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

by John W. Mefford

  The MD-80 touched down at Norfolk International Airport and taxied up to the gate, its engine reduced to a whining purr as the quiet cabin came to life with laughter and shouting voices. A stewardess squawked instructions over the speaker system, but it was impossible to hear her exact words. The race to grab overhead bags and get the best place in line had already commenced. The patients, termed passengers before we had been led like cattle into the airplane, were more than ready to burst through the doors of the flying asylum.

  After watching two kids wrestle over who got to carry a miniature pillow with two flying dolphins on it—their mom gave them both a piece of bubble gum to stop the argument before it escalated—I turned to peek through the oval window from seat 24C. The ground crew wore clear rain slickers over their gray uniforms and fluorescent-orange vests. Their slickers fluttered from gusts of wind, likely bringing in another round of storms. Even as dark clouds balled up into fists, the rain had paused, at least temporarily.

  “So, you’re just like me, aren’t you?”

  A man’s round face appeared over the seats in front of me, his hair slicked back with some type of oily gel. He wore a grin from ear to ear. He looked like he was my dad’s age.

  “Not really following you,” I said, craning my neck to look up front. I suddenly wished the pack of humans could vacate the airplane more quickly.

  “Oh, sorry about that. I have the tendency to say things as if people know what I’m thinking inside my head,” he said with a snicker. “Silly me. By the way, I’m Ray. I sell insurance.” He stretched his arm over the seat. Maybe he was trying to shake my hand?

  His head banged the plastic overhead bin as he raised his body to where the top of the seat would reach his armpit. “There,” he said, attempting to get his arm over the seat to better facilitate a handshake. “Now, to properly introduce myself. I’m Ray.” His hand was still a few inches above my head, so I reached up with two fingers and a thumb and shook his hand. It was awkward, just like our brief interaction.

  “I’m Alex.” I turned to look outside again, the air around me now drenched with a pungent cologne. Or was that the gel?

  “And what do you do?”

  Revealing that I was employed by the FBI as a special agent was not in the cards. Not in a public setting and not to Ray the insurance salesman. “I’m in security.”

  “Well, I was just thinking that we have something in common.” He paused, maybe waiting for me to hit him with a question. I pretended to see something interesting outside.

  “We both abhor crowds, especially when people are so pushy and rude. Am I right?”

  I nodded. “I think you nailed it, Ray.”

  “You see, we do have something in common. So, are you from this area, or do you have business in the Norfolk-Virginia Beach area?”

  Why did it seem as if the volume of his voice had slowly increased? I took another glance up front; there was finally movement. I shifted to one knee and began to lift my things from the floorboard up to the empty seat next to me.

  “Just flying in to do a little business.”

  “Hmm,” he said, tapping his forefinger to his chin. “You work in security.” He used air quotes. “And you’re just flying in to do a little business.” More air quotes. His face cracked another all-star smile. “I’d say you’re a hit woman sent in by a secret government agency to take out the head of an international crime syndicate hell-bent on using the threat of biological weapons to milk the country of billions of dollars.” He chuckled before he added, “Am I getting close?”

  “You have no idea how close.”

  Finally, the line of cattle moved forward and someone asked Ray if he wanted to get out. He obliged, but for some reason kept his eye on me the entire time he made his way into the aisle.

  “Seriously, Alex, I’ve lived in this area my whole life. If you need to know anything about it, how to get around, how to get things done, I can help you out.”

  I was now three people behind him in the procession to the front of the plane. “Great. Thanks, Ray. I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, watch out!” It was too late. He had just mowed over a tiny stewardess, who screeched, and then kicked at Ray until he stopped pawing at her to help her up.

  More delays.

  It took another five minutes before the entanglement cleared and associated ill will from the stewardess was sufficiently resolved before we were allowed off the human petri dish. Halfway up the ramp, Ray found me again and started yapping my ear off. He had ceased the interrogation and had now moved into a soliloquy about his life and the area in general. I heard mostly white noise as I searched for baggage claim—I’d arrived late to the airport earlier this morning since Brad had insisted on driving me so I had to check my bag. I didn’t mind when he gave me a warm smooch before I went through security.

  “And that’s why my parents called me the big mistake.” Ray chuckled and searched my face for a response as we walked up to the empty, motionless carousel.

  “I guess we’ll have to wait a few minutes,” I said, pulling out my phone.

  “Did you not…? Oh, never mind.”

  I think I hurt his feelings. Out of the corner of my eye, it appeared he was looking around for someone else to pounce on. Fine by me.

  “Alex, can you actually hear me?” he said, lowering his vision until his eyes were about a foot from my face. I leaned back.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, good. I thought you might have in earplugs. I need to use the restroom. Could you watch my backpack until I get back?”

  “No problem.”

  He turned to walk away, and I said, “Take as much time as you need.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at me, his brow furrowed. He must have finally caught on that I wasn’t his biggest fan. The carousel began to move and I shuffled closer, towing my over-sized purse and Ray’s bag a few feet.

  As I waited for baggage to appear on the ramp that connected to the circular carousel, I took a moment to reflect on my decision to go at this alone. I had called Jerry and Nick last night, letting them know I was taking a few days off to try to find my mother. They asked questions and offered their support. What I didn’t tell them was I was fully prepared to let days turns into weeks, which meant a leave of absence. Putting a specific timeline on an investigation was ludicrous, especially one where the trail was as cold as thirty-two years. I also knew that extending my time away from my paying gig with the FBI would have an impact on the family bottom line. But I’d have to deal with that if and when the time came. I would have never been able to sleep a peaceful night while wondering if my mom was still alive, wondering what she was doing…who she was with.

  Did she have another family? Did she now have grandkids?

  I gripped my cell phone tightly in my hand and tried to not think the worst, but it was difficult to delineate worst- versus best-case scenarios.

  Last night I had a peaceful dinner with the kids and only told them that I had an important mission to accomplish, keeping my mother out of the conversation. I just couldn’t bring myself to dump even more family baggage on them. After a summer vacation in Port Isabel that put their lives in danger, seeing their grandfather mixed up with a drug cartel, and now hearing about his death, the last thing they needed was more drama. Ezzy knew the details, and that was good enough for now. Brad had initially insisted on coming with me. He said he knew we’d be a good team—even better than what we’d shown between the sheets. But I couldn’t drag him into this crap. I cared for him too much. Plus, I felt more comfortable with him at home base, checking in on Ezzy and the kids. And I knew I might need his access to FBI resources to help me.

  But first I had to make a dent in the investigation. My first stop was going to be the Virginia Beach Police Department. From there, I might have to visit the old folks home to find anyone who might have been associated with Mom’s wreck or trying to find her—if indeed she was deemed missing.

  Looking over my shoulder, I didn’t see any sig
n of Ray. Maybe he was the hit man, posing as an insurance salesman, and had left me with his backpack full of explosives. I chuckled at my active imagination.

  Staring at the phone, I took in a breath, pondering my next move.

  “What the hell?” I said out loud and then tapped the screen three times until the line started to ring.

  Just as I saw my green bag sliding onto the carousel, someone picked up but didn’t say anything.

  “Archie, are you on the line?”

  “Yeah, this is Archie, what can I do you for?”

  “It’s me, Alex, you dumbass.”

  A former agent for the CIA, Archie and I went way back—but not on my back, as he had tried on more than one occasion. He thought he was a ladies’ man, but he was more like a man who slobbered over ladies of questionable character until they either ran like crazy or turned out to be crazy. Still, his gregarious, overconfident demeanor had actually helped him build a decent private investigation business. And I knew that he’d jump at the chance to work with me.

  There was prolonged silence on the other end of the line, although I heard the clinging of glasses.

  “Archie, it’s ten in the morning, and you’re already drinking? What are you thinking, or are you working undercover on some case where you have to drink in the morning?”

  More silence. “What do you think I do for a living?”

  That was an odd question. It sounded like he hadn’t heard my question, or even recognized that it was me. “Okay, dork. Turn off your little routine. I need to talk to you—”

  He chuckled. “If you haven’t figured it out yet, this is a recording.”

  I held the phone away from my face. I was ready to drop the phone and crush it with my shoe.

  “Just wanted to show off some of my skills. Obviously, you’ve reached me, Archie Woods Private Investigations, LLC. That stands for limited liability corporation. Yep, I’ve gone big time, bitches.”

  He laughed at himself again.

  “Anyway, I’m sure you’re dying to talk to me about an intriguing case. No worries, just leave a message and either I or my new assistant, Carrie, will get back with you. Now, if you’d like to know more about my background, see referrals, and generally become impressed with me and my advanced investigative skills, go to whiteshaft.com. Don’t let that name scare you. It’s all PG-13…well, except for one testimonial where she talks about my…uh, forget I ever said that. Hey, Carrie, take that testimonial off the website, okay? Anyway, if anyone is still listening, leave a message at the tone or go to whiteshaft.com. Once again, that’s whiteshaft.com. Later.”

  The line beeped. “Nice bit, Archie. It’s Alex. I think I need you. Call me. And by the way, your whole whiteshaft.com website…not a good idea. Either people are offended, or they couldn’t care less if your shaft is white, red, or a swirl of rainbow colors. Okay, call me.”

  The line went dead, and I turned to see Ray’s smiling grill in my face.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Are you into painting shafts? Because if you are…”

  I stuck my hand in his face, grabbed my bag off the carousel, and walked off.

  ***

  After picking up my rental car—a five-year-old Camry that smelled like a bar before they changed the smoking laws—I made the short trip to the Virginia Beach Police Department. Thirty-two years had passed since I’d last inhabited Virginia Beach, but on the drive, I remembered something unique about the area: travel time to most places in and around the Norfolk-Virginia Beach area was relatively swift, aside from summer holidays when roads became filled with tourists.

  The temperature gauge on the Camry read forty-nine degrees just before I turned off the engine and walked into the brick facade building. Thunder rumbled in the background as the door shut behind me. A couple of heads turned my way, but one held my gaze. The first face of the department, a thin woman with short, crimped hair and a pair of glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. I used the weather as an icebreaker and then showed Dolly my FBI credentials as an introduction into why I was there. I gave her the thirty-second version of my story.

  “Hold on a minute. Let me get someone.” Her eyes stayed on me as she picked up the desk phone. She paused before dialing a number, then set the receiver down. “I’ll be right back.” Pulling her white sweater tighter around her shoulders, she walked off. I noticed she had on simple, white sneakers.

  While I waited for more than a couple of minutes, I checked out a few of the awards and plaques inside two glass cases. Nothing to set the world on fire.

  “Agent Troutt?”

  I turned to see an attractive, younger man with thick, curly hair, wearing khakis and a starched denim shirt, approaching me. He had a 9mm pistol holstered at his side.

  He said his name, but I didn’t catch it because he had already turned to walk me to the back. He seemed like he was in a rush. He sat me in a chair and said Lieutenant Detective Morris would be with me shortly.

  Over the next hour, the same detective offered me a drink at least a half dozen times. I would say “no thank you” and then look at the time on my phone. He would apologize for his boss’s delay, usually shrugging his shoulders at the same time.

  Eighty-seven minutes into my wait, I was actually thirsty and getting a little annoyed that my status with the FBI wouldn’t have garnered a bit more responsiveness. The curly-haired detective approached me again.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Look, I realize you had no warning of my visit, but I was hoping for a little professional courtesy…”

  He moved out of the way to reveal a woman standing behind him. I had two quick observations: she was petite, and her head of frizzy hair looked like a beehive about ready to burst open. She had it roped behind her in some type of ponytail.

  “Lieutenant Detective Anne Morris,” she said with a single nod. Her grip was firm. I did my best to match it, just to keep all things equal. “Apologize for the wait, Agent Troutt.”

  She ushered me into her office and closed the door. She lived in a fishbowl, almost literally. Glass walls and a glass door surrounded her.

  “Nice view,” I said.

  “I’m a visual person. It helps remind me who is around, who isn’t. And then I’ve got this to remind me who is working which case, at least the high profile cases,” she said, pointing at a whiteboard that was bigger than her five-foot-nothing frame. She propped her feet on her desk and leaned back in her chair. That was when she noticed her hair clip was about to fall off. She did her best to corral the mound of hair into a tighter ponytail.

  “Again, I apologize for keeping you waiting. Sometimes the brass doesn’t care about anyone’s schedule except their own. Politics,” she said with her palms facing upward as she sat straighter in the chair. “I’m sure you deal with that kind of stuff every day of your work life.”

  “Eh. I’ve got a pretty good team around me, and my food chain tends to stay clear. But I know what you mean. Seems like there’s always that level of leadership where they don’t breathe the same type of oxygen.”

  She smacked her hand on the table and chuckled once. “Oh, we’re going to get along well, Agent Troutt.”

  “Alex, please.”

  “Call me Anne.” Her smile became a straight line. “I understand your visit is both professional and personal. The worst kind of case.” Her dark, close-set eyes looked up at me for a second.

  We discussed the details of what I knew and what I was seeking—mainly her team’s help with access to case files and speaking to anyone involved, if they were still around.

  “You can work with Detective Ed Romano.”

  I turned around, glancing through the blinds of her glass walls and noticed just one person standing. “Ahh, that’s his name. I missed that earlier. Isn’t he quite busy?”

  “Everyone is. Understaffed, yet the chief wants every case closed yesterday. Gotta make the mayor happy. Is it election season or something?” She waved a hand and ro
lled her eyes.

  She walked me out to Detective Romano’s desk, and then she pulled him aside to apparently give him the good news: he had more work on his plate.

  They both turned around a moment later, his hands buried in his pockets, but Anne spoke. “Romano understands your urgency. If you need anything or get a break on your mother, please keep him and me in the loop. It’s always a shot in the arm when we can solve one of our cold cases. And it doesn’t get much colder than thirty-two years.”

  She walked away, and Romano moved behind his desk, picked up a couple of manila folders, leafed through each one, and then tossed them back on his desk.

  “Want to get a sandwich?” he asked.

  “Well, I was hoping we could dig into your files, see if there are any leads to speak of and then prioritize our next steps.”

  “I think better when I’m eating, especially if it’s a muffuletta. My wife runs a little shop down the street. I’ll bring my laptop and any hard copies I can find here at the office. You game?”

  A motivated detective couldn’t hurt. “I’m game.”

  Thirty minutes later, Romano’s eyes glazed over as his wife slid the muffuletta on the table. He already had a napkin tucked inside his shirt, apparently expecting the feeding frenzy to lead to spillage. He devoured a quarter of the sandwich with the first bite.

  “You like it, Romano?” I thought it was neat that his wife, who even looked like her husband with her tight, curly hair and thick frame, called her husband by his last name.

  He tried speaking, but olives squeezed out of the corner of his mouth. Then he started laughing. “Did I tell you that you need to improve your manners, Romano? Geez, you’re an embarrassment to the family name,” she said with a snort.

  “Hey, at least I don’t laugh like a wild hog.”

  She leaned down and kissed him. That was apparently an intimate moment in their love life.

  Out of nowhere a white kitchen towel sailed through the serving booth and landed right on the faces of the two lovebirds. And then the catcalls began from voices in the back.

  “Ah, shut your faces,” she said, pinching off a bit of his sandwich and eating it.