drink any more, I might end up face down on your couch.”

  He gave me a subtle wink. “We can’t have that, can we?”

  I quickly changed the topic and extended a hand to his paintings. “Your work is remarkable.”

  “Thank you, Alex. That really means a lot.”

  His response seemed overly effusive, especially considering my eye for artwork was contained to dozens of stick figure drawings by the kids to a single Thomas Kincade painting of Lombard Street in San Francisco. I recalled Mark saying over and over again that he planned on taking me there for one of our anniversaries. It never happened, but for whatever reason, I never took down the painting. Something about the lighting, the amazing view high atop the hill, mesmerized me. Somewhat like the women in Colin’s paintings.

  “These women are stunning, Colin. Are they models, or did you draw them from pictures?”

  He chuckled just once while setting out cloth napkins for each of us. “They’re just friends.”

  I waited for more information, but it never came. Perhaps they were relationships that had gone bad, and he didn’t want to think about them. I could relate to keeping the past just where it belonged.

  While I tried to peek at Erin’s work, Colin insisted that we wait until after dinner, saying the vibe of the painting would change as it dried a bit. We gathered around his table, and each of us, including Erin, tried a little of all the dishes, including Peking duck and stir-fry vegetables.

  “This is the best Chinese food I’ve ever had,” she said as chow mein noodles hung off her lips. “Oops.” She giggled while corralling the noodles with her chopsticks and stuffing them back into her mouth.

  “China King has the best food in all of Chinatown, even though it’s this tiny place with bright red walls.”

  “Red walls. What were they thinking?” Erin said.

  Interesting to see Erin have an opinion about the décor. Maybe she had a knack for color and design after all. Probably not from her mother’s side.

  “About how to make the best Chinese food in the city,” Colin joked.

  As Colin cleaned up the dishes, the last of the sun fell out of sight, leaving the city lights to illuminate most of his apartment. “You’ve got a heck of a view.”

  “And I pay for it every month.”

  I wondered what Colin did for a living, to be able to afford this place, his high-end furnishings, all of the artwork. While his business card basically stated he was a jack-of-all-trades, it didn’t relay his main source of income. I was interested, but not nosy, so I decided not to inquire further. It was his life and not for me to judge.

  “And now for the unveiling,” Colin said, waving his arms upward in a flourish as he headed toward his mini-studio. “Erin, would you like the honors?”

  “Why thank you, Colin.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at how Erin played along.

  She walked over and stood in front of the easel that held her painting, while I blocked my vision with my hand just to make sure I didn’t sneak a peek. “Mom, while I know we had a few issues during our vacation back in your hometown of Port Isabel, hanging out at the beach made a big impression on me—the roar of the waves, the seagulls prancing on the shore. So, I give to you my painting. I call it ‘Summer Vacay.’”

  She stepped aside, and my jaw hit the floor. I glanced at Colin, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “The waves seem so real. I can practically feel the spray from the water. Erin, are you sure you painted this yourself, without any help from…?” I pointed at Colin.

  “He was a big help,” Erin said. “I didn’t have a clue about where to start.”

  Colin put his arm around her. “But every stroke on that canvas was hers. Erin has quite the flair. And I’m not just saying that.”

  She stuck her hands in her jeans pockets, shuffling her shoes against the concrete floor. “Thanks.”

  I checked the time on my phone and knew we had to get home. I wanted to say goodnight to Luke before he went to bed, and it was a school night for both kids. As we made our way to the door, I found myself still caught on the image of Colin with his arm around Erin, like a proud father almost. A stepdad? What was I thinking? If I cared for Brad, why did I go there with Colin? Was I still seeking a so-called normal relationship with someone whom I didn’t have to worry about bein
g mistaken for a son or younger brother? It wasn’t until I was behind the wheel heading north to Salem, that two realizations hit me like a ton of bricks: I was so tired that my eyes burned from the inside out, and I’d been so wrapped up in Colin’s world and Erin’s project that I’d forgotten to text or call Brad. I was a bad girlfriend.

  18

  Fifteen years ago

  Junior peered out the screen door in the kitchen, beads of sweat still clinging to his eyebrows as he admired his progress on the back fence. He had spent the last six hours removing the old, rotted planks, pouring concrete, and setting the metal poles for the new fence he would start later in the afternoon. Using his T-shirt, he wiped his face clean, then sipped iced lemonade, one of his mother’s signature recipes. It cooled his inner core. He opened the fridge and poured himself a second glass, then downed half of it in just a few seconds, appreciating the balance of citrus and sugar.

  He heard voices from the front of the house. Mom’s visitors were still lingering, no doubt talking about important subjects like last week’s game of bridge or the latest gossip about who was screwing the milkman, although he’d never heard his mother use a foul word in his life.

  He shuffled closer to the entrance of the dining room, but paused there, knowing Mom wouldn’t be happy if he were to track his filth across the nice Persian rug. Still, though, he was curious, wondering what these women really spoke about when they thought they were in private.

  He tiptoed by the oval table and glanced to his right, where a picture of him and his mom stood proudly on the buffet. He was young and was missing his four front teeth. But what he recalled most from that photo was right after it was taken, when all he wanted to do was run outside and play kickball with the boys down the street. But his mom wouldn’t allow it. She said he had to continue to find ways to enhance all facets of his life, his knowledge of the world, and how he acted around others. She’d insisted that he study his Latin lessons for an hour, then practice the piano for another hour.

  He pushed those early memories out of his frontal lobe and walked a few more steps through the dining room. Ice jingled against the side of his glass, and he stopped in his tracks. He’d forgotten he was carrying the beverage. He looked around for a place to set it down. But everything was an antique, and he couldn’t ruin one of Mom’s treasured pieces, so he was forced to stay put and simply turn his ear toward the living room, hoping he could hear the chatter.

  “Dear God, if Bill asks me to…you-know-what one more time, I think I’m going to gag.”

  “Eww, Mary, do you have to be so crude? We are in our forties, you know. This isn’t high school,” his mother said. “Besides, it’s all about mutual respect…and, of course, reciprocation.” The ladies giggled.

  “Reciprocation,” Mary repeated. “That word might have too many syllables for my Bill. I might have to dumb it down for him. What do you think, Heather? You’re the schoolteacher.”

  Junior leaned forward until he could see Heather’s legs. With her skirt well above her knees, he was able to get the full picture of her endless, toned legs. He began to feel a new line of perspiration along his spine. Heather was not much older than he was and had that All-American athletic type of body. The fact that she was also a teacher turned him on even more.

  But his mom would never allow such heresy…dating another woman from the neighborhood. And he knew he had a lot more on his mind than going to the movies and then grabbing a late-night dessert at the local diner. Things his mom had probably never heard of.

  “Heather, is this conversation suddenly making you shy? You’re the single one in the group. You should be leading us down the raunchy path, not the other way around,” Mary hooted again.

  “Ladies, might I remind you that my son is out back working. This is not the type of conversation he should be hearing.”

  He rolled his eyes, wondering again if his mother realized he was no longer a little kid.

  “He’s twenty-five years old, Doris. Do you know what most twenty-five-year-old young men are doing these days? I’ll tell you. They’re not outside in the heat of the summer replacing their momma’s fence.”

  Junior saw Heather adjust her bra strap. His pants grew tighter.

  “Oh my, Heather, are you—” Mary started to ask but didn’t finish.

  “Am I what?”

  “Am I sensing that you’d like to pop Junior’s cherry?” Mary howled with laughter, drowning out Mother and Heather. Junior should have been embarrassed, but her question went right along with his thoughts. He envisioned seeing Heather in a tight, pink cardigan sweater while preparing food in front of her kitchen window. Junior would march right across her yard, hop up two concrete steps, and then kick in the door. In seconds, he’d rip off her clothes and…

  “Ladies, do I have to remind you that I’m his mother and I’m sitting right here? For the love of God.” Mother, as usual, was the ultimate buzzkill.

  The room became quiet, then Junior could hear a ring clink the side of a glass.

  “Now, I’m very proud of my son. He’s a handsome gentleman. I’ve worked hard for him to become the man he is today.”

  He rolled his eyes so far back in his head that he gave himself a headache. He took a quiet sip of his lemonade—the ice had melted—and glanced out the dining room window where shadows in the form of tree branches seemingly clawed at the neighbor’s window. The sun had begun to dip in the sky, and he knew there wasn’t much daylight left if he hoped to get the first few panels of the fence up. He scooted slowly backward through the dining room, keeping his noise pollution practically nonexistent.

  “Mary, Heather, I think it’s time you know why I’ve been so determined to ensure my boy was raised with the proper manners, a broad array of intellectual stimulation, and the kind of moral fiber that could only be compared to someone like Gandhi.”

  “Gandhi. Oh dear,” Mary said, her voice tinged with doubt. “Doris, yes, please share. Frankly, we’re dying to better understand your obsession in continuing to…uh, work on Junior.”

  Junior stopped moving. His mother had never really addressed this topic with him. He had asked a few times as a kid why she drove him so hard, and she’d said one of two things: “because you have great potential” or “because I said so.”

  “Well…” His mother sounded stressed.

  He could feel his heart pumping against his chest. He held his breath for a moment, eager—actually craving—to hear his mother’s explanation for her decisions regarding his life.

  Her voice dropped a half-octave and so did her volume. “I’m swearing both of you to secrecy. Promise?”

  “Promise,” the other two ladies said with a bit too much enthusiasm.

  “My son is…not really my son.”

  Did he just hear what he thought he heard? His sights drifted across the dining room until they landed on that picture of him with his snaggletooth smile and his mom.

  “What do you mean he’s not your son? Whose son is he?” Mary asked.

  “He’s adopted.”

  “Adopted? But I’ve seen pictures of you holding him when he was barely the size of your two hands,” Mary exclaimed.

  “He was a preemie.”

  “And look what he’s turned into now,” Heather said with a provocative tone. But Junior didn’t have the same blood surge as before. His mother’s words were still pinging the outer edges of his mind.

  “Don’t mind Miss Horny Toad over there,” Mary said. “How big was he, Doris?”

  “Just four pounds, six ounces, if you can believe it.” His mother chuckled. “He was just two days old. It was all very quick, and we only had a couple of hours to make the decision.”

  “Do you know anything about the parents?” Heather asked.

  “That’s the thing. We know why he was so small at birth. His mom was a heroin addict. She made her living as a whore.”

  He could hear a flutter of gasps as oxygen flooded his brain, his balance suddenly rocky. His thoughts
turned inside out, as he tried to understand who he really was…who he was meant to be. His breaths came out in shallow bursts, as a ball of anxiety formed in the pit of his gut. The more he thought about his real mom, the more his knot began to twist and turn, faster and faster, spinning wildly out of control like a tornado. He could feel a venomous rage take root in the eye of the inner storm, feeding off the frenzied emotions of inadequacy and abandonment. It grew like a cancerous growth, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  A moment passed, and his brain began to finally resume control, bringing him back to the dining room. His clothes were soaked with perspiration, his mouth so parched he could barely swallow. Using his shirt to wipe his face, he exhaled and stared at the same picture on the buffet. But he wasn’t studying himself or his adopted mother, Doris.

  A calm washed over his body, his mind now profoundly aware of his purpose on earth.

  19

  I pulled out my earbuds and set the dangling wires on the kitchen bar. Wiping my eyes for a moment, I was tempted to lay my head down and fall asleep on my laptop keyboard. I didn’t even have the energy to close the darn thing, let alone make my way upstairs to the bedroom.

  “Are you finally off that darn call?”

  I peeked through my fingers and saw Ezzy shuffling into the kitchen. She wore her pink robe and matching slippers that looked like she’d walked across the country in them. They were that old.

  “I’m done, yes.” My voice sounded like I’d smoked a pack of cigarettes in the last hour alone.

  “I don’t know why you do this to yourself, Dr. Alex. It’s just insanity.” Ezzy released an exhaustive breath as she filled up the coffeepot. No doubt, she was getting ready for the morning stampede.

  Not thrilled with the lecture, I counted to three. My eyelids shut, and I came within a blink of falling asleep and out of the barstool. Damn, I was a hot mess.

  “If you don’t mind me saying, you’re a hot mess.”