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

by John W. Mefford

  “Did you leave the scene, Doug?” I asked. I could feel the reverberation of my heart all the way up my neck.

  “Not right away. I tried opening the back door. I finally got it open, but before I could jump in and reach for her over the seat, the car began to fall. I jumped back, and the car went over the edge. I heard it hit the water below.”

  “Oh God,” I said, wondering if there was any way possible that this man, Douglass Butterfield, could have…

  I stopped myself before I finished the thought.

  Nick jumped out of his chair. “Alex, are you okay?”

  Oxygen was flooding my brain. I felt like I was hyperventilating.

  “What the hell is going on with her?” I heard Butterfield ask.

  I took a couple of steps, but lost my balance and put a hand on the table.

  “What’s wrong, Alex?” Nick held me up.

  “Get me out of here. Quick.”

  5

  A soft glow from the oversized computer monitor illuminated the darkened space within Gretchen’s double cube. Her fingers raced across the keyboard, only interrupted by a few quick clicks of the mouse. I tried to look over her shoulder, as Brad rested his hand on my back.

  “Gretchen will find it. No worries,” he said.

  It was the record of Mom’s wreck thirty-two years earlier. If Douglass Butterfield was telling the truth, then the state of Virginia would have a record of the crash, and we could verify the location and timing.

  I used both hands to wipe my face, knowing I was smearing my mascara, and not caring in the least. “I’m not sure why I lost it back in the interrogation room. It just…” I couldn’t verbalize the feelings that were flooding my mind.

  “It came out of nowhere. Who wouldn’t have reacted like that?” Brad said. “I’m so sorry, babe.”

  I could see Gretchen’s eyes quickly shift in our direction, then back to the screen. I wondered if she’d have taken exception to Brad’s term of affection for me: babe. While it came naturally to him, and to me, I realized that she of all people probably wasn’t thrilled to see the man of her dreams with another woman, especially me. I could have asked about her and Brandon, hoping to swing any ill will over to a more positive thought, but at this juncture, I didn’t really care. I was concentrating on one thing.

  “I just have to know. You understand that, right?” I pulled my eyes off the computer screen and looked up at Brad, who offered an affirmative nod.

  “Of course. Just realize you’re not in this alone. No matter what you find out, I’m here to support you. We can get through this together.”

  I placed my hand along the side of his face. I was drawn to kiss him, to feel his arms around me, to feel the pressure of his hard body against me. But not now. Later.

  “Getting any closer, Gretchen?” I asked, turning my attention back to the monitor as pages came to life as fast as I was blinking.

  “Working my way through their countless login and verification screens. Just a bunch of bureaucratic security for us Feds to go through,” she said, a hint of frustration in her voice.

  A series of heavy footsteps, then Nick appeared from around the corner of the cube. “BPD detectives are on their way to pick up Butterfield.”

  I could feel my gut twist again. “I don’t want to let him go until we know for certain.”

  “Can’t Jerry delay them until tomorrow? Hell, it’s after midnight,” Brad said.

  “I asked. Said he tried calling in a favor, but they won’t have any of it. They want this guy on a skewer for killing the police chief.”

  No one said a word for a moment—not a sound, except for Gretchen’s nails clicking and clacking. Nick finally broke the silence. “Do we know if the report will even be available online? It might be sitting in a cardboard box in a warehouse with ten thousand other boxes.”

  “I can answer that,” Gretchen said, not slowing down a bit. “Many of the states in recent years have invested resources to digitize many of the backdated records. Virginia is one of them. That’s not to say the occasional physical hard copy wasn’t lost or destroyed accidentally and, therefore, may not show up in any online search.”

  I raked my fingers through my hair, not sure if I could deal with a response of “record could not be found.” Then I’d be left wondering if the physical report was truly lost in the transition to the digital file, or if Butterfield was telling the truth. And if he was telling the truth, was my mother actually involved in the same wreck?

  “Bingo,” Gretchen said, sitting higher in her chair.

  My pulse clocked faster as the three of us leaned over her shoulder. She tapped her finger to the monitor. “The report is dated November 11, almost exactly thirty-two years ago.” She peered back at me, then continued to scan the report. “It says this highway patrol officer found a damaged guardrail and car fragments at Highway 165 at the North River Bridge. They found the car, an Oldsmobile Cutlass, in the stream below.”

  I wracked my brain trying to recall if Dad ever told me what type of car Mom had been driving when she died. I only remembered it was brown and had two big doors.

  “Down here,” Gretchen said, pointing lower on the screen, “it states that the car belonged to a Charlotte Troutt. And she was in critical condition when she was airlifted to Norfolk Community Hospital.”

  A wave of emotion snuck up on me. I’d just assumed Mom had died at the site of the crash, not en route to the hospital or shortly thereafter.

  “You okay?” Brad asked.

  “Yeah, just trying to process everything.” Trying was the operative word. I couldn’t really get my mind to clear enough to let it all sink in. What did all of this mean? Why had I felt like I’d been sucker-punched in both kidneys?

  Gretchen didn’t stop there. “If I click here…” She paused and did just that. A screen full of photos popped up. One included a close-up of the car attached to a steel cable being pulled from the river. Three pictures of the bridge, the car parts, and the destroyed guard railing. Gretchen clicked through a number of other pictures, all from different angles. The lighting wasn’t great, but nothing else stood out.

  “Wait,” I said as she clicked again.

  “Dammit, Gretchen,” Brad said, wiping a hand across his face.

  He was upset because of the content of the picture: an interior shot of the front seat of the car, where something dark was smeared on the steering wheel and tan vinyl seating area. It was blood.

  “Oh, sorry,” Gretchen said, quickly clicking back to the report.

  I turned around and anchored my arms on the back of an empty desk chair. I heard some mumbling behind me, but I paid no attention. I closed my eyes for a second and tried to think about my mom when I was a kid. No warm hugs or anything affectionate. No life lessons I could think of, or bonding moments. We coexisted, and I did my best to not draw her ire. Later on, I’d have a similar routine with Dad, the drunk. But it was different with him. He also had a soft side. A human side, where I could feel that he loved me, even if he wasn’t willing to change a lot in his life. Mom, not really. Not from my vantage point.

  Brad’s hand touched my back. “Want me to take you home, and we can just chill on your couch for a while, help you wind down?”

  I filled my lungs with air, and with that came a surge of resentment tickling the back of my throat. “Not yet. I want ten more minutes with Butterfield.”

  ***

  “I lost my chance.” I stood in Jerry’s office, Brad and Nick alongside me, as we watched through the glass front wall as the police/Butterfield procession exited a door on the other side of the breezeway. By the time I had made my way back to the interrogation room, the first wave of BPD officers had shown up and claimed their suspect.

  “I know you wanted some closure, Alex,” Brad said. “Maybe the BPD will allow you to conduct a follow-up interview once they have their turn.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “Nice try. But we both know that once the Suffolk DA—and I don’t mean one of
the many assistant DAs, but the main guy—gets his hands on him, it will take a Supreme Court injunction for anyone to get near Butterfield.”

  The man in question became visible, and it wasn’t pretty.

  “Either the most notorious serial killer in the modern era or the world’s most wanted terrorist,” Nick said. “That’s how the Boston Police Department is handling Butterfield. It’s so over the top.”

  With a team of four detectives leading the way, Butterfield was being walked down the hall toward the elevators with chains attached to almost every appendage. His steps were tiny. Every third or fourth one, he’d stumble from the lack of free movement, but the officer holding the chain that was attached to the dog collar, would simply yank on it, and he would manage to quickly find his balance.

  I counted twelve uniforms surrounding Butterfield, all of who were built like Greek Gods. They had sent over their strongest, most athletic officers.

  “Are they thinking Butterfield is going to magically multiply into ten different guys who are all trained ninjas?” Brad exclaimed. “I know he did some bad things, but I don’t understand what they expect to get out of this show of force. Intimidation? You guys said Butterfield is this close to completely crumbling,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger inches apart.

  I blew out a breath. “With Dad gone, I know my chance of learning anything more about how Mom died is walking out the door.”

  “What else could you want to know, Alex?” Nick said bluntly.

  “Thanks, partner.” I deadpanned. Nick shrugged. “Not to be mean, but shit, it sounded like he told you everything he knew.”

  Crossing my arms, I pinched the bridge of my nose, then we watched Butterfield enter the elevator, which quickly filled up with detectives and cops. In fact, four were left without a ride, so they punched a button and waited for the next elevator as the doors shut on the first one.

  “Alex, you’re like a sister to me, dammit,” Nick said. “It makes me sick that all of this shit is being shoved down your throat thirty years after the fact. But, you know, maybe it’s good that you finally know the truth. Maybe it was fate that we were put on this case, caught Butterfield, and then had that discussion with him.”

  I nodded. “You’re right, Nick.”

  Keeping his public display of affection to a minimum in the wide open, Brad brushed his fingers along my thigh.

  “By the way, you were fricking masterful in that interrogation room,” Nick said. “To pull that guy out of the depths of hell and get him to open up about his life…I’m serious about this: they should create a course at Quantico about what you accomplished.”

  I smiled at Nick and then patted him on the side of his arm. “Flattery will get you nowhere. But thanks. And you were part of it as well.”

  With my senses finally returning to normal, I picked up a waft of something sour or moldy. I think Brad must have seen the look on my face.

  “We need to get you home and into the shower,” Brad said, showing his teeth.

  A trench formed between Nick’s beady eyes. “Oh geez, guys, can you cut me a break? I can’t deal with your romantic interludes.”

  I looked at Brad, but made sure Nick could hear me. “I’ll only take a shower if two conditions are met.”

  “What are those?” Brad tried not to laugh.

  “You take it with me.”

  “That’s easy. And the other?”

  “You have to give me a spanking while we’re in there.”

  Nick shook his head repeatedly, rapidly. “You just warped my brain. Can you stop already?”

  I hooked my arm inside Brad’s and said, “Now I’m ready to go home.”

  6

  I realized Brad and I had a second career option—stealth, undercover agents. After entering the house with minimal noise, I made a quick appearance at Ezzy’s bedroom door, since I knew she would be the most curious and courageous if she heard anything in the house. Brad stayed out of sight in the kitchen. I didn’t want to get into the story behind the story with Ezzy—that I’d just learned how my mom had been killed and by whom. I would talk to her about it tomorrow. For now, I just wanted to remove the layer of grime off me, and then make love to the man of my dreams.

  I needed both in the worst way.

  Halfway through the dark living room, Brad stopped in his tracks.

  “What’s wrong?” I whispered with one eye on the stairs, hoping the kids would remain fast asleep.

  He pointed down to the hardwood. I saw Pumpkin, our fat cat, sprawled out on the floor right in front of Brad. Pumpkin stretched, then released a very unmanly meow.

  “Dammit,” I hissed.

  “It’s okay. I can get around him, but I thought he might follow us and then start clawing at the bedroom door. And that might wake up the kids, and…you know.”

  While Brad and I had unabashedly shared our relationship status with the world, we couldn’t openly sleep together in the house when the kids were home. This was a rare exception, given the dramatic events of the evening. And since I didn’t think it was appropriate to go out and tie one on, we jointly decided to take the risk.

  I nodded. “His head might be a tenth of the size of his Jabba-like body, but I swear, he can be devious. I know just the thing that will shut him up. Stay here.”

  “I’m not moving an inch,” he said.

  I slipped off my shoes to remain extra stealthy, walked into the kitchen, and opened up the pantry door. I scooped out a quarter cup of dry food and then gingerly emptied the food into Pumpkin’s bowl in the mudroom.

  The cat appeared, almost magically.

  “There. You happy?” I whispered as if he would reply. Of course, he just plowed into the food as if I didn’t exist. I joined back up with Brad.

  “Are you sure the cat won’t be scratching at your door after he’s done feeding his face?”

  “In ten minutes, he’ll be curled up on that ottoman purring like he’s being romanced by the girl cat of his dreams.”

  “Sounds like fun.” A shaft of light shining through the front curtains caught just enough of Brad’s face to see his sexy smile.

  “Follow me?”

  “As if I’d pick another option,” he said with a wink.

  When we got to the staircase, we timed our steps in unison so that anyone listening would hear the typical creaks from one person. We got to the top, and I checked under the kids’ doors to ensure their lights were off. Two thumbs-up to Brad, and we padded to the end of the hallway, walked into my room, and locked the door behind us.

  The layer of filth came off in no time, but we stayed in the shower for at least an hour. When we finally collapsed on the bed, both of us out of breath, I said, “That was the hottest shower I’ve ever taken.” I rested my hand on his abs, which made a washboard seem doughy. “Thanks for being there for me today,” I added, staring up at the ceiling without a stitch of clothing on me.

  He rubbed the side of his hand against my hip. “No reason to thank me, Alex. I told you, we’re a team.”

  “Well, I’m sure you didn’t start dating me to deal with all this drama.”

  “I’m not thirteen. What’s that saying? Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. Just got to roll with it and keep everything in perspective, I guess.”

  He warmed my heart like no other man I’d ever been with. I wanted to reply with the ultimate verbal connection—the L word. But something stopped me. It could have been the fact that I watched my dad be buried and then found out who killed my mom all in one lousy day. I should cut myself a break. But eventually, I would need to buck up and act like a grown woman.

  A few seconds later, he rolled on top of me and gave me a kiss that would have sent any other woman to the moon. But I’d just returned from deep space, so I wasn’t that surprised.

  “You ready for round two?” he asked with a sparkle in his eye.

  I could feel he wasn’t just boasting, so I offered my own challenge. As I clutched my fingers
into his sides, I said, “The question is, are you ready?”

  We both crossed the finished line at the exact same moment.

  And then he snuck out just before the sun rose.

  ***

  The crackle of the living room fire drew my eyes off my paperback for a moment. I sipped the last of the hot chocolate, then leaned forward and set my empty mug on the coffee table. Pumpkin voiced his displeasure with the fact I had moved, unsettling his curled-up position at my feet.

  “Go back to sleep, fat boy.”

  He yawned and did as I said, but not because I said it. Jerry had sent me a text overnight, essentially ordering me to take a day off. When I saw the note this morning, I didn’t fight it. For once, we had a lull on the investigation front. Just after I watched the kids head off to school, I sent a text to my rock-solid better half, Brad, letting him know I was staying at home for the day, to which he replied: Enjoy. U finally get to see how the 90 percent live. xo

  I read another page of my book, an interesting biography on the life of Maya Angelou. But not interesting enough to take my mind off the last few days.

  After a life filled with jumping on and off the alcohol wagon, Dad had finally left this earth. And last night, as Butterfield released his demons, it seemed like Mom had died all over again. I stared into the flames and thought about my parents and the loss that still resonated. What was I mourning exactly? They both were pretty flawed people. Dad and I had a roller-coaster relationship at best, and Mom had been loitering in her own universe as far back as my memories went.

  Why couldn’t we have just been a normal family? Why couldn’t we have just loved each other? I wasn’t naïve. I knew members of a family quibbled and disagreed some, but in the long run, didn’t they feel a bond that couldn’t be broken?

  I stroked Pumpkin’s back, and he released another fanged yawn. “Family,” I said out loud, my eyes looking through the sheer curtains on the front windows. That was what I was mourning—actually craving as long as I could recall—a sense of family. True family, not just living under the same roof and sharing a few meals together, even when no one says a word.