The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Whatever. I’m taking five,” he said behind me as my eyes caught sight of the feet of the victim. The rest of his body was around the corner in another room.

  I then gave our tour guide the cue. “Detective Tan...”

  Charlie Tan cleared his throat and stepped closer to Nick and me. “Given what we’ve seen thus far, here’s what I think happened.”

  I nodded, taking in the drops of blood on the beige carpet, leading down the hallway toward the body.

  “Perp enters the back door,” he said, pointing a blue-gloved hand around the corner. “Forced his way in, by the way. The frame was ripped off.”

  “Sounds more like a home invasion,” I said, catching a glimpse of Nick, who was standing on the toes of his shoes to look beyond a horde of people toward the back of the house.

  “Well, whatever it was, he was obviously pissed off. Came inside, found Murphy, and did a...number on him.” Charlie’s voice lingered an extra second.

  “A number?”

  His eyes drifted to the white wall. “It’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.” He started toward the room where the body was, but I held up a hand.

  “Don’t want to be distracted by the body just yet.”

  “Okay, yeah. Makes sense.”

  “You have a theory, I’m guessing?”

  “Right. It’s pretty obvious the perp knew the vic. I think the vic was running into the bedroom. We found a .38 in his bedside table.”

  “That’s the extent of your theory?”

  “Actually, given the vic’s position with the state police, I’m guessing the perp has a record, maybe he’s someone Murphy put away. Perhaps the perp just got out of the joint, then made it his mission to find him.”

  I nodded and popped the detective on the shoulder. “I like how your mind thinks, Detective.”

  Knowing we couldn’t punch a hole in every theory right off the bat—I needed a motivated investigating team—I started with the basics.

  “Let’s take a look at the body while you explain how you think this murder is connected to some other murder in the area.”

  Charlie led the way. “Watch your step. We’ve kept the body in the same condition we found it when we got here.”

  The moment I turned the corner into the bedroom I knew why.

  Blood and body organs were spread all over his chest. The carpet was a matted crimson. I heard Nick lurch a bit, but I was able to keep my coffee down.

  “Looks like someone did some excavating,” I said, immediately thinking about the night before at Monty’s. I didn’t want to go there.

  “Fuckin’ psycho,” Nick announced, moving up next to me.

  “I haven’t seen this much blood if you combined our last ten homicides,” Charlie said.

  The gash was maybe five inches wide, center of the neck.

  “You could stick your fist in there,” I said, more to myself.

  “Maybe two,” Nick added.

  Kneeling down, I paid closer attention to the remnants on the vic’s torso. “What is this crap anyway?”

  “Our ME says it’s just about everything you can pull from the throat. Larynx, Esophagus, trachea. Other blood vessels.”

  “So he did put his fist down the vic’s throat,” I said, standing back up.

  “Like I said, ‘fuckin psycho.’” Nick flexed his hands.

  “Who isn’t that we deal with in this squad?” I arched an eyebrow and moved closer to the bedside table.

  “Is the gun still inside?” I gestured toward the drawer.

  “No, we took pics, logged and bagged it,” Charlie said.

  “Was the drawer shut when you came in?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. At least part of your theory sounds plausible.” I gave him a tight-lipped smile, and he rocked forward on his shoes, obviously emboldened by the compliment.

  Nick moved closer and kept his voice down. “Last night at the bar. Isn’t this homicide a little strange? Somewhat similar?” He raised both eyebrows.

  I only responded with a blank stare. With the visuals of Monty’s murder fresh on my mind, I kept the possible comparisons to myself, at least temporarily. For whatever reason, I couldn’t get my mind to connect the murder of a nice bar owner with that of a law enforcement official. Charlie’s theory just made too much sense in how it went down. The guy who came through this house was ruthless and highly agitated.

  Charlie cleared his throat and said, “By the way, my team has liaised briefly with the Boston PD. We heard there was a murder last night where the victim had his heart pulled out of his chest.”

  I eyed Nick, then Charlie. “Word travels fast. It was bad. Even worse than this gory scene,” I said.

  “You think it could be the same perp?” he asked.

  “I need a full rundown of this crime scene before I can offer an opinion. Let me take a look at the back door,” I said, walking out of the room.

  “Or what’s left of it,” Charlie said as I passed him.

  On our way to the back of the house, I could see a path of destruction. Crap was tossed everywhere—lamps, books, trophies, pictures. When we reached the kitchen, a person wearing a jacket with CSI on the back said, “Please watch your step. Lots of people milling about, and we’re still searching the premises for every fragment of evidence.”

  “Got it,” Charlie said.

  Broken glass and wood splinters littered the linoleum floor. Ninety percent of the door appeared to have been put through a wood chipper.

  “Shotgun blast,” I said. “Sawed-off shotgun, I’m guessing.”

  The CSI guy raised his head. “Really?”

  “Look for black powder residue. Those type of guns act like cannons and spray crap all over. You would have found the evidence eventually.”

  “Thanks,” he said, then directed two others, who scrambled a bit faster.

  Nick stepped forward. “So we’re looking for a guy who’s carrying a sawed-off shotgun and some type of knife or scalpel.”

  “Maybe there was more than one perp?” I suggested.

  Charlie said, “Look, I’ve already got my team back at the office working with state police, searching through their database to find anyone who Murphy put behind bars at any time during his career.”

  “Good. Please have them coordinate their efforts through the FBI office and contact Brad Iverson, my lead intelligence analyst.” I pulled Brad’s business card and handed it to the detective.

  “Will do.” Charlie pulled out his phone, took a picture of the card, and tapped his screen a few times. Then he called someone while turning his back to us.

  I could feel Nick’s glare. “What’re you doing, Alex? Jerry said to contact him before we officially stick our noses in and assume lead agency.”

  “It’s going to happen anyway. Might as well try to stay on top of the investigation from the beginning, as opposed to waiting until they fuck it up,” I said into his ear.

  I heard a chuckle behind me. “So you think you’re taking the lead?” Lerch blocked the overhead light he was so tall, his arms crossed again.

  “Glad you showed up...”

  “Agent Small.” He scratched his chin.

  I did a double take, then looked at Nick. “Someone playing a joke on us?”

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  “I’m Special Agent Troutt; this is Special Agent Radowski.”

  “I would say the pleasure is all mine, but—”

  “This isn’t a pleasure visit,” I reminded him. “But we’re willing to act civil, professional even. Tell us what you know about this bomb.”

  Detective Tan had just strolled up and pocketed his phone.

  Lerch wiped his face, and I noticed his jaw muscles flexing. He forced out a breath.

  “Okay, the bomb device was found in the spare bedroom.”

  “Can we see it?”

  “We’ve already taken the pieces into evidence, and they’re on the way to our evidence lab.”

  I nodded. “W
here did you find it?”

  “Actually, it was inside a sewing machine.”

  I could feel the hair stand up on the back of my neck. “The wife. Where is she?”

  “We’re already looking for her. It appears the drawers to her dresser are mostly empty.”

  “Do we need to get a warrant for her arrest?” I asked.

  “You think we need to put out an APB?” Charlie asked.

  “That would be quicker than us calling the assistant US Attorney and getting a warrant, yes.”

  Charlie flipped around and got on his phone again.

  “Where are the FBI agents?” I heard someone ask. Barreling into the front door of the house and making his way back to us was the fresh-faced officer we’d met out front.

  I held up my hand. “Right back here. What’s going on? Any sign of the wife?”

  Just then I noticed a thin woman with pasty-white skin, her arms covering her chest, walking behind the officer.

  “This neighbor here says she knows why the wife and daughter weren’t home.”

  Charlie turned and barked before I could respond. “What do you think you’re doing, bringing her in here? Move the conversation outside.” He herded both of them out to the front porch. Nick and I were right behind them.

  “Okay, what can you tell us?”

  The officer said, “Her name is—”

  “She can speak for herself.”

  “Uh, yeah. Go ahead,” the officer said.

  “Roberta Seward.”

  I did the FBI introductions and asked her to share what she knew about the wife and daughter.

  She just shook her head. “I knew something bad would happen. Always does in this kind of situation.”

  “What kind of situation are you talking about?”

  “Where that prick, Ben, is just sticking his dick into anything that moves.” Her lips were so thin they almost disappeared.

  Glancing at Nick, I said, “How do you know this?”

  “Nancy told me, that’s how.”

  “Nancy’s the wife?” I asked.

  Roberta gave a quick nod. “She was tired of it. That’s why she left him.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Two, maybe three weeks.”

  I could feel tension in my body spreading like a brush fire, but I pressed on. “Do you know how long he’s been screw—I mean, seeing other women?”

  Her eyes bulged out for a second. “Nancy first told me about a year ago. I think it’s been off and on for years. But she just put up with it. You know, playing the good-soldier’s-wife routine.”

  I paused for a second, and Charlie stepped in between us. “Ma’am, I’ll need you to work with one of my detectives to take down your full statement.”

  Another detective walked up and took Roberta to the side of the porch.

  I stepped in that direction and held up a hand. “One more thing, Roberta. Did Nancy ever talk about retribution?”

  One of the corners of her mouth edged upward. “Well...”

  “Yes?”

  “I think any woman in her position would be pissed, make a few threats. That’s all they were. Just blowing off steam.”

  “Any mention of blowing up something else?”

  She snickered. “She joked about blowing up the entire house, with Ben sitting in his man-cave chair with his beer between his legs.”

  I moved back inside with Nick. Charlie was right behind him, even though he wasn’t invited into our conversation.

  “You thinking she might have hired someone to kill him since she never completed the bomb?” Nick asked.

  “It’s possible. We need to hold her under suspicion of murder for hire, as it is.”

  “We can take care of that,” Charlie offered.

  “Thanks.” I took Nick by the shoulder.

  “We need to put in a call to the US Marshals office.”

  He shook his head. “I know we’re both concerned about a possible connection between Monty’s murder and this homicide, if only because of the way they were cut open.”

  I nodded as I scrolled through my phone.

  “But I’m not following you. Why get another agency involved, especially the US Marshals?”

  “Because they’re holding J. L. Cobb, the man who killed all the other cheating husbands. I need to know he’s still behind bars.”

  Nick made the call as my stomach formed a knot the size of Lerch’s head.

  6

  The clap of her heels, some type of Jimmy Choo knockoffs, echoed off the concrete sidewalk. She walked under the marquee of the Millennium Theatre, which actually sat atop the gold Ocean sign—a connection to the venue’s confusing history when it opened in 1934 as the Ocean Theatre.

  Without breaking stride in her tight-fitting, sequined dress, she spotted the exact location where she and Mikey Pavlovich had shared their first kiss. And then some. It had been a good twenty years since she and the hunky high school senior had mugged down while leaning against the glass display, second from the left. They ended up missing the first half of the Ray Charles concert, lost in each other. She’d thought that feeling would never end. Never.

  The Atlantic breeze whipped her bare legs, not an ounce of fat on them, yet she could feel a rise in her body temperature, and her breathing became labored. The little prick, Mikey, as it turned out, was hedging his bets, sweet-talking her one night, while romancing what he would call “a more mature girl” on other nights. Nights when she thought he was working at his father’s liquor store to earn money so he could take her on a big-time date, maybe to a high-dollar Broadway show.

  Fuck him. And fuck her.

  She heard the hissing of air as she inhaled and exhaled between clenched teeth, as if she were cracking a bone in two.

  Not a bad thought. Maybe she’d actually take that next step in her evolution. Later, though.

  She tossed her lime green and deep burgundy scarf over her shoulder, her eyes still peeled to the window display where she’d thought foolishly that all her happy dreams would come true.

  A car horn blared, which caused her heart to jump. Turning to the road, three guys leaned out of the hopped-up, chocolate-brown Monte Carlo, whistling and yelling a bunch of Russian catcalls. Her instinct said to pull her .38 from her black clutch and fire off three quick rounds to their chests, puncturing their hearts. But she found herself slowing her pace, surprisingly smitten by their lurid comments. Her lips turned upward at the corners, and she flipped her fingers through the edge of her cropped, gelled hair.

  “Get out of the way, you old bag,” some gangbanger said, wearing his flat-bill Yankees cap off to the side.

  She froze, then her eyes looked down.

  “Old bitch, we want to see that fine piece of poon. Get the fuck out of the way.”

  Glancing to her right, she noticed a girl about half her age sauntering with purpose, her tight ass popping with each step. She had flawless skin, but it was her substantial cleavage that had undoubtedly drawn the seemingly animalistic hoots from the frothing animals.

  She put her hand on her clutch, feeling the outline of the pistol, momentarily picturing how this scene could play out. She was no virgin in the art of war. Carrying out this act wouldn’t even enter her top one hundred of most memorable events in her life.

  But most of those had been carried out in a place that few could fathom, let alone survive.

  Another blare of the horn. Shaking her head at the Brighton Beach maggots, she realized not much had changed since her teenage years.

  She shifted her eyes forward and within seconds heard her heels motoring down the sidewalk, her pulse moving just as quickly. She knew she couldn’t get bogged down in trivial matters. They would only derail her mission. And her mission was all she had. All that mattered in her life.

  Moving past Brighton 7th Street, she cut between two older model Corvettes and crossed the street, turning south down Brighton 6th Street. She hopped onto the crowded sidewalk and nearly ran into four guys in vel
our sweats and chunky gold chains.

  One of them made some type of wet sound with his mouth, and in perfect stride, she jabbed her heel into the toe of his Adidas shoe.

  “Ah, fuck,” he said, hopping on one leg.

  She just kept walking, her destination not far ahead. A half-block away, she could see the lights from Tatiana, and her stomach fluttered with butterflies. She felt like she was preparing to take the stage for her own opening night on Broadway. Everything else before this night was nothing more than a dress rehearsal.

  Nailing it on opening night typically led to rave reviews and splashy headlines promising patrons a can’t-miss evening of entertainment. She knew what she had planned was nothing short of a breakout performance that would elicit cries from every corner in this pathetic section of Brooklyn.

  Two guys in suits anchored each side of the front door. She forced herself to show a toothy smile, and they traded stares then glared straight ahead. Upon entering, she noticed a colorful cabaret show playing at the far end, the raucous music bringing people to their feet, clapping and hollering in their native Russian.

  She asked to be seated in the quieter section, along a wall, her eyes able to take in the entire space. The restaurant and nightclub was nothing if not gaudy—just like the rest of Brighton Beach. Gold and red decor played with the blinding purples and pinks of not only the singers and dancers on stage, but also the patrons.

  She’d stopped at Julia’s Boutique to pick up the tight number she’d squeezed her rectangular figure into, but from seeing how the other women were dressed, it was obvious she hadn’t found the truly slutty selection.

  “A drink, miss?”

  A napkin was tossed on her table, and the woman looked into the waitress’s eyes.

  It was her, and a rush of adrenaline flooded her veins. She dug her fingers into her leg under the table.

  “I’ll have a Grey Goose, neat. Thank you.”

  The waitress still had that look from more than two decades earlier. A nice figure, even her skin seemed vibrant. She took down the woman’s order, and that was when she noticed the server’s nails. They didn’t match the rest of her vibe. They appeared to be chewed. The woman looked at her eyes again, set deep in her head, with dark circles beneath.