The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)
Page 50
I nodded. “He said they just got a lead on a guy who killed his wife and a neighbor.”
“So why is the FBI involved?”
“The neighbor was the Boston chief of police.”
3
Turning my sights to the sky, light flurries dropped out of the darkened abyss, fluttering past the stylish holiday lights in Faneuil Hall Marketplace in Boston’s West End. Even on a Wednesday night with temperatures dropping below freezing and a dusting of snow on the ground, people were out in droves.
Nick and I were only after one person, although the prospect of finding Douglass Butterfield seemed as likely in this crowd as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
“Can you let me take another look at his mug?” I asked Nick.
He held out his phone as his breath became foggy puffs in the air. The man’s face appeared swollen, his nose both red and veiny. I’d seen that condition before on my dad. He was a drinker. And so was Butterfield.
“Are you okay? You seem a little anxious,” I said as our shoes crunched across the stone surface.
“Some buddies of mine on the force said the whole department is on edge. One faction is really upset about the chief screwing around with another man’s wife. Plus, he’s married himself. Another group of cops are out for vengeance, and they’re scouring the entire area looking for Butterfield.”
“Anxious, pissed-off cops. Hmm. Could lead to itchy trigger fingers?”
“Hell yes. And if they catch this guy before we do, they might tear him apart one limb at a time.”
“Some might say he deserves it, but a jury will make that decision. That is if we catch him before the men and women in blue do.” I quickly dodged two couples who were walking and talking but not looking.
Nick nudged my arm and gestured with his chin to direct my attention in front of us. It was a police officer, and his head was on a swivel. Our sights went straight to his hand, which gripped his holstered pistol. As we sauntered past the officer, Nick dipped his head. “Good evening, officer.”
The guy gave no indication that he’d even heard Nick. “Wow,” I said as we continued past the officer.
“See?” Nick said. “My buddies were right.”
“That, and the guy had a hell of an acne problem. Is he even old enough to vote?”
Nick offered a smirk as we wound through a crowd of folks watching a man singing and playing his guitar. He had a pleasant, soulful voice. Just a few feet past him, his voice was drowned out by the lively Christmas music filling up the marketplace, the beats of the holiday tunes perfectly in sync with the cascade of blinking lights. I saw a sign earlier boasting that more than three hundred thousand such lights were part of this choreographed scene. Luke would be in heaven if he were here.
Red and green Christmas decorations adorned nearly every lamp post and building façade, while white lights wrapped every tree trunk and the big Christmas tree at the far end of the open shopping area. The light snow added a more organic element of the festive season. And for once, I wasn’t cursing the Boston winter—most likely because it was still in its early stages. On a normal night, I would have enjoyed strolling around the area with Brad, our arms interlocked.
But tonight was all about business. The business of catching a killer.
We approached one of the many restaurants, this one upscale and quite crowded. Nick was about to walk in, but I held out a hand.
“Okay, I know it’s been a long day and all, but remind me why you think a killer is strolling around Faneuil Hall without a care in the world. Wouldn’t he be two states away by now, if not trying to jump on a boat or plane to get the hell out of the country?”
“Sorry, Alex. I know you’ve been put through the ringer. Your dad and all…it’s just sad. I’m really sorry to pull you in so soon after his death.”
“No worries, partner. I volunteered to come back early. This is the best medicine for me. Well, that and being close to my family.”
“Brad too?” Nick winked.
I refused to be ashamed of coming out of the relationship closet, even if half the population viewed me as a cougar—Brad was almost eleven years younger. I responded casually, but with confidence in my voice. “Of course. Brad’s my man.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just hard for me to get used to it.”
I patted his shoulder. “It’s okay. It took me a while too. So, you think Butterfield is inside this fancy restaurant enjoying a 2005 Chateau Petrus?”
Nick’s beady eyes bugged out. “When did Alex Troutt learn about great French wines? That’s my area of specialty. Well, I share it with Antonio.”
“It’s nothing. Just Brad and I doing a little experimenting.”
I glanced over at a couple making out under a faux mistletoe. “Wait, that didn’t sound right did it?”
Nick guffawed through a closed fist.
“Funny, Nick. This perp…Butterfield?”
He nodded. “Right. We know a couple of things. Butterfield was silver-spooned ever since he could hold one. He loves the finer things in life…you know, like your four-thousand-dollar bottle of wine.”
“It’s not mine. We just did the research.”
He held two hands in front of his chest. “Whatever. It’s your life…well, yours and Brad’s.”
His pokes were getting annoying. Withholding the urge to roll my eyes, I motioned for him to continue.
“While you were in Texas, I hunted down one of Butterfield’s old college roommates.”
“Where did he go to school?”
“Right here. Boston College.”
“A good Catholic boy.”
“Hardly. He’s got quite the rap sheet. No time to review that now, but his old roommate said that Butterfield always claimed he had no recollection of anything he’d done during his drunken binges.”
I could feel a few of the flurries sticking to my hair, and I ran my fingers through the blond mop. “Sounds like something a college kid might say: ‘Uh, I couldn’t call you because I don’t remember ever meeting you.’”
“This guy is probably that type. He went to BC on a football scholarship.”
“Okay, let’s pretend he has no memory of the shooting. But he obviously knows people are looking for him.”
“Absolutely. After he found the chief of police in bed with his wife—”
“He actually caught them in the act?” For some reason, I could feel my gut tighten.
Nick gave me a single nod then continued to scope out the area, looking for Butterfield. I did the same, but the people might as well have been members of an ant colony. They all looked the same.
“The chief was apparently into some pretty risqué shit. All sorts of toys were found in the bed, along with the two dead bodies—both covered in blood, and naked.”
I extended a hand. “Stop right there. I’ve got enough sick visuals to give me nightmares for the next forty years. So, we’re at Faneuil Hall because…”
“Forgot to mention. I got lucky and found someone at his workplace to pick up the phone.”
“Which is?”
“Damn, you never stop asking questions.”
I splayed my arms. “And?”
“It was an administrative assistant who had worked with Butterfield off and on for the last couple of years.”
“Did he bang her?”
“Uh…wasn’t expecting that one. I don’t know. Didn’t ask.”
“What did you ask her then?”
“Not much. She just started spilling her guts. Said that poor Douglass had been a real joy to work with for most of his tenure at the firm.”
“The firm, like the one from the Tom Cruise movie?”
“Hardly. Some type of investment company. Pretty small, only fifty or sixty employees.”
“So Butterfield has one fan.”
“Kind of.”
“Shit, Nick, are we on a secret game show? This Q&A game is getting old.” I craned my neck, pretending to look for hidden cameras.
“Sorry. Keep going.”
He huffed out a breath, and the fog blew right into my face.
“Valerie was her name. Valerie said that Douglass had become very depressed the last couple of months. He finally told her a week ago that he thought his wife was having an affair, but when he confronted her about it, she denied it and said he was delusional.”
He paused. Maybe waiting for me to respond in some way? “I’m following you and this soap opera. What else did you find out?” I tried like hell not to think about Mark and the wench he’d hooked up with before his death. But that was exactly what I did.
“As they talked more, it dawned on her that whenever he got depressed or just needed somewhere to go, he would come to Faneuil Hall. He couldn’t stand being alone, but he didn’t really want to talk to anyone. He preferred just blending in with the crowd and people watching.”
“And drinking?”
“Do what?” Nick asked.
“Was his whole story nothing more than an excuse to drink?”
“Why would you say that?” Nick’s brow furrowed, which caused what little hair he had on his head to shift, as if he wore a toupee.
“That’s a classic move by alcoholics. They give you the pity party, and then casually put themselves into a place where they can blend in and drink like the rest of the public.”
“Kind of a bait-and-switch tactic.”
“Exactly.”
Both of our heads turned as a man broke through the crowd, screaming something about a fire. Just what we needed, more chaos.
“Sir…” I grabbed at his coat, while holding up my FBI credentials.
“Let me go, I’ve got to find help. My friend is being threatened.”
“What are you talking about?”
A thin beard outlined his bony jawline, but it was his unblinking, red-rimmed eyes that got my attention. And then I picked up a waft of something strong. He had been drinking.
“Sir, are you drunk?”
“What? I don’t have time for you.” He pushed me to the side. I grabbed his arm and spun him around.
“I don’t want to get physical, but you need to give me some solid answers.” I positioned my creds two inches from his face.
“You’re with the FBI?”
“Yes, I’m Special Agent—”
He grabbed my shoulders. “You’ve got to help. Quick, follow me.” He released his grip and ran back through the crowd.
“Crap,” Nick said as we both chased after him, running into one person after another. The snowflakes had doubled in size, but now took on a colorful glow as the light show continued above our heads.
“You see him?” I called out, shuffling between a horde of people.
“Nothing,” Nick said.
A moment later, I came into an opening. Nick popped out of the pack a few feet away from me. We both shrugged our shoulders.
“Was it just some drunk idiot?” Nick asked.
“Hey, FBI lady. Over here.”
I flipped around and found the man with the thin beard waving at us from the doorway of a bar. I jogged that way while catching the name on the awning: Nick’s Bar and Grill.
Couldn’t be, right?
Another flurry of mindless wanderers. “Excuse me.” I pushed through the crowd and got to the man.
“There are two bar rooms. Need to get to the one in back.”
As I followed him inside, everyone was either standing or walking toward the exit, their faces laced with stress.
“I don’t see anything,” I said.
“Through these double doors.”
We passed a waiter. “Are you the cops? Please help. She could be burned alive.”
Another shot of adrenaline pumped into my bloodstream, and I pushed through more folks on their way out, then followed the beard as it went through the double doors.
I stopped in my tracks. I saw a large man wearing a wrinkled suit pacing behind the bar, and my face went flush.
“That’s Butterfield,” I said under my breath.
“Shit. I think you’re right,” Nick said, fumbling for his phone. “Is he talking to himself or the girl?”
I turned my sights to the girl. She was soaking wet, as if she’d been dipped in a pool, her curly hair flattened by dampness. She had on a red blouse like the other waiters, but she also wore an apron over it. I figured she was a bartender.
“Can you please help Melissa?” the man with the beard whispered into my ear. Another bar employee came up to me. “Are you a cop?”
“FBI.” I kept my eyes on Butterfield. He didn’t seem to notice that anyone else was in the room. He was mumbling something over and over again as he paced back and forth. The girl, Melissa, stood with her hands by her side, her mascara snaking down her face.
“Cool. Whatever. This fucker just went bonkers. Jumped over the bar and put a gun to Melissa’s head because she wouldn’t serve him another shot.”
I craned my neck. “Where’s the gun? I don’t see it.” The bar blocked his hands from my view. “I’m not sure if he’s still holding it. He might have put it on a shelf under the counter. But we’re sure he still has his lighter.”
Just then Butterfield screamed, “Fuck that bitch! I don’t need her or anyone else. I just want some respect, dammit!” He held up his hand, his fingers clasping a silver lighter, his eyes glazed over.
The waiter slowly leaned over to me. “He poured four bottles of vodka on her. He threatened to burn her alive.”
Nick’s eyes met mine. “We can’t pull out our guns. He could still light her on fire before we could drop him.”
My mind instantly went back in time to when I’d dealt with my father when he was drunk and clearly not in a calm state of mind.
“I’ll draw his attention and distract him, then you get into position to jump in between him and the girl,” I said to Nick, already shifting to my right. We moved in slow motion, but my eyes never left Butterfield.
“Hey, can I get a drink?” I acted like I was unaware of the life-threatening situation. “Just had a long day at the office. I need a stiff one.”
Butterfield swiped his opposite hand across his eyes. It didn’t hold a gun.
“I’m no fucking bartender. She’s the bartender,” he said, slurring his words.
“Okay, can someone serve me a drink?” Standing between two vacant tables about fifteen feet from the bar, I held up my arms, still acting clueless.
Butterfield glanced around, but didn’t appear to really notice the others in the room. Then, he grabbed a bottle off the glass shelf behind him and put it on the bar. “I’ll have a drink with you.” He found two shot glasses, filled one, then overfilled the second one, spilling whiskey on the bar. He slammed the bottle down. He was shit-faced, and his balance was off.
I walked over, picked up the drink, and held it up. I could now see behind the bar. His gun was next to the cash register, about eight feet to my left. The girl’s eyes found me, and I could see her jaw quivering.
“Cheers,” I said.
He hesitated a second, but followed my lead and downed the shot. Then he smacked the glass back on the bar and wiped his mouth clean.
“Doesn’t get any better than that,” he said, staring at the bottle as if it held magical powers.
“Hell no. Let’s do another, whaddya say?”
I could see Nick prowling around the edge of the room, making his way toward the end of the bar. I still wasn’t sure how we could get the lighter out of Butterfield’s hand.
“Eh, what the hell. You only live once, right?” he said, followed by a sleazy chuckle. He poured the drinks, and we both imbibed. I could feel a trail of fire as the alcohol made its way down to my stomach. As he moved to set the glass down, I thought about grabbing his wrist, yanking it forward to make him lose his balance, and then hurling a straight jab at his nose. I wanted to stun him just lon
g enough for me to climb over and knock the lighter from his hand.
But just as he set the glass down, he turned to Melissa. She was shivering all over, but hadn’t moved an inch. He licked his lips and studied her.
I tried to get his attention back on me. “So, what’s your name?”
He didn’t respond, maintaining his gaze on her.
Another second and he might spot Nick pulling around the side. Between his lighter and the gun, we would all be dead in seconds. I quickly scanned the space around me, and my eyes fell on a small wooden chair. Keeping Butterfield in my peripheral vision, I lifted the chair high above my head and then used everything I had to smash it on the concrete floor. The noise split the silence and everyone jumped, including Butterfield.
“What the hell, lady?”
Now I had his attention. I had out-shocked the man who typically shocked everyone who came across his path.
“Can’t I get some fucking respect?” I yelled. I looked up and saw my hand still holding a broken leg from the chair, and my lips slowly curled into a smile.
Butterfield shook his head and let out a hearty chuckle. “Jesus, I thought I was a loose cannon. You’re fucking crazy.”
I just smiled. “I know. So can you give me a damn drink?”
“Just a minute. I’m not the bartender; she is.” I guessed he’d forgotten he’d already told me that. Not surprising. He pointed at Melissa, whose shaking seemed to increase with the mention of her name.
“Screw her,” I said. “She’s clearly not cut out for the job. You seem like you know what you’re doing. Don’t you own this place?”
Another hesitation, as if he were trying to figure what I was all about, where this could go.
“Well…not really. But that would be pretty cool. Maybe someday,” he said, gazing at the lights along the ceiling. “I need a cigarette.” He patted his coat pockets. “Want to join me?”
“What?” My pulse redlined in a single beat. “I hate smoke. Makes me sick to my stomach.”
He continued his search, looking inside his coat and his pants. “There they are.”
“My mom died of lung cancer,” I blurted out.
He was in the middle of plucking a cigarette from a mangled pack when he ceased motion. “Oh. I’m sorry. I…you’re right. I shouldn’t smoke.” He tossed the cigarettes to the floor and then ran his fingers through his hair. I could tell I’d taken away one of his crutches. Would the lack of fulfilling his nicotine fix only send him over the edge?