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

by John W. Mefford

  Ezzy dropped her head into her hands and released a couple of snorts. With her skin a shade redder, she regained her composure, but the smile on her face remained.

  A bump on my left side. “Mother, did you just say what I thought you said?”

  Erin had just slid in next to me; her friend, Shawna, squeezed in on the end.

  My whole body tensed up, including my air passage. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Erin. Ezzy and I are just talking about the game.”

  “What? I heard you say the word—”

  “Baconator, Erin.” I patted her leg like she was seven instead of a freshman in high school. “We decided to take Luke to get the new Baconator at Sam’s Burger Shop after the game, if he scores a point.”

  “Seriously? He hasn’t played a minute all season.”

  Biting into my lip, I glared across the court toward Luke, who sat at the end of the bench. His team, the Bulls, were a good team and had a 5-2 record to show for it. If they won tonight’s game against the Hoopsters, they would secure a playoff berth. Even though he didn’t like “riding the pine” as he would say, he had stuck with it, listening to his coach, working on his skills. Like any parent, I thought my kid deserved playing time, and not just the time when the team is winning or losing by thirty.

  “He’ll get his chance, and when he does, he’ll make the best of it,” I said, turning toward Erin. I got a mouth full of blond hair. She’d apparently moved on from the topic of Luke’s playing time to the gossip of the day with Shawna.

  Shifting my eyes to the right, I found Luke’s new coach. The regular coach, who hadn’t played Luke all season, was out indefinitely after suffering a hernia in practice the other night. I think they call that “karma.”

  “What’s the new coach’s name?” I asked Ezzy without taking my eyes off him.

  “Hmm.” She twisted her lips and brought a finger to her cheek. “Hamm. I think that’s what I heard Luke say. Coach Hamm.”

  Coach Hamm patrolled the sideline with a sense of authority, but he didn’t say a great deal. With a few streaks of gray mixed in with his brown head of hair, he gave off a vibe of sage wisdom, similar to Ezzy, but Coach seemed younger, closer to my age. He had an athletic build and carried himself with confidence. Easy on the eyes, that much was certain.

  “You’re about to drool on yourself,” Ezzy said, gently popping my knee.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m not blind. The coach. He’s a looker. No harm in checking out the merchandise, just don’t appear to be so obvious.”

  I waved a hand as if Ezzy had seen a mirage. She hadn’t. I’d spent most of the game forcing myself to look away, and then a few seconds would tick by and I couldn’t help but turn my gaze back toward him.

  Shit, Alex, he has a son on the team, which means his wife is probably sitting somewhere nearby.

  I poked Ezzy on the leg this time. “I don’t care if he’s Tom Frickin’ Brady, he’s going to get a tongue lashing from me after this game.”

  I paused, not sure if that had come off the way I meant it. Or were my inner thoughts playing games with my words?

  Another whistle from the court. “Hacking foul on one-two red. One-and-one from the line,” the referee said to the scorer’s table just four rows in front of us.

  I glanced to the side of the gym wall and noted the Bulls were up by just a point, 33-32, with just under two minutes left in the game. Leaning on my knees, I could feel my phone buzz again. It took everything I had not to pull it out of my purse and jump on the call. I knew it was Nick or Brad calling from One Center Plaza with details on what they’d uncovered on Margaret Turov, the woman who’d allegedly brainwashed Cobb into killing several men, including Mark. And as crazy as it sounded, the former Massachusetts State Police officer might have continued the bloody trail on her own. How and for what purpose, we had no clue—if indeed Cobb’s story was true and if she was acting alone. Only assumptions until we had evidence from someone other than a disturbed killer.

  “Crap, crap, crap,” I said under my breath.

  “It’s okay, Alex. Go ahead and take your call out in the hallway. I’ll wait in here until the game ends.”

  “I’m frustrated, that’s all. It’s not just this case. I want to be here for the kids, but I’m feeling like crap for Luke. He works his tail off in practice, works on his game at home in the driveway, in pickup games at the park. He may not be that tall, but he’s got game.”

  “Let’s go, Luke.”

  I turned to Erin who was clapping above her head, and I followed her eyes down to the court. Coach Hamm had his arm on Luke’s shoulder while pointing to the court, then Luke ran into the game.

  “What happened?”

  “Number twelve on our team fouled out. I think it was the coach’s son. He just put in Luke.”

  Scooting to the edge of my seat, I’d never been so excited and nervous at the same time. I watched Luke jog onto the court like he’d done it a million times. I released a breath.

  The kid at the free-throw line for the Hoopsters sank both shots, putting his team up by a single point.

  “Crap,” I said, probably louder than I should have.

  The Bulls took possession of the ball as the Hoopsters fell back into a 2-3 zone defense. Coach Hamm gave a triangle signal with his hands, and the kids jumped into action. Luke and three other Bulls lined up in a single line on the far side of the lane. The point guard out front, number three, yelled ‘break’ and the other kids cut across the lane or out toward the three-point line. For the next several seconds, they worked their offense with precision. Luke caught the ball on the left wing and dribbled with his left hand. The defense closed the gap, but he calmly reversed his dribble and threw it back to the top of the key. Then he cut through the lane and continued running through the motion offense.

  I glanced at the game time. Twenty seconds and counting. “They’re milking the clock for the last shot,” I said to anyone that heard me.

  Rising to my feet as the clock hit nine seconds, Luke took the ball on the right side, faked left, then did a nice crossover move and drove to the basket. I held my breath as the stands erupted.

  The ball went in, and Ezzy hugged me. I hugged her back until I heard a whistle blowing.

  “No basket, no basket,” the ref yelled. He pointed to the court and called out, “Foul on two-four orange. On the floor. One-and-one from the line.”

  Holding my breath again, with perspiration gathering in every place it could, I watched little Luke step up to the free-throw line, his team down by one with two seconds to play.

  Erin grabbed me. “He’s got to make them, Mom. He’s got to.” She jumped up and down a couple of times. I placed my hand over Erin’s, feeling just as anxious as Luke’s big sister, but I tried to keep it all inside.

  I took in a breath, closed my eyes for a moment. Hit the rim, hit the backboard, please just go in. During my mantra, my phone buzzed again. Damn, it had to be critical. But I couldn’t pick it up, even with part of my brain saying, “Lives are on the line, Alex. What’s more important—a game or a human life?”

  “Come on, Luke,” I whispered.

  The first shot caught nothing but net, and the crowd cheered.

  “Tied up,” Ezzy said to me, her nails digging into my arm.

  “Come on, baby. Drain it and let’s go home.”

  He released the ball...a great arch, on line, but it hit the front rim, and my heart sank. The ball tipped right back to Luke. He went up for a shot, but at the last second, he passed it down low to a teammate, who delivered a quick layup just as the horn sounded.

  I raised my fists to the sky as two other females screamed in my ear.

  Down on the court, I found my son at the center of a huddle with Coach Hamm talking to the team. “Luke here has shown everyone on this team what it’s like to be a great teammate. He works his tail off in practice, and then when it counted most, he came in and gave it his all. Congrats, buddy.�
�

  I think my heart melted a tad right then and there. It lasted for two minutes.

  “What? What’s going on?” I asked Nick with one finger plugging an ear as I muddled through the crowd toward the hallway.

  “Gretchen is there to pick you up, dammit,” Nick said, his intensity back in the red zone.

  I stumbled into a smaller person.

  “Alex?”

  I looked down. The person I’d almost run over was Gretchen.

  Ezzy took the kids home, and I hitched a ride with Gretchen back to One Center Plaza, where I found the team assembled in the war room. Polycoms set up on three different tables blinked red.

  “Cold-calling the White House for fun?” I asked. About a dozen heads turned in my direction, and then I was practically mugged in two seconds.

  “I know you had your son’s game, but I thought that was supposed to end an hour ago.” Nick’s tie was completely undone, draped around his neck.

  “Sorry. Too many fouls and turnovers. But Luke won the game for them.”

  “Cool. We got intel coming in on Margaret.” He pointed at the open lines. “At the same time, we’ve got the MSP, the Pentagon, and the CIA on three different lines. We’re either waiting on information, confirmation of information, or a hint that they’ll share information with us.”

  Over to my right I spotted our SSA, Jerry, his face hovering a couple of feet over the Polycom while he held a cell phone to his ear. “Let me guess, he must have drawn the CIA call.”

  Nick snickered as we gathered near the front, a whiteboard covered with photos of dead people and weapons.

  Suddenly Jerry yelled over to us as he pocketed his cell phone. “Just got word from Carella. Another murder. Similar crime scene as the others. He just arrived on the scene.”

  “What did—”

  Jerry held up a finger and went back to his call with the CIA.

  How the hell the CIA was involved, I couldn’t imagine, although federal agencies had been known to exceed their boundaries of responsibility. I scanned all the photos, then looked at the team around me. A lot of head-scratching, not much leadership.

  “Bring up a map of the area on the big screen and plot out the locations of each murder.”

  Brad nodded, then turned to Gretchen. She tapped her keyboard a few times.

  Nick said, “You’re thinking the key to finding the killer is in the numbers again, the latitude and longitude?”

  “Don’t think so. That was all Cobb and his number fetish.”

  “Crap. My machine froze up. I’m dead in the water.” My eyes went straight to Gretchen as hushed tones fell over the group.

  “Sorry, Alex. A poor choice of words.” Now I felt all the eyes on me.

  “No big deal, Gretchen.” Another couple of seconds of awkward silence, then Brad jumped in.

  “Gretchen, let’s just do a cold reboot and try to get this working.” He looked over at Nick and me. “FBI procurement. Takes a congressional inquiry to get new equipment around here. We’ll have it up in a couple of minutes. Hopefully.”

  The sounds of mice clicking and feet shuffling returned to our space, reducing the tension.

  “While we’re waiting, can someone tell me why we have the CIA on one line? And you’ve got the Pentagon on the other line?”

  Nick had his head tipped back, draining the last few drops of an energy drink.

  “I didn’t think you believed in that stuff. You at least try to stay on the healthy side of the ledger.”

  “I’m trying Alex, but then I heard this new drink calling my name as I stood in front of the vending machine.”

  He held up the green and black can labeled “Scream.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You’d have to see the commercials. Going after the millennials apparently.”

  “Then why are you drinking it?”

  He paused, then crunched the can in his hands.

  “All right, Hulk, I get it. Now spit up the story behind the CIA and Pentagon.”

  He set the can on the table and brought a fist to his chest. “Just a little indigestion,” he said as his cheeks bulged out like a bullfrog. I could feel his discomfort.

  Finally he held up a finger and walked to the whiteboard, where he tapped a picture of a familiar logo. “The Marines. This was a key point in Margaret Turov’s life, we believe.”

  I propped my chin on my hand. “I’m listening.”

  “We started with the state police. They gave us the rundown on Margaret’s most recent timetable, from their perspective.”

  Nick covered his mouth as his body lurched forward slightly. This interaction was becoming increasingly nauseating.

  I motioned him to keep going.

  “The story Cobb shared about Margaret pulling him over, finding blood, then getting kidnapped...that was in the official record of the case.”

  “I’m following.”

  “After that, however, her boss, Lieutenant Ben Murphy—”

  “Our second murder victim.”

  “That one, yes. He told his peers that Margaret had started acting strangely. She’d lash out at coworkers. One time she went into a rage when someone made decaf coffee.”

  “I’m not exactly a sweet princess when I don’t get my shot of morning caffeine.”

  Nick dropped his hands to his waist. “You don’t think I know that?”

  I smirked. “You more than anyone. Continue.”

  “Her rage wasn’t just yelling and cussing. Apparently, she destroyed their breakroom. Flipped over the fridge, took a billy club to the microwave, smashed up the coffeemaker, tossed food everywhere.”

  “Damn. I’m assuming she was suspended?”

  “She had a strong record, a number of commendations, no write-ups. So, they talked to her and learned she felt a great deal of stress from her interaction with Cobb. She actually told them how it haunted her, how she wished she would have had the chance to kill him. Or come across him sooner.”

  “It was all an act.”

  “Apparently. They sent her home for two days to think over her future.”

  “Did she ever return?”

  “She did. Two days later, she and the brass had a long conversation. She said she’d done some soul-searching and realized that she needed peace in her life, and she thought it was best to move out of law enforcement.”

  “She turned in her badge—that was it?”

  “Actually, it was all too normal. She went around and hugged everyone goodbye. The guy I spoke with, a Captain McLain, said she spent several minutes talking about old times with everyone. Even had tears in her eyes on a couple of occasions.”

  Approaching the whiteboard, I spotted Turov’s official MSP mug shot. Sporting cropped brown hair with a few blond highlights, she stared into the camera with a serious gaze. With a square jaw and broad shoulders, she appeared to be stout.

  “I don’t remember her looking this buff when we saw her that night at Cobb’s place.”

  Nick stepped closer to get a better look at the photo. “Maybe. Honestly, I don’t recall much about what she looked like. She sounded a little mousy, I remember that for some reason. Maybe our minds are just assuming she was that way physically too.”

  “Eh. Possible.”

  My eyes continued to consume all the photos, many of which I’d seen before from the grotesque crime scenes.

  “When exactly did Turov quit MSP?”

  “Captain McLain said it was four weeks after Cobb was arrested.”

  I was surprised to hear that Turov had been that open with her emotions. Unless she’d somehow planned this entire thing.

  Keeping my gaze on the board, I asked Nick, “Do you think she set Cobb up?”

  “Seems that way, doesn’t it?”

  “But then, why did she start killing again? If, of course, this trail of carnage is actually attributed to her and only her. She’d pulled off the perfect crime. Sounds like she could have ridden off into the sunset and disappeared fo
rever.”

  “I think Cobb said it best. She’s demented.”

  I nodded. “True. Could she have also predicted Cobb’s demise in prison?”

  “Hmm. Hadn’t thought about that.” Nick tapped his chin.

  Shuffling right, I found a photo taken at night of a sedan being pulled from a body of water.

  “What’s this?” I turned to face Nick.

  “Forgot that part. It’s her personal car. A fisherman hooked it from a bridge in Plymouth County.”

  I could feel a prick at the base of my neck.

  Nick continued. “They pulled it last week sometime. It took a while to process and trace back to Turov.”

  I took a closer look. “Is that a tan Crown Vic?”

  He nodded, saying, “Captain McLain said it used to be owned by his department, but they sold off the old vehicles, and Margaret bought one.”

  “This looks just like the car that tried shoving me off the road the night everything went down with Mark and Cobb.”

  “Not surprising. We both knew Cobb couldn’t have done all of this himself. Timing wasn’t right.”

  “Neither was the motivation,” I added.

  “True,” he said.

  “His motivation was obvious. To please the woman of his dreams, as warped as they turned out to be. Hers...do we know yet?”

  Nick splayed his arms as a light flashed just above my head.

  “And we’re up and running again. Sorry about the delay,” Brad said, moving my way.

  Shifting to a better angle, I glared at the screen where four red dots hovered over the map.

  “Okay, in order of when they happened...we got the first one, Monty, here in our own backyard, Back Bay.” Brad pointed at a location about two miles west of our building.

  “Next, Ben Murphy, northeast of Boston, up in Lowell.”

  I turned to Nick, who had both hands in his pockets, standing on the other side of Brad. “Did McLain offer any insight into a possible motive for Turov to kill her former boss?”

  “At first, he claimed there was nothing. But I told him we needed absolute confirmation, so he did some digging while I waited on the phone.”

  “Did his shovel hit gold?”

  With a raised eyebrow, Nick said, “Fool’s gold, if that makes any sense. Murphy apparently turned her down for promotion on two occasions.”