I tilted my head, waiting for words that never came. He swallowed hard, and I could see him holding back a swell of emotion.
“Anything else? I want to get back to my family. Try to figure out a way to undo all the crap I said about Christopher.”
Nick jumped in. “One more thing. I understand you guys work in a pretty hostile environment. Did you ever hear of anyone threatening to kill Christopher, people he worked with, maybe his clients?”
“The environment is cut-throat, but not in the literal sense. It helped drive me to the bottle a little faster than I was going without it. But murder? I don’t know. Never heard of that in any workplace I’ve been a part of.”
With one hand already on the back door, Trent took a card from Nick and then hightailed it back inside, leaving us alone on the deck.
“Seems troubled,” Nick said, turning to look across the back of the estate.
“We’ve all got demons, right? Some are just more obvious, or I guess I should say more exposed.”
“Just like Christopher’s at the end-of-the-year celebration,” Nick said with both hands on his waist.
I tried to imagine the raucous scene at the party that Agatha had described. “Trent made an ass of himself. He said as much. But when there’s even a hint of truth, I would think the shelf life of the womanizer accusations would be longer than a near fight. Because those accusations involve people working at the firm and who were at the party. Trent admitted that one of the girls even tried her moves on him.”
“And you believe him?”
Our eyes met for a quick moment.
“He sounded believable for many reasons. But he’s an alcoholic, which translates into someone who could lie while asking the Pope for absolution.”
Suddenly I was an authority on the personality traits of an addict? Damn, I was either good at pulling shit out of my ass or maybe I’d watched too many talk shows in my past. Who knew? I certainly didn’t.
Nick shrugged. “He’s got a lot on his mind. It appears he’s regretting that party incident even more now that Christopher was murdered.”
“I think it’s eating him up. He couldn’t suck in the nicotine fast enough, and he looks like he could fall off the wagon any moment,” I said, anchoring my weight on the back of a wicker chair.
“You need to rest. Your brain is working overtime. Here, sit.” Nick put a hand on my back.
“I know how to put one foot in front of the other. And I’m not tired.”
He immediately raised both arms. “I should have known you’d take a shot. I know how much you love for people to tell you what to do.”
“I appreciate your love of my sarcasm. See? I was nice then.”
“Your version of nice is warped.”
“Hey, I should be offended.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, everyone except your kids. You’re nice to them.”
I felt the urge to pick my fingernails. “I’m not sure Erin would agree with you on that. I haven’t been bashful with my opinions on what she’s doing with her life.”
“Bashful hasn’t been your MO before or after the crash. But she might be a little surprised by your interest. Maybe she was doing this crap before, but you just didn’t see it.”
“Eh.” I shrugged my shoulders this time, wondering again about the real me. Who was the woman who’d walked in my shoes before the crash? How are we similar now? And how are we different?
“Just remember that parents aren’t there to be best friends, and you only get one shot when they’re young. You could just take the easy way out, sit back, and let the world raise your child.”
“You mean the Internet world.”
He nodded. “Or you could feel confident in who you are and help her grow without suffocating her.”
“Shit, Nick, you’re quite the armchair psychologist.” I slapped him on the back, and he lurched forward.
“I’ve got three sisters and a total of nine nieces and nephews, just in case you didn’t remember.”
“I didn’t, sorry.”
“Being an uncle is pretty cool, but let’s just say I’ve seen things. Sometimes being a parent is difficult and ugly.”
Maybe Nick had been watching my family through the windows of our house using his own fleet of drones.
“I guess whenever you think you have it hard in the parenting department, you can remember what Agatha will be dealing with, alone,” Nick said.
“Yeah, sure looks like her world has fallen apart.” I picked at the wicker chair.
“She’s rather protective of Christopher, at least a fairytale version of him.”
“Or she just has a lot of hate for her brother-in-law.”
“Public humiliation. I’m sure she was mortified,” Nick said, scratching the side of his face.
I closed my eyes and let the information process a bit more. “Remember her tone? She sounded like a woman who knew that her husband was screwing around on her.”
“Sounded like it, but never outright said it.”
“So why wouldn’t she admit it, especially if she’s truly interested in helping us find the killer?”
He shook his head. “Because she doesn’t believe it’s true. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”
“We need to interview those three, like, yesterday,” I said.
“I’ll talk to Randy, make sure he’s cool with us taking this angle and playing it out to see if there’s any tread on the evidence path.”
“Cool,” I said, thinking more. “I know we both feel sorry for Agatha. She’s left with two kids, one with Down syndrome. She’s not loving the support she’s getting right now. We know she had to be mortified by her husband’s cheating, right?”
“I’m following you, I think.”
“So pretend that Trent never threatened Christopher’s life. I know that’s a big leap, but just roll with it.”
Nick slowly raised his finger. “A scorned, bitter woman.”
“Rightfully so. But if she’s cunning and opportunistic, she might have seen a way out.”
“To kill her husband.”
“In the most humiliating way possible.”
“We need to see the will.” I glanced across the beautiful back porch. “A family rolling in it this much must have a will.”
“And lots of lawyers.”
“Let’s hope not. While she seemed like she was in good shape, it’s hard to imagine she’d be strong enough to pull this one off alone.”
“A partner,” Nick said with his finger raised again.
“Or more than a partner.”
Nick and I nodded at the same time.
I said, “These are all just theories though.”
“I like working with you. You’re naughty…and then some.”
I gave him a wink. “Let’s get out of here, do our research, and then make a return visit.”
We walked through the kitchen and waved to Agatha to join us. She waltzed over holding a casserole dish filled with something red and heavy.
“Please take this lasagna with you,” she said, walking us to the edge of the foyer, her guests still within hearing distance.
“That’s okay, thanks,” I said.
“No, I insist. Just doing my best to help the FBI.” She leaned in and whispered, “If I have to eat lasagna again, I think I might just explode.” She shoved the dish into my hands. And that was when I noticed hers.
“Surprised you’re not wearing your wedding rings.”
She rubbed her fingers. “I get skin rashes easily, so sometimes I take them off. Honestly, I lost them a few weeks ago. But Christopher was so understanding, knowing what I’m juggling with the children and everything. He said he’d find the right time to get me a new set, an even nicer set.”
Her eyes widened for a second, and she gave us a smile—one that didn’t seem nearly as authentic as during our earlier conversation.
After a few awkward seconds, she was sucked back into the vortex of visitors. Nick told
her we’d be in touch, and we walked out the front door.
Once inside the car, I turned to my partner. “This hunt for the killer…I think it’s the best therapy I could have. My brain is firing on all cylinders, and I feel like I’ve found a groove. When you update Randy, tell him we’re taking the lead.”
Nick’s jaw opened.
“Just do it. And tell him I told you to do it. If he has an issue, he can talk to me.”
At which time I’d gladly lead with my knee to his crotch.
10
Two kids hurdled a bench right in front of the stunned tour guide just as a third jumped in front of his classmates, spit a wad of gum into his hand, and chucked the gooey blob at his buddies. Or were they his enemies? I couldn’t tell. Laughter and high-pitched shrills, mixed with generic threats, sliced the subdued tones of the Boston Revolutionary Museum.
“Fourth-grade little shits.” Bartholomew Trow, the elderly curator wearing a patriotic bow tie, raised his brass-handled cane to the ceiling as if it held a special power to freeze the youngsters midstride. But no one noticed, other than Nick and me. The man darted off with the quickness of a cheetah—one that had just been sedated.
It wasn’t even a race. The kids disappeared around the dark corner as their classmates cheered them on from back in the gallery. With panic covering the tour guide’s face, she took a single step after the little terrorists, then apparently thought better of it, likely realizing that it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave the majority of the kids to chase after a few.
“Look at those heathens,” Nick said as we watched the kids jump up and down like wild monkeys.
“I have one of those. He’s a bit uncontrollable, but at this age, they’re still nice.”
“Define nice.”
“Don’t confuse that with listening or behaving. I just mean not nasty.”
“Where are the damn teachers?” he asked, taking a few steps to his right to look beyond a wall that held a historic painting at least fifty-feet wide.
“I think I heard them in the bathroom complaining about their jobs. One of them talked about smoking a joint while the brats were being spoon-fed information about the Revolutionary War. They both sounded stressed.”
“I can see why,” Nick said. “Maybe the school district should provide them some help.”
“And they ought to throw in a full supply of Valium to keep the animals tamed.” I couldn’t help but release a smile.
Nick reached in his coat pocket. “Hey, I gotta take this,” he said, stepping to the side and putting his cell phone to his ear. I hoped it was Randy, the lame SSA ultimately responsible for the Barden murder investigation.
Keeping one eye on Nick, I looked around and noticed a few of the more elderly patrons holding their hands to their mouths. They’d probably forgotten what it was like to have kids. I could sympathize, but on a different scale.
“I…I…” The tour guide waved her hands, but the kids had tuned her out.
I blew out a breath and contemplated stepping in to squelch the riot.
She pulled her long, black hair off her neck and then tried again. “Kids, I have candy bars in my office.”
That got their attention. They whooped and hollered and lunged at her like…wild animals. I saw panic in her eyes as she searched the room for help.
I looked over at Nick, who was still on the phone, his face turning red. Didn’t look like a fun conversation. Walking over to the tour guide, I stepped up on a bench. I knew my doctor would be having a cow if he could see me. But he couldn’t.
Clearing my throat, I pulled out my badge and barked, “Hey! Everyone get down on the floor. Now!”
About eighty legs crumpled to the carpet quicker than sand crabs scampering across the beach. Scanning the Lilliputian crowd with my badge tilted down so they could see it, I could hear the soft murmur of the furnace kicking on. No one moved.
“I want one person to stand up and tell everyone what it’s like to have good manners in a museum.”
A little girl with coke-bottle glasses inched her hand above her shoulder.
“What’s your name?”
“Madeleine, but my friends call me Maddy.”
“Stand up, Maddy, and tell everyone in your class,” I said while oscillating my badge as if it could control their spastic outbursts.
“My mom taught me I should always listen and do what the adults tell me.”
“Good, Maddy. I’m sure—”
She then blurted out, “Unless we know the guy is a pervert, and then we should scream and yell, ‘Stranger Danger, Stranger Danger, Stranger—’”
“Okay, Maddy, we get the picture. You guys have a choice to make. Get back on the bus and go back to school, or don’t say a word and listen to your tour guide…”
I turned to the woman, who said her name with a defeated smile, “Miss Lori.”
“And listen to Miss Lori as she teaches you cool things about the Revolutionary War.”
“I hate school,” a voice said from the crowd.
“Let me see hands. Who wants to go back to school?” All hands stayed down, and I noticed a few of the rug rats shaking their heads, their eyes pleading not to be sent back to kid prison.
“Who wants to continue the museum tour using your best manners?”
Forty arms shot upward.
“My partner and I will be watching from over there. If anyone gets out of line, then that person will have the FBI to deal with.”
“Ah crap,” some kid said under his breath. I tried to ignore it.
I held out my arm as a signal for Miss Lori to take over.
The little girl, Maddy, took a step toward me. “My mom also told me never to pick my nose, especially in public.”
“Nice. Always listen to your mom.”
“Can I touch your badge?”
“Uh, not right now,” I said. “You guys go have fun.”
I heard Miss Lori start her speech about Paul Revere’s ride as I met up with Nick and Mr. Trow, who’d just returned.
“What happened to the kids?” I asked the man.
He leaned in closer. “Those three little shits? They can’t be reformed like the others. They’ve already determined their life’s course.”
I glanced at Nick, then back to the man, who was shaking his head.
“I put them to work.” His lips turned upward, and a few more lines appeared on his face—his version of a smirk. “In our learning center, we have about thirty desks, under which there is a plethora of decades-old gum stuck to the bottom.”
“You’ve got them cleaning gum off the desks?”
“Sure do. I recognized two of those kids. They’re out of control. To them, work is nothing but a four-letter word.”
“You’re a brave man. One of those kids is bound to have a lawyer parent who will threaten to put the museum out of business.”
“Bring ’em on,” he said with a toothy grin, holding up his cane. He turned and started walking. He got about twenty feet away, then flicked his hand. “You want to see what the bastard stole from my museum, or what?”
Nick and I started to follow him.
“You’re still showing your love for lawyers,” Nick said to me, raising his eyebrows.
“You’d think I’d be a little more open-minded, given I’m married to one,” I said.
Nick gave me a quizzical look, then he chuckled. “Alex, you’re a lawyer. Well, you used to play one on TV.”
He could have told me I’d been an astronaut and I wouldn’t have been more shocked. I realized I’d stopped in my tracks.
“Come on. We’ll talk about it later,” Nick said.
We caught up to Mr. Trow as he turned into a small room filled with wartime weapons, either hanging on the wall or contained in glass display boxes.
“Impressive,” I said.
“That’s not what you said the first time you were here.” He opened a drawer and then pulled out his glasses, scanning a piece of paper.
We’d
already had the discussion about my crash and loss of memory—I admitted as much the moment Nick and I arrived. And I even confessed that I’d failed to take proper notes. Among the files Jerry had sent over, I’d found one measly note about my previous visit, which only included the basics: Boston Revolutionary Museum, Bartholomew Trow, and the date, January twelfth.
I didn’t spend much time on note-taking back in the day, it seemed. It was becoming increasingly apparent that, in my pre-crash life, my memory was one of my greater assets. So, what would Superman do if he lost his strength?
“Call Wonder Woman, of course,” I muttered to myself as I leaned down and eyed a two-hundred-forty-year-old dagger.
“I heard that,” Nick whispered. “You need to break out the magic rope to get people to tell the truth. I’m sure we’ll need it on the Barden murder investigation.”
“I don’t know how I know this, but I think it’s called the Lasso of Truth. Were you talking to Randy earlier?”
“No. Antonio. We had a little disagreement.”
“Everything cool?” I asked, recalling his agitated expression.
“Bumps in the road are part of life. But it’s been cool for twenty-three years.”
I scowled, trying to remember how long Mark and I had been married.
“Here’s the list of everything that was stolen.” Mr. Trow tossed the paper on the glass container holding a number of different knives. “But showing you will tell you more, or maybe less. That’s for you to decide.”
I grabbed the paper and followed the curator to the far side of the room, where rifles hung from the wall.
“Brown Bess flintlock musket with the bayonet, the first on your list. Stolen. Normally it goes here.” He held a wrinkled hand in front of an empty space, and then he started walking horizontally to the wall.
Pausing about ten feet later, he lifted his hand again, saying, “Kentucky flintlock rifle, forty-five inches. Stolen.”
Another six feet. “French flintlock musket from 1763 with a removable bayonet. Stolen.”
“So you’re wondering why this thief stole nothing but rifles?” I asked, but he quickly held up a finger and continued walking, rounding the corner and stopping at a glass encasing.
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 12
