AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  I shrugged as Gretchen rejoined the conversation.

  “Sorry about the delay,” she said. I could hear what sounded like heels clipping against a concrete floor. “I’m headed to the bathroom. The only place I know I won’t get accosted by you know who.”

  “Who is ‘you know who’?”

  “You know…” she said.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Yep.”

  Her voice echoed.

  Ozzie looked at me and mouthed, “Randy?”

  I nodded.

  “Don’t let that prick bully you, Gretchen,” I said.

  “He wasn’t really bullying me. He was kind of…I don’t know, hitting on me.” She giggled. She almost sounded flattered.

  Ozzie gave me that “Uh, that’s weird” look. I was right there with him, but I moved past it and asked if she’d had time to work on the little project we gave her.

  “Not as much as I want, but some, yes. That’s one of the reasons Randy dropped by my desk.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You told him about us asking you to look into Elise Tran’s life?”

  “What? No. Do you really think I’d betray your trust, Alex? I thought you knew me better than that.” She sounded offended.

  “Sorry, I’m just on edge. I just can’t have Randy getting in the middle of this right now and assuming control of our investigation. If he does that, then we’re all screwed.”

  Ozzie looked at me and then spoke at the phone. “Why did Randy drop by your desk, Gretchen?”

  “Well, I actually found the video of Bandar al-Salehi unloading boxes from the back of his truck at each of the main aid stations. So, between the evidence found at his apartment, his social-media stuff, and now the video showing him delivering the packages, Randy said that makes the case against Bandar irrefutable.”

  Ozzie and I locked eyes for a second. I shook my head, signaling that I didn’t want to start deliberating theories. I only wanted the info on Elise Trans right now.

  “Nice work, Gretchen,” I said. “I’m sure you put in a lot of hours to find that key piece of evidence.”

  “Thanks.”

  She sounded more upbeat, which was my intent. Last thing we needed was dissension or a lack of motivation.

  “So, Elise Tran?”

  “Right. Elise Tran lives in Weston.”

  “Another one in Weston?” Ozzie said.

  I put a finger to my mouth and shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, there’s another what in Weston?” Gretchen sounded confused.

  “Nothing. Ozzie’s talking about some chain restaurant. You were saying?”

  “I don’t have my notes in front me, so let me think a moment.”

  More clapping of the heels.

  “Okay, her home is worth right at six million dollars. Sits on two acres, surrounded by trees, a large pool, tennis court, the whole works. The back yard at night, with all the tree lighting and pool lighting, is really mystical. It’s just an amazing home, from the pictures I saw.”

  Gretchen sounded more like a real-estate agent, one who was enamored by the wealth. She’d never before come across as a materialistic person. Then again, I’d actually spent more than a few seconds of my life daydreaming about winning the lottery.

  “Okay, she has a nice home,” I said, trying to move her along.

  “Did I say she was worth thirty-one point four million?”

  Ozzie had provided that nugget last night. “Nope, but thanks for sharing. Anything else?”

  “Well, the biggest eye-opener isn’t her money or her home. It’s her travel.”

  More fascination with Elise’s wealth. What had gotten into Gretchen?

  “Don’t tell me,” Ozzie said. “She travels the world in a yacht that’s as big as a cruise liner.”

  “Huh? No mention of yachts in her list of assets. In fact, she only has two vehicles, a Suburban and a Prius.”

  Ozzie and I again snagged a gaze. We were both thinking the same thing—a gas-guzzler and a hybrid vehicle weren’t usually found in the same garage. Two entirely different target markets.

  “Interesting,” I said. “Anything else about her travel?”

  “I wasn’t really referring to her cars. It’s where she went and how often. In the last two years, she’s traveled to different destinations in the Middle East more than twenty times.”

  I could feel a patch of icy heat forming on the back of my neck

  Ozzie put his hand over the phone and whispered, “Maybe she’s Jewish and has family in Israel.”

  I moved his hand away from the phone. “Do you know the exact locations, Gretchen?”

  “Let’s see. I think I recall six trips to Kabul, Afghanistan…maybe more. Then, three trips to Baghdad, Iraq, I think three to Damascus, Syria, a couple to Riyad, Saudi Arabia, at least one to Cairo, Egypt, a couple into Kuwait City, four or five into Istanbul, Turkey, and I think just one to Tehran, Iran.”

  We drove in silence for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t look at Ozzie. I only tried to process what I’d just heard, adding what Gretchen had shared into the multitude of data points we’d gathered thus far. My mind stopped at the image of Bandar al-Salehi putting a bullet in his head.

  I tried to swallow, but my throat was as dry as sandpaper. I coughed a couple of times before finally spitting out, “Thank you, Gretchen. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Is this bad? I mean, not everyone who travels to the Mideast is a terrorist.”

  “I completely agree,” Ozzie said, holding his gaze on me. He moved his hands up and down. He was wondering what to say or what we should do. I really had no idea.

  “Do you need me to convey this to Randy and see if she’s connected to this Bandar al-Salehi?”

  Ozzie and I both responded with a quick “No.” Then I said in a more nonchalant manner, “No need at this time. I’ll let you know if we find anything that’s got any legs.”

  “Oh, one more thing. We found out that Bandar al-Salehi’s name, before he changed it, was Avery Garza. Attended MIT for two years. Just dropped out this past semester.”

  We ended the call, and Ozzie started talking so fast I couldn’t keep up.

  I took the next exit and reversed our course. We were making a return trip to Weston.

  33

  Ozzie

  Yes, the architecture of Elise Tran’s home was unique—a white-stucco, contemporary structure with lots of glass and metal—and that, in and of itself, made it different from the first two traditional Weston mansions we’d visited since the bombings. But what stood out was a piece of art displayed on a pedestal in the grassy area inside the circular driveway—an ornately crafted, metal sculpture of what looked like a three-headed beast. Lots of fangs and three long tongues.

  “That’s disturbing,” Alex said as we pulled up to the home.

  “Not exactly a cheerful welcome-to-my-home vibe,” I said. I kept staring, thinking something about the structure looked familiar.

  We got out of the car, and Alex gestured with her head in the direction of the sculpture. “That might be where some of her fifty million went.”

  We rang the doorbell and waited a minute. No one came to the door. We were fairly certain Elise or maybe a housemaid was in the home. We’d actually been lucky. A white van whose driver had a thick beard was on the way out of the gated property as we drove up. So, we’d taken the opportunity to slip in without going through the process of calling up to the house and trying to talk our way in. As she whipped along the driveway, Alex had said something to the effect of, “Asking for permission means you’re going to accept a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ I’m not accepting a ‘no.’”

  I wasn’t going to argue with her position. I would have considered jumping over the fence if we couldn’t have made our way through the gate. Call me Mr. Rebel.

  “You hear that?” Alex leaned toward the pristine white door.

  “Uh, no.”

  Her eyes looked to the ground, as she held up a finger
. It was as though she were trying to crack a safe, listening for that last click.

  After a minute, she punched the doorbell again. “Could have sworn I heard…I don’t know.”

  “What?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  I was about to quiz her further when the door opened.

  “Hello?” A slender Asian woman stood at the threshold. Her skin was like velvet butterscotch. Luminous raven hair, simply styled, draped across her shoulders. It practically sparkled from the light, as if it had been created from black gold. She was a little older than I was, maybe more around Alex’s age. But she could have been a runway model—both because of her beauty and her stoic expression.

  Alex did the introductions and held her credentials where the woman could see them. “Are you Elise Tran?”

  “How did you…? Oh wait, I see. You probably came onto the property when the pool-maintenance person left.”

  Neither Alex nor I acknowledged the statement.

  “So, just for the record, you are Elise Tran?” Alex asked.

  “Of course. But you probably knew that already. I’m Asian, and I opened the door.”

  We chose not to provide a counterpoint—she could have been hired help. Alex asked if we could have a few minutes of her time to talk about the deaths of her IBIT colleagues.

  She looked at her watch. “I have ten minutes. I hope that will work.” She was anything but pleasant, but she ushered us into the living room. Lots of white furniture, mostly leather, although I did see a gray rug. She extended an arm for us to sit—and we did—on a hard-as-rock, fancy couch. She stood, eyeing us for a moment, her arms crossed. Her posture was just as stiff as the couch. I guessed that she was a workout fiend—perhaps a triathlete or maybe into kick-boxing or some trendy form of faux-fighting. While she wasn’t cordial, she had an eerie calm about her, as if she’d been taught at a very early age to maintain her composure even while under duress.

  The coffee tables were glass and metal. A handful of small Asian carved statues were set about, and some artwork hung from the walls, also with Asian themes. But no magazines or books in this main room. Nothing warm and cozy about this place, or her.

  At the same time, there was no mistaking her beauty. I envisioned some type of S&M room hidden in the mansion, and I immediately whipped that image right out of my head. I’d been forever scarred by my chance meeting with a real sex freak, back when I was searching for Nicole’s killer.

  “What questions do you have?” Elise said, finally sitting down in a chair, crossing her legs.

  “Have you received any threats on your life in the last three days?” Alex asked.

  I went still, surprised that Alex had hit her with such a direct question.

  Elise tilted her head and frowned—both just very slightly. That was the extent of her reaction. “Why on earth would you ask me that question?” The corner of her lips tugged upward, but it never materialized into a full smile.

  “I assume you’re aware of the deaths of your two colleagues at IBIT?”

  A slow nod. Her eyes went from Alex to me and then back to Alex. She was studying us, trying to determine if we were here to ensure she was protected, or if we had another objective.

  “I am, yes.”

  Short answer. Too short.

  “I can see you’re very emotional about their deaths,” I said. Okay, I’d gone low.

  Her jaw jutted out just a bit. “The marathon bombings were a tragedy for this entire community. And losing Salvatore, especially after he’d overcome the adversity of losing his leg to cancer…well, it’s a damn shame. I can’t imagine what Angelia is feeling.”

  “Oh, did you not attend his funeral?” Alex asked.

  She paused a moment. “I’d just gotten back into town. It’s not a very good excuse, but I was jet-lagged. I’m sure I’ll look back and wish I had been there.”

  I’ll look back and wish I had been there. Interesting choice of words.

  Alex and I didn’t make a comment. We were using the same technique: wait until the quiet drove Elise to speak.

  A minute must have passed—it went much longer than any witness I’d interviewed in court or even through a deposition—but finally, she caved. First, she started kicking her leg, and then she spoke. “As for Percy and his wife, I saw it on the news, like everyone else. It’s absolutely horrible. Murdered in their own home,” she said, shaking her head. “What has the world come to?”

  If she was auditioning for the role of “torn friend and colleague,” the casting director would have kicked her out of the room. There was no real emotion behind her words. About a dozen sarcastic comebacks came to mind, but most of those were based on the premise that she was somehow behind the marathon bombings and had orchestrated the deaths of Percy and Clarissa Mack. I counted to five, allowing my nerves to calm a bit. During that time, I realized that I’d made an enormous leap to reach that conclusion. Even with her cool demeanor, we couldn’t accuse her of something we had no proof of, and we couldn’t rule out that she was the one who needed protection.

  “Were you close to Percy?”

  “What are you implying?” An edge to her voice.

  Did we just step on an unexpected mine?

  “I was only trying to understand if the three of you—you, Percy, and Salvatore—were good friends. But is there something more you need to tell me?”

  She licked her lips and shifted in her seat. Uncrossed, re-crossed her legs.

  “The three of us have had our ups and downs over the years. We were young when the company started taking off. It was an exciting time. Never knew what to expect on any given day, which was nerve-wracking, but also kind of like standing on the edge of a cliff with a parachute in your hand.”

  Was she into extreme sports? Maybe that was what I was picking up—not S&M proclivities. Oh, if Alex could read my mind right now, she’d either smack my arm or laugh her ass off. Probably both.

  Again, we waited for her to continue. It didn’t take very long this time.

  “Once we went public, it was insane. More money than we knew what to do with, instant fame in the technical community, and eventually each of us were brought into the elite social circles in the Boston area. It’s been an interesting almost thirty years.”

  “You and Percy?” Alex prompted.

  “Me and Percy.” She took in a full breath. “I really don’t have to get into this with you. It’s very personal.”

  “But…you will?”

  “I’d rather not get lawyers involved and drag this out any longer. I’m assuming this information will remain private. I really don’t want to provide any more hurt for the family.”

  “The Mack family?”

  Alex asked a question instead of responding to Elise’s request that her next words would remain private. Nothing got past Alex.

  “Percy and I had an intimate relationship for almost two years. It was quite a while back. When I was still in my thirties. So, in many respects, it’s old news.”

  At least she didn’t say it was fake news.

  “Was he married to Angelia at the time?”

  She pulled at her lip. “He said he was going to leave her. He said he never really loved her. He just married her because she was the one who was there when he was ready to get married. I was his forever, he’d said.” She sounded wistful.

  A wave of heat washed across my face. That was what I’d always felt about Nicole—she was my forever. For the first time, I could see beyond Elise’s stiff façade.

  “We planned on having kids, the whole thing. But it wasn’t meant to be, I suppose. At the last second, he backed out, said he couldn’t hurt her. I was left alone and with no future.”

  Her eyes became glassy.

  Just a second of silence.

  “So, you flew in from out of town,” Alex said, changing topics on a dime. “Were you on a vacation, or was it business?”

  “I love to travel, to experience different cul
tures. It wasn’t until I started traveling extensively did I truly understand what a bubble we live in here in the States. It’s truly remarkable how naïve people are…and spoiled.”

  Her tone had a bite to it, and her leg started kicking again. Was I sensing a resentment…maybe a societal resentment? My next thought: Maya. I wondered if Alex’s mind had taken the same path.

  “So, it wasn’t business?”

  She clasped her hands together and shook them. “I recently stopped smoking, so my hands are very used to holding a cigarette.”

  That one surprised me. I’d thought she was the epitome of calm, cool, and collected. And clearly very healthy.

  Alex wasn’t interested in her addiction issues. “Business or vacation?”

  “My, Agent Troutt, you are quite the bulldog.” She pulled off a smile this time, and it looked legitimate, but it certainly wasn’t warm.

  “I’m just trying to get through the questions, and you seem to be dodging that particular question.”

  Elise stared her down. “Vacation. Is that good enough for you?”

  “For now.”

  Alex held her stare. For some reason, I felt compelled to soothe the tension. “We understand that you resigned from the IBIT board a couple of months ago. Why?”

  “You’ve done your homework,” she said with a smirk. She tapped a finger to the top of her opposite hand. “You asked earlier if I believed I was in danger. Are these the type of questions you ask someone who might be in danger?”

  “Well, it’s not like—”

  “I’ll take this one, Ozzie,” Alex said, holding up a finger.

  “Oh my, a battle of the sexes,” Elise said. “Girl power. I love it.”

  Alex cleared her throat. I felt myself cringe inwardly—if Elise thought she had bonded with Alex, she would soon be sorely corrected.

  Alex said, “Our goal is to protect the citizens of this country. And given the recent bombings, and now paired with the murder of your colleagues, one being your, uh, ex-lover, it is a logical step to have this sit-down with you. Or, if you prefer, we can make this a more formal proceeding. You can visit our new headquarters in Chelsea and invite all sorts of lawyers and elongate this process, and we can get warrants to look at your phone records and emails, and all that kind of nasty stuff.” She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “I think you understand where I’m going.”