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

by John W. Mefford

  “Not sure what that means for our investigation, but we have two dead priests, two different types of bombs, and no obvious leads, other than a grieving nun,” Nick said, as he pulled out a piece of gum and squashed it in his mouth.

  An officer accidentally bumped my shoulder in the narrow hallway.

  “Too many ears in this place,” I said in a low voice to Nick. “Assemble the team. We need some quick research.”

  Nick stopped smacking his lips for a second. “I’ve heard that before. That means we might be working for the next four straight days with no sleep.”

  “Not if my theory is right.”

  “Hallelujah!” Nick said.

  3

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Nick whispered.

  An invisible cloud of spearmint invaded my personal space, and I held my breath for a moment. Leaning my weight on the arm of his chair, Nick continued chomping his gum like it was the only remaining method to generate power to the FBI building.

  We were sitting in the office of Jerry Molloy, our supervisory special agent, or in the land of federal acronyms, our SSA. Jerry was on the phone, leaning back so far in his swivel chair I thought it might topple over. Given how I’d only heard an occasional “right” and “yes sir” in the last fifteen minutes, it told me he was likely speaking with someone in DC—above my pay grade, as I’d been told a hundred times.

  “Alex?”

  My eyes stayed on Jerry as I spoke to Nick in a soft tone. “Sorry, just running everything through my mind again. To answer your question, yes.”

  Nick inched closer. “So you think that Father Carroll, the bishop of the Boston archdiocese, was being truthful when we asked him if he knew about any molestation allegations against either of the two dead priests.”

  I leaned over to pick up my purse, and I nearly knocked heads with Nick. He got the hint and retreated to his own space. I pulled my phone out of my purse and checked for any messages from my two kids, Luke and Erin. Ezzy, our nanny who could have also been called our savior, was at a doctor’s appointment, which meant I had to be on call if necessary to be the cab driver for a sixth and ninth grader.

  Truth be told, I was worried about Ezzy, whose naturally stubborn disposition was most visible whenever her health came into question. Hell, it seemed like we could have waterboarded her before she’d share any personal information. Ever since she fainted while bringing groceries in the house over a month ago, I’d been hounding her to see a doctor. Finally, she relented, if only to get me to shut up.

  Whatever works.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Nick said, waving his hand in front of my face.

  “I heard you.” I placed my phone in my lap, crossed my arms, and moved my neck in a circular motion. I could still feel the tension in my shoulders from standing in the cold earlier. “We asked Father Carroll if he personally knew of any allegations, and he said no. That doesn’t mean that we can assume both of these priests were above reproach.”

  “But he even said we could review their records without going through the hassle of obtaining a search warrant.”

  “And I believe him.” I lifted my eyes to see Jerry nodding and grunting one-word responses. I had to assume he wasn’t being demoted or anything that severe, not with him letting Nick and me sit in his office.

  I glanced at Nick and said, “Still, though, we need to do our own research. While a number of people have come forward with allegations against their priests in the last several years, that doesn’t mean the problem has been eradicated. There are bad apples in every profession.”

  “Including the FBI,” Jerry said as he clicked the phone receiver into its base on his desk.

  “You have something to share, Jer?” I gave him a cheeky smile.

  He released a guffaw that jiggled his jowls like a ripple of water. “Oh, the stories I could tell.” He sucked in a tired breath, while leaning forward to grab a doodad off his desk. The frame of his swivel chair whined in response to the extraordinary strain Jerry was putting on it. He leaned back again, his fingers toying with his little metal toy.

  “We’re all ears, and we won’t tell a soul.” Nick offered a grin.

  “There’s a better chance of me telling my mother-in-law than you two.”

  I tapped his desk, trying to act offended. “Seriously, you’d tell your in-law over your two best agents?”

  Another jowl jiggle. “I give in, although I know you’re just yanking my chain. Besides, my mother-in-law couldn’t hear a chandelier drop from the ceiling if she was standing two feet from where it landed.”

  “But if she was two feet from where it landed, she’d probably suffer a major injury.” Nick apparently enjoyed pointing out the obvious.

  Jerry placed his big mitt of a hand on top of the papers scattered like leaves all over his desk. “Now you get my point.” He winked, then went back to fiddling with his trinket.

  “You asked us in here for a reason?” I held up my phone with the time clearly displayed to emphasize our desire to not waste any more time.

  “Uh, yeah. Just want to hear your initial thoughts on this bombing. Any connection to last week?”

  I reviewed the debrief we’d had earlier with the ATF agent formerly known as Lurch. “Small’s not one to harp on theories and personas. He just simply gave us the facts.”

  “The facts. That’s a good place to start. But can we conclude the same person is responsible for both bombs, and just as importantly, why?” Jerry asked.

  “It’s only been a few hours,” Nick said.

  “So what’s taking so long?”

  Nick chuckled just once, but was met with a stone-cold stare. Our SSA wasn’t in a joking mood.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be a jerk, but back when those two assholes set off bombs during the Boston Marathon, the people of this city endured unbearable pain and stress.”

  Nick let out an audible breath. “I remember it well. We were all working our asses off. Everyone I interacted with was on pins and needles.”

  “Shit, there was nothing needle-like about it. The DC brass was shoving a jackhammer up my ass during that time.”

  I tried to steer away from the tense memories, as well as any pictures forming in my mind of Jerry’s crude analogy. I moved to the edge of my seat, signaling my desire to get the discussion back on track.

  “Jer, I know you occasionally like to get into the weeds. So you don’t get surprised, we’re looking into the angle that this might be some type of revenge by a former altar boy.”

  “Molestation?”

  “That’s the thought.”

  “No evidence points that way.”

  “Nothing yet, but we’ve got Brad and Gretchen already scouring the Internet for threats or warnings related to that type of retribution, as well as anyone who was recently released from prison in the New England area and might have a fetish for bombs. You never know, those two searches could overlap. If so, we might have our perp.”

  Jerry held up the metal trinket and squinted. “Sounds like you’ve got a good working theory. ATF going to play nice and share what they know without us having to go above their heads to Homeland Security again?”

  “Yeah, I think we’re okay on that front.”

  “You and Allen Small seemed to be more than okay,” Nick said. I swung my gaze his way. His eyes were twinkling.

  I decided to ignore the middle school comment. I knew there was nothing between Small and me. How could there be? He was a foot taller.

  “Keep this in mind as you work all your sources,” Jerry said, riding his chair forward until it banged to a stop as his belly pressed against the edge of his desk. “Think about the church in general, not just these two priests. Someone might be making a statement against the Pope, or church policy, or whatever.”

  “I get it. Thanks for the insight,” I said, lifting to my feet. “By the way, you seem rather fond of your little toy there.”

  “Ah, the Eiffel Tower. Not sure if you recall, but Tracy
and I celebrated our twentieth anniversary in Paris six months ago. I’m not big on pictures, so this little guy, you know...”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  ***

  Lifting my eyes from the laptop screen, I could see a pair of smiles on the other side of the glass door to the war room.

  I nudged Nick’s shoulder. “They’ve either broken the case in two hours flat, or Gretchen’s about to announce that she’s pregnant.”

  Nick almost choked on his chewing gum. “Her being pregnant wouldn’t explain Brad’s toothy grin.”

  “Good point.”

  The glass door popped open and in walked Brad, one of the FBI’s brightest young minds and our lead intelligence analyst. He was a half-stride in front of his diminutive sidekick, Gretchen, who, since transferring from the New York office, had established quite a reputation as a tireless researcher who didn’t mind the junior role of staff operations specialist. In fact, my guess was she relished it, if only because it gave her the opportunity to work alongside Mr. Tall and Preppy. She’d put considerable effort into landing said target for a good couple of months. The pair had disappeared just after Nick and I left Jerry’s office, and now, after witnessing their shit-eating grins, part of me wondered if they’d finally come out of hiding to share the latest news about their relationship.

  “We think we have your perp.” Brad plopped a file on the oval table.

  Nick and I exchanged glances, then I looked at both Brad and Gretchen. I’d misjudged their grins, although Gretchen couldn’t stop shifting her eyes to Brad’s backside. Damn, she was smitten by the young man who had the looks of Ryan Gosling. At one point in time, Nick had joked with me about hooking up with Brad. While I recognized good looks just as much as the next girl, I wasn’t ready for anything more than a flirtatious wink. On top of that, I viewed Brad as more of a younger brother. At least that’s what I told myself whenever a wayward thought entered my mind.

  Just then, my phone buzzed and rattled across the table as Nick snatched the folder and opened it.

  I peeked at the screen and noticed it was Luke, my sixth grader. “Give me a minute,” I said, standing up and walking away from the noise. I heard Nick from behind me. “I’m too curious. We’re not waiting on you, Alex.”

  Flipping my head to look over my shoulder, I tapped the green circle on my phone screen. “Hey Luke, what’s going on?”

  I only heard kids yelling in the background and a constant stream of air into the phone.

  “Luke?”

  “Hey...Mom, do you think you can come and get me?” His voice cracked, and he sounded exhausted, if not defeated. That wasn’t my little ball of fire.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?”

  A high-pitched shrill drew closer. “Luke?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Uh, nothing. Just kids doing kid things. Can you come and pick me up?”

  I thought I heard a sniffle. “Sure, but don’t you have basketball practice in the school gym?”

  “Mom!” He’d cupped his hand over the phone, and his voice sounded demonic.

  But I knew that was code for stop asking questions.

  “I’ll be right there. Are you safe?”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not going to have to investigate my murder.”

  I pulled the phone from my ear as my extremities felt an instant jolt. He knew he’d punched one of my buttons, but now wasn’t the time to tell him what I thought about his new strategy.

  “I’m on my way.” The line went dead before I could tap the red circle, and I walked back to the table and shut my laptop as the gang of three debated our next move.

  “I still don’t understand how you found this guy.” Nick clutched the folder with white knuckles as he paced back and forth, his eyes studying the blue industrial carpet.

  “It was really quite simple.” Gretchen stepped in front of Brad to ensure she had everyone’s full attention.

  Brad noticed me closing my laptop very slowly. “Alex, you’re off the phone so you can weigh in if you think this guy is a legitimate suspect.”

  “Guys, I really have to get going. It’s Luke.”

  Turning his body, Brad placed both palms on the table. “Is everything okay?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, I think he’s safe right now, but I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Eleven, going on twelve.”

  “Could just be early hormones.”

  “Yeah.” My voice couldn’t sound any less convinced. I slid the computer into my oversized purse and gathered up some papers.

  “Alex, I think we might have something.” Nick walked closer, the bent folder held up like a trophy.

  I swiped my phone and held up a digital timer. “You’ve got sixty seconds. After that, you’re on your own.”

  I surveyed the three faces. It was obvious no one was sure they wanted the pressure of time hanging over their heads.

  “Okay, I’ll take that challenge.” Gretchen had raised her tiny hand. She seemed to get smaller every time I saw her. Or maybe I just felt like an Amazon woman.

  “Go ahead.” I already felt guilty for making Luke wait another minute.

  “It wasn’t difficult to find a number of people who had made posts on blogs about bombs. Some sounded serious, others even joked about sticking a bomb up a cow’s, uh...you know.”

  “We know what you mean,” Brad said with a quick flash of his dimples.

  “And?” I rolled my hand like I was a director, my pulse clocking an accelerated pace.

  “We know that a lot of people post under different names, either because they’re hiding something or they just don’t want people to know their real name.”

  “Embarrassed by themselves. That’s a red flag of some kind,” Nick threw in.

  “Well,” Gretchen said, “I’ve got this cool program where I can trace a single blog post across the Internet, and it will start to create a web of traffic related to that person’s IP address.”

  “Very technical, Gretchen. Can you translate, please?” Brad crossed his arms, giving off a vibe of a young professor.

  She couldn’t stop grinning, maybe because Brad was talking to her, or perhaps because she’d found the proverbial smoking gun. She had my attention.

  “Ten seconds and counting,” I said, shouldering my weighted purse.

  Gretchen leaped forward a giant step, accidentally ramming her chest into Brad’s elbow.

  “Ah, shit.” She clenched her shoulders as her face turned fire-engine red. “Give me a second.”

  “Oh, sorry, Gretchen,” Brad said as the SOS turned and walked away from the group. He took a step in her direction.

  She waved him off. “I’ll be perfectly okay. It’s not like you hit the Grand Tetons.”

  Nick nearly spit into his hand. I just shook my head at the buffoonery, but I felt for Gretchen, in more than one way.

  Brad turned toward me and shrugged his shoulders, his face scrunched up like a prune.

  “It’s okay. Just pretend you got racked and then someone makes a joke about how small your package is,” Nick said.

  I gave him the eye.

  “Sorry. I don’t know anything about women.”

  “True.”

  Brad had a confused look.

  Gretchen turned back around while taking a swig of a bottled water she must have picked up from a nearby table.

  She took in a deep breath, and Brad gently touched her elbow, saying quietly, “You sure you’re okay?”

  She reached down and touched his hand while staring into his blue eyes. “Yes, thank you.” Their eyes locked for a moment.

  Maybe there was something there. I was happy for Gretchen, but I was still in a rush.

  I cleared my throat and re-saddled my purse.

  Gretchen flinched back into the here and now. “My program, right. It scoured the web and started piecing together a profile on this unique
IP, which basically means someone sitting at their computer.”

  “Can you give me a summary?”

  “Sure. In just the last week, this IP address had sixty-three unique visits to various blog sites. Sixty of those were mainly focused on bomb-making.”

  I could feel a little tingle in the base of my skull. “The other three?”

  “Something about canning various food products or something like that. But I’m not finished. He actually posted two hundred ninety-four times. On average, almost five posts on each blog. And most importantly for each one, he used a different name.”

  “That program sounds like a cool little back-pocket tool,” Nick said.

  “Believe me, it rocks,” Gretchen said.

  “We can’t say it’s perfect yet. This is actually a beta version,” Brad said, shifting his eyes to Gretchen, then over to Nick, who’d pulled up next to me.

  I started backpedaling to the door. “Anything else you can share before I walk out the door and never return?”

  The group knew me well enough to know I was joking.

  “I found one social media post where this man said he hoped all priests were raped like his brother had been in prison.”

  I stopped moving and locked eyes with my partner.

  “I’m wondering the same thing, Alex,” he said. “This guy might be related to J. L. Cobb.”

  My gut twisted inside out. “Do we have this nut job’s real name?”

  “Yes, but something doesn’t add up,” Brad said. “The data we have on the man associated with this IP at his current home address—”

  “Name?” I shot back, my blood racing through my veins.

  “Arnold Lyons. Shows here he’s age sixty-three. A veteran who has a disability of some kind.”

  “What doesn’t add up?” I asked with agitation in my voice.

  “According to our records, it states that Arnold Lyons is the half-brother of Cobb.” Brad kept his gaze on me, as I found the back of the nearest chair and used it as a prop, my chest pumping oxygen to my brain so fast I thought I might topple over.

  I started shaking my head. “A half-brother who’s almost forty years older?”