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

by John W. Mefford

He was right. In just a few minutes, almost subconsciously, I’d gone from thinking I might be ready to stay at home, take care of the kids, to nearly begging my boss to give me work.

  “I have a purpose. It’s all about figuring out why I had this wreck,” I said, with my eyes studying the numerous icons on the small screen.

  “Yeah, sure. You can take the girl out of the FBI, but you can’t take the FBI out of the girl. Or something like that,” he said, laughing at his poor joke.

  I heard the cadence of the blinker, and I lifted my head to see Nick pulling off the road onto a swath of grass and weeds. In front of us, yellow tape surrounded a large tree missing most of its leaves.

  We exited the car and walked toward the tree. Taller pines bordered both sides of the two-lane road. A car whizzed by, blowing cooler air into my face.

  “Damn, he was moving. I didn’t notice the speed limit, did you?”

  Nick pointed behind us. “It’s on the other side of the hill, hidden by some overgrown brush. Said forty-five.”

  I stared at the hill, then followed the path back toward the road until I was about fifty feet in front of the tree where I’d sandwiched my Crown Vic. I spotted tread marks on the pavement. Walking closer to the road, a cement mixer motored in our direction.

  Nick grabbed my arm. “Don’t get too close now.”

  I turned back toward him with a scowl on my face. “You sure you don’t have kids?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well, you’re talking to me like one, and holding my arm like I’m one.” I looked down at his hand on my arm, and he let go. “I may not be able to recall much of my life, but I do know that I’m over the age of twenty-one by a long shot.”

  “Sorry,” he said, sidling up next to me. He pointed at one group of tread marks. “This set here appears to scoot right, then turn three-hundred-sixty degrees before going off the road.”

  “True, but then there’s this other set,” I said, shuffling to my right while nudging Nick out of my way. “The two intersect near the center of the road.”

  I heard a whirring engine and turned to see a sports car hugging the road, moving at a fast pace. The driver, who looked to be in his mid-fifties, shot us the finger then laid on his high-pitched horn.

  “That asshole must have been going eighty. Just on a joy ride.” I took three steps into the middle of the road and returned the one-finger gesture, yelling, “Up yours, asswipe!”

  “Up yours?” Nick laughed, leaning over at his waist and slapping his thighs. “I’m really enjoying this new and improved Alex Giordano.”

  Walking with more purpose, I jabbed my elbow into his rib cage as I moved toward the yellow tape. He grunted as I said, “Glad I’m so entertaining.”

  “I’m just messing with you,” he said with limited air pushing through his lungs. “But obviously you’re not.”

  I reached the point where my car’s tires had started tearing through the turf, and I crouched down and touched the dirt. I glanced back at the road.

  “I’m sure the MSP did all the tread comparisons to make sure it’s just one set of used tires from a government-issued Crown Victoria,” Nick said from over my shoulder.

  “One set,” I said, following the path of torn-up dirt back out to the road.

  I lifted off my knees and walked straight to the road, trying to imagine the trajectory the car had taken to end up wrapped around the enormous oak, passenger side first.

  “You think this wasn’t a one-car accident,” Nick said, trudging my way, the fog of his breath pumping out of his mouth.

  “That sounded like a statement. To me, it’s more of a question, which no one is asking,” I said, shifting my head from the road back to the tree.

  “Alex, we’re not experts in this type of thing. These days, they have all sorts of analytical tools they use to help them understand the cause of a wreck, almost as if they’re watching it live.”

  I gave him the eye, my hand planted at my waist. “I’d like to at least talk to the investigator. You know, that whole peace-of-mind thing.”

  “You mean you want a piece of his ass.”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  I walked over by the tree and touched it. “You realize we haven’t seen any destroyed signs, which means the gold color on the back bumper came from something else.”

  “We drive these cars into the ground. You could have bumped another car or something else a week or more before the crash.”

  “Could have, yes,” I said, turning to face him. “You like countering all of my theories, don’t you?”

  “It’s my job. Someone has to do it, and when we were partners, you didn’t make my life very comfortable, that much I’ll say.”

  His eyes left mine.

  I took in a breath and tried to take my foot off the mental pedal. “Sorry, Nick…you know, for anything I did or said in the past that may have hurt you.”

  He shuffled his scuffed shoe in the dirt as we made our way back to his car. “No harm, no foul. I’m probably a little sensitive, given you asked to ride solo a few months back.”

  Another regret about something I couldn’t recall. “I owe you a large Dunkin’ coffee, on me,” I said with a sly grin.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Over coffee, you can show me how to access my work email over this phone.”

  “So you’re using me again, huh?” He opened the car door and stuck in a foot.

  “Just taking advantage of my opportunities from those who have all the knowledge.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  Just then his phone rang. He took the call while I studied the surrounding area. I heard him attempting to speak, but the person on the other line wouldn’t give him a chance.

  “Crap,” he said, tossing his phone on the car seat. “They’re asking me to go support a crime scene north of here. I told them I was on babysitting duty and—”

  “Thanks for that description.”

  “Anyway, they ignored me. Running low on resources now. Lots of people are out with the flu. So I guess you’ll tag along.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “A fisherman found a man drowned to death.”

  “Why call us, the FBI, I mean?”

  “The SSA said it was too difficult to explain. I’d have to see it to believe it.”

  Nick turned on the flashing lights visible on the back side of the visor, and we sped north while I tried to figure out how to access my FBI email.

  6

  We banked right in our airboat, and the brisk wind slapped the chilled water back in my face. For the second time today, I felt my lungs clear as nature infused me with renewed vigor. If we hadn’t been on our way to a murder crime scene, I would have asked for the ride to continue for another thirty minutes.

  Turning to look over my shoulder, I saw a legion of airboats dip and dodge through the marshes splintering off Essex Bay. I only knew this because Nick had shown me a map on his phone while we waited on the muddy shoreline, an unsightly mosh pit of mud and weeds. FBI, MSP, local police, and a few other agencies were part of the crew headed for Choate Island.

  The initial team had apparently already been working the crime scene. We were part of the second wave. Given our sheer numbers and the urgency in the way people moved, it was as if we were poised to storm the beaches of Normandy.

  Another random historical fact that had zipped through my mind. But I still had no visual images of even my own home.

  “We’re hitting shore just ahead, around the bend.” Wearing a yellow hoodie, the boat’s driver pointed as he shouted above the roar of the engine.

  Once my feet hit the ground, it wasn’t very solid. It was a marsh, after all. Nick’s first step sunk about a foot, and when he pulled up, his socked foot popped out of his leather shoe. I could see his lips fire off a few cuss words, but no one could hear regular chatter over the clapping, windmill-sized propeller.

  Once Nick was on shore, wearing both sh
oes and about ten extra pounds of caked-on mud, we followed the group to the southwestern side of the island.

  “What’s this island used for?” I whispered to Nick.

  “Just random fishing, I think. Never been out here. Wish I wasn’t here right now.”

  We trudged through waist-high weeds and sections of mud that looked more like quicksand. I heard someone call out, “Be on the lookout for snakes.” The thought of a snake slithering up one of the legs of my pants didn’t give me a warm-and-fuzzy, but I literally saw Nick quiver when he heard the news. Maybe nature wasn’t his thing.

  Led by a guy with a machete, we slowly made our way through a thicket of brush and emerged just next to the temporary hub for the crime-scene investigators.

  “People, are you listening?” Some guy with an FBI jacket, mirrored sunglasses, and a mustache took charge—whether that was his role or not, I wasn’t sure. He darted his head left and right, then finally put two fingers in his mouth. His whistle silenced the shore. “People, can I have your attention?”

  Nick nudged me and made sure I saw him roll his eyes. Was I supposed to know this guy who looked like he belonged on a 1980s porn movie set?

  “People, we have a lot of agencies with money in this game. But we must remember this is an active crime scene. We cannot and will not mess with the integrity of my crime scene.”

  “His crime scene. Eat me,” Nick said in my ear.

  “Do I have your full agreement on this matter?” The man used his hands as he spoke, as if he were preaching. In some respects, he was.

  “If you want to jump on Facebook and chat with your friends or share a picture on Instagram, you can get a boat ride back to the mainland. Am I clear on this?”

  Mumbles and a few yes sirs came from around me.

  There must have been forty people encircling the Grand Poobah. He clapped his hands, and everyone went back to work.

  Nick and I waited for the crowd to clear a bit, then made a beeline toward the lead douche bag.

  Jerry had texted Nick on the way over with two explicit demands. He wanted to know what the hell type of crime had created such a stir among the law-enforcement community, and he wanted to make sure Nick kept me safe and away from anyone who hadn’t received the memo that I was on LOA—even if I was at a murder crime scene.

  As both of us stood next to the mustached man who was holding a one-way discussion with three guys in scuba gear, Nick was grimacing and lifting his legs, staring at the mud, which was quickly hardening into mud bricks, on his shoes.

  “I’m sure you can clean them off. It might just take a chisel and a crowbar.”

  “I’ve had these shoes for ten years. They match my suits and suspenders, and they fit my feet like a glove.”

  “Then why aren’t you wearing them on your hands?” I gave Nick a playful wink just as Mustache Man turned on his heels. He removed his mirrored glasses and eyed me, then let out a quick chuckle.

  “Alex. It’s been a while.”

  I slowly turned my torso to Nick and made my eyes go wide. Had he forgotten to fill me in on a very important fact? The only facts I was certain of were that I didn’t know this guy and I didn’t feel like sharing my life story, or what I knew of it.

  “Yep,” I said, purposely turning my head, allowing Nick to take the lead.

  “Okay, be that way,” he muttered.

  Just as I opened my mouth, Nick chimed in.

  “How’s it going, Randy?”

  “Eh. Different day, different psychopath.”

  “How can I help with the investigation?”

  “Not clear yet. I’ll let you and your old-new partner here take a look at what we’re dealing with, then we can divide and conquer. Capisce?”

  Randy led us over to a team in amphibious gear by the muddy shoreline, where shards of cracked ice were floating in the shallow water. “We’ve yet to bring the body on shore since we’re still trying to capture everything on film first. Of course, with a body in saltwater, we’re not going to find much, if any, trace evidence. And you can blow transient evidence out your ass. There’s nothing there.”

  I scrunched my eyes and leaned to my right to try to get a peek at the dead body. There were at least two guys in scuba gear swimming near the surface of calm water in an area about fifteen feet off the shore, taking pictures.

  “Mike here will fit you with wetsuits.”

  Randy turned and walked away as Nick raised his hand to me in protest.

  “You can’t do this, Alex.”

  “Why not? I’m an FBI agent just like you. I’m sure I can help in the investigation.”

  I moved toward Mike, who found a wetsuit that fit me. He pointed at a portable tent where I could change.

  “Alex, you’ve got to be kidding me. Jerry will have my ass for dinner if you go into that water.”

  “Geez, Nick, relax. It’s not like I’m swimming the English Channel. I’m just getting a better view of the crime scene. Jerry said he wanted all the information, right? I’m only here to help.”

  “Dammit.” He removed his fedora and scratched the back of his head. “This isn’t my natural environment. I think I’ll watch here from the shore. But if Jerry asks, I vehemently protested you going in. Hell, he might tell me I need to put you in handcuffs.”

  “But what would Antonio say?” I disappeared into the tent before he could respond. I squeezed and squished my body into the wetsuit and emerged in no time.

  I was given a snorkel, mask, and fins. “It’s not very deep, but you’ll sink into the mud unless you use the fins to stay afloat,” Mike, the amphibious-team leader, told me.

  Part of me worried about the physical exertion warning I’d been given. But what was the worst thing that could happen? My head would hurt a little more? Any doctor would tell me to take two ibuprofen and get some sleep, which I hoped to do in my own unfamiliar bed this evening.

  For now, though, I had to admit a few butterflies were fluttering inside. Something about the scene excited me—maybe not traipsing through mud and murky water, but the idea of studying a crime scene and then investigating all the logical questions. What was the motivation of the killer? When did it happen? And how the hell could we piece together the jigsaw puzzle to apprehend the person who committed the brutal crime?

  “I’m going to lift you off the shore and set you in the water. Then start flapping your fins and you’ll be fine,” Mike said. He was about a foot from my face. He had a pleasant look about him.

  Mike turned away for a second and used a rope to pull in one of the other divers from the water. With my finned feet planted in one spot, I leaned back to Nick, pulling down my mask.

  “Having second thoughts?” he asked.

  “Dude, you forgot to give me the scoop on douche-bag Randy.”

  “It didn’t occur to me until he said something. And then it really hit me.”

  I could feel a knot forming in my gut. “You might want to tell me now, since I’m not in a good position to come over there and kick your ass.”

  He chuckled.

  “What?”

  “You may not remember much, or even notice the transformation, but slowly the needle on your personality is edging back to its normal state.”

  I tried to arch my eyebrow, but the mask had already stretched my forehead. “Are you going to answer me?”

  He looked around, making sure no one was listening. “It isn’t a secret that, for a while, Randy had the hots for you.”

  I studied his face, wondering if he was joking. Hoping he was joking. “You’re joking, right?”

  A strange look washed over his face, as if he felt sorry for me. “I wish I was.”

  “That’s so gross.” I looked into the sky, where gray clouds had now blanketed the sun, and wondered how the old me had responded to any possible overtures. “Did I reciprocate any of his advances?”

  “Hell no. At least I don’t think so.” He brought his hand to his chin.

  “Huh? Why are you wafflin
g?”

  “I’m not waffling. You just—”

  “Just what?”

  “Uh, well, during the last few months before your crash, you became more distant.”

  “You and Jerry have basically called me a bitch.”

  “Alex.”

  “It’s okay. I’m a big girl. I’m just trying to figure out this world, one cheesy douche bag at a time.”

  We traded smiles.

  “Okay, Alex, you ready for a swim?”

  “Yep,” I said to Mike the amphibian.

  He picked me up in his arms, and I instantly understood what it felt like to be a fish thrown back into the sea.

  “Did Randy tell you this was a disturbing scene?” Mike asked.

  “I’ve been in the FBI for…” Damn, another memory gap. “…a long time.” That should help him understand that I didn’t need any hand-holding. Of course, at that moment, I recognized the irony of my thoughts, realizing he was holding me like a little baby.

  He released me gently into the water, and I gave him a thumbs-up, then dipped my head below the surface where two divers swirled beneath me like sharks. I gave them the thumbs-up too, and I kicked my fins and veered to the right to obtain a better view of the corpse.

  I glided about ten feet, ensuring that my breathing remained even. Thus far, my body had responded like a pro, which gave me more confidence. Perhaps I’d been in decent shape before the crash. I didn’t feel too much flab tugging against the water.

  Turning myself around, one of the divers moved out of my view, and I got my first glimpse of the floating corpse. Nothing in my life—as I knew it—had prepared me for this sight. I gasped, which forced water down my air passages, and I started to flail and gag. Kicking my fins, I lunged above the surface and ripped off my snorkel mask, gulping in large quantities of air as I continued choking and spitting up water.

  “Alex!” I heard from the shore. Was it Nick?

  I kicked harder to ensure I stayed above water and pinched my nose, releasing a few more gasps and then a big belch.

  “Come back to the shore, Alex.” Yep, that was Nick, ever my guardian angel.

  “I’m…” I tried speaking but my words sounded like a raspy wheeze. “I’m…fine. No big…deal.”