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

by John W. Mefford

  “Here you go, Brad. Your usual coffee,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. It was hard not to stare at the huge metal hoop piercing her nose. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “I’m good. Thanks, Summer.”

  She eyed Nick and me. “Are these your parents from Richmond?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to see whom she was talking about. When I turned back, Nick was shaking his head, smirking. “You’re talking about us?” I pointed at Nick, then myself.

  Brad brought a hand to his cheek. “These are my colleagues. My mentors, Alex and Nick.”

  “Oh, sorry. Bad lighting and all,” she said, failing at recovery.

  I nodded and sipped my coffee, giving her the signal we needed to speak in private

  “Are you guys, like, undercover agents or something?”

  In addition to her many issues, she had no volume control.

  “If we were, you would have just blown our cover.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “That’s okay. We’re not undercover. Thank you,” I said.

  She brushed her hand across Brad’s shoulder as she turned and walked off.

  “You have quite an admirer there,” Nick said.

  “It’s nothing. I’ve been a regular the last four years, and I attended school here.”

  I was reminded of our age difference. Not that it mattered, unless people were going to assume I was Brad’s mother. After being dissed by Mark and now feeling like an ancient relic, it might be worth my time this weekend to try to fit in half a day at the spa. Skin rejuvenation and the whole works.

  “Not a lot of time,” I said. “We’ve got an appointment with the wife of the second victim, Jeanne Lepino, in forty-five minutes.”

  “Sorry I was late. My landlord needed some help scraping off her windshield.”

  I tried not to be impressed. “Okay, have you had any time to dig into the tasks we gave you last night?”

  Holding up a finger, he pulled a tablet out of his leather bag. It kind of looked like a man purse, but I wasn’t going to use that term. Did Mark have one? I shuddered. Brad tapped the screen a few times, then ran his finger down the side. He seemed organized, if nothing else.

  “Okay, we’ve got a preliminary ballistics report back on the sniper shooting at the museum.” He looked up briefly, and I only nodded. “Shooter was most likely a professional. Bullets were .308 Winchester fired out of either a Remington 700 or the military version of that, an M24 SWS—their Sniper Weapon System. The M24 has been used extensively by snipers in the war in Afghanistan. Standard issue for the Army.”

  “Shit,” Nick said, running his fingers through his thinning hair.

  “Did the CSI unit verify the shooter’s location?”

  “Third floor, fourth window from the left. Just like you thought,” Brad said with a quick wink.

  “I wish that would win me some brownie points,” I said. “I’m guessing the office wasn’t being used at the time?”

  “The entire west wing was going through a refurbishment, removing asbestos, apparently.”

  I pondered that nugget of information. “Any other trace evidence found in the room, or even trailing from the room to the outside?”

  Brad shook his head. “Not even a bit of gun residue. Shooter must have draped a blanket through the open window and on the ground. They were clean. That’s why I used the term ‘professional.’”

  “Next logical step is to start looking at—”

  “Already there. In cross-checking against all local law-enforcement agencies, we’ve found no credible threats against any agent or agency.”

  “So, we’re not even sure if this person is ex-military with a beef against the FBI, or just your average Joe with a beef against the FBI.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “You forgot about the option of the beef against you.”

  “I’m not that popular.”

  “You basically admitted that you thought this sniper was aiming at you.”

  “Because I was dumb enough to try to save that little brat’s life.”

  “And the security guard.”

  I nodded. “I was a moving target. The sniper was probably salivating when he saw me jumping around—and not very nimbly, I might add.”

  “Eh. Maybe,” Nick said, sitting back while cupping his coffee.

  Shifting my eyes over to Brad, I said, “I’m assuming we’re looking for all registered owners of a Remington 700?”

  Brad smirked. “Right. Not expecting a hit on that, but we have to check the box. Cyber unit is also scraping the Internet looking for anyone bragging about pinning two FBI agents.”

  “I think the person who did this has a screw loose, or two,” I said, motioning my cup toward Brad. “The crazy ones don’t stay quiet forever. Keep us in the loop, please.”

  “Will do.”

  “Also, we’ll need a rundown of all former military personnel living in the area who have sniper experience. It won’t be easy to get, but don’t let that stop you.”

  He tapped his tablet a few times. “Got it.”

  “Over to the ring killer, did we get toxicology—”

  “I pulled it this morning. Another reason I was late.” He flashed another quick smile then tapped his screen and scrolled a bit.

  The kid was predicting everything I was about to say. Nick had said we’d worked together previously, that Brad was my “go-to” guy. He seemed damn efficient, his dimples notwithstanding. But for some odd reason, my memory radar was coming up empty.

  “Okay, Barden’s system had a BAC of point twelve.”

  “So, he was a drinker. We need to check the bars. Although we know there are no bars near where he was killed at Choate Island. We’ll have to start with a wide net, circulate his picture. Anything else?”

  “Propofol.”

  “To drug him,” I said quietly, pondering more about what type of person was at the root of this murder, possibly more. “Had to be given intravenously. Did—”

  “Yes, MEs found a needle hole on his neck.”

  I nodded. “Official COD in yet?”

  “Respiratory impairment.”

  “Drowning. The worst death imaginable.” I shifted my eyes to a spilled package of sugar on the table, thinking about this connection I felt to the ocean, a sense of freedom. Pulling together some thoughts, I said, “This perp is very comfortable in the water—in the ocean, in particular. Might have a job working as a fisherman, or his main hobby is fishing or ocean research. Would be familiar with the tide flow in particular. I know that would take us in two different economic directions, but it’s a start.”

  “But he also knows about drugging people. Medical background?” Nick offered.

  “You can find that on the Internet right next to date-rape drugs.” I sipped my coffee, thinking more about what I’d just heard. My eyes went to Nick. “You said he.”

  “Just an assumption. But you’re right, with the use of propofol, it leaves the door open to a woman. A strong woman maybe.”

  “Could be a team,” I surmised while strumming my fingers on the table.

  I could feel two sets of male eyes on me.

  “Think about it. We’re probably fooling ourselves into thinking that a woman, by herself, could get a body from, let’s say, the parking lot of a bar, out to BFE, and then set up the murder machine—cinderblocks, the duct-tape funnel—all with no help.”

  Two head nods. At least they were following my line of thinking.

  “But a couple, a man and a woman. The woman makes sense because she was the one who was jilted.”

  Nick snapped his fingers. “Enter stage right, Agatha Barden.”

  “Perhaps. She, or maybe a woman the vic didn’t know, but someone with a great deal of motivation, whatever that is, could be the ring leader.” I raised a quick eyebrow.

  “That’s an awful pun, Alex,” Nick said, chuckling under his breath.

  “Glad you caught it. Tells me you’re listening. Not sure about you.”
I gestured to Brad.

  “Who, me? I’m just the dumb kid taking notes.” He kept a straight face.

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “Just joking with you, Alex.” He reached out and patted my hand.

  “Nice one, kid.”

  “By the way, in the past you kind of gave me permission to bust your chops occasionally. So, I’m not overstepping my ground, am I, since you’re the senior special agent and I’m…well, not?”

  An awkward guttural chuckle from Nick.

  “It’s fine, Brad. Just getting used to the playing field.” I tipped back my head and downed the last few drops of my mocha. “So, the couple angle. We have the woman over here who calls the shots. She’s either pissed or demented.”

  “Or both,” Nick chimed in.

  “Or both, right. And then she needs a person to implement the plan. Could be a boyfriend, maybe somebody she hooked up with initially just to get payback at her cheating husband. Then, as things at home dissolve, her mind spirals more and more out of control, and she comes up with this plan. She’s already manipulated this guy to be her side dish. Is it a stretch to think she could convince him to participate in a murder plot?”

  The men looked away, pondering my theory. A few seconds ticked by as I waited for some type of feedback.

  Finally, Nick leaned forward and said, “It’s plausible, I guess, but we have two couples, two murders. Not sure what motivation an Agatha Barden would have against Rick Lepino. But we’re talking about some extreme personalities on both sides of the aisle.”

  “You talking politics, Nick?” I joked, then gave him a wink. “But I understand why you’re questioning my theory. Something about Agatha didn’t sit right with me.”

  “Going on what you said, though, what kind of woman comes up with this crazy shit? And then to find another person, a man, naïve enough to believe her bullshit promises,” he said.

  I bounced a knuckle off the table. “That’s it. What motivates people more than anything?”

  “Greed. Straight up,” Brad said.

  “Okay, what’s second?”

  “Love?” Nick tilted his head.

  “Or,” I said, “the promise of love.”

  “She’s brainwashing him,” Nick said.

  “Must be a kid, you know, like my age,” Brad said.

  “I’m thinking the same thing. The man is younger, maybe less educated and definitely more naïve.”

  “So, uh, just for the record, I’m willing to give a polygraph on whether I know Agatha Barden and my whereabouts the night her husband was murdered.” Brad tried not to smile, but his dimples eventually made an appearance.

  “You don’t like being chased by a cougar?”

  For just a second, I wondered if the guys were thinking I was subtly referring to myself. Neither of them went there, thankfully.

  “I hardly interact with women at all, given the hours the FBI has me working.”

  “We can always say something to your boss, you know, about lowering your hours to nothing,” Nick said.

  “I’m good. I’m not bitching, just stating the facts.”

  I shook my cup, hoping to steal a few more drops of flavored caffeine. “Get all that to our assigned profiler. What’s his name?”

  “Rob. He’s one of the best,” Brad said while his fingers danced across his tablet.

  Another name that didn’t ring the memory bell.

  “All of this talk makes me go back to Agatha Barden, although we have no solid evidence pointing in that direction,” I said.

  “Oh, Randy sent me an email, copying both of you, by the way, saying the warrant was approved overnight. I should have access to Agatha’s phone and her phone records by lunch,” Brad said, rubbing his hands together.

  I pulled my phone from my purse, pissed at myself for not seeing the email. I still was piecing together how I’d operated in the past—how often I checked email, how I dealt with people I worked with, how I got shit done. I quickly came to the conclusion that recreating my life from scratch was about as much fun as—

  I heard the crying howl of the wind, and I glanced over Brad’s head toward the front door. Two women entered the coffeehouse, chitchatting as if they were walking through a mall in perfect atmospheric conditions.

  “As much fun as winter in Boston,” I said, finishing my thought aloud. My cohorts gave me strange looks.

  “What’s as much fun as winter in Boston?” Nick asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Just my life, or the house of cards that it’s being built upon.”

  I glanced back up and watched the women move through the line, gabbing away as if no one else existed.

  “Damn, they’re oblivious.” Nick had followed my eyes to the women.

  “They’re probably plotting to overthrow the government,” Brad joked, slouching more in his seat.

  Noticing the time on my phone, I grabbed my coat off the chair, but paused before standing up.

  “I don’t want to muddy up our profile or running theory, but what if two women, maybe more, had formed some type of pact? Brought together by the common bond of their cheating spouses.”

  “I like it,” Brad said. “Well, you know what I mean. Right?”

  I chortled. “I get it, Brad.”

  “A women’s murder club,” Nick said, shaking his finger.

  “I’ve heard of crazier shit,” Brad said, inching up a bit in his chair.

  “To at least dismiss it as a possible theory, can you look at any way Agatha Barden and Jeanne Lepino might know each other?”

  “I’m on it,” Brad said, his eyes scanning something on his tablet.

  “Didn’t mean you had to do it in the next sixty seconds.”

  “Just making a few notes, that’s all.”

  “Good. I like thoroughness. It will keep you from coming back and asking me questions later.” I sounded like a real boss, but with this much on the line, I didn’t have the luxury of wasting time because of oversight and disorganization.

  “So, we know the Lepinos live in the upscale community of Weston, which is west of the city, while Beverly is north, but see if their kids might play on the same teams. Maybe they go to the same church. Maybe they belong to the same country club, or Bunco club, or whatever.”

  “Strip club?” Brad said.

  Nick and I gave him straight-faced responses.

  “What?”

  “Here I thought you were all grown up, ready to sit at the adult table.” My expression remained stoic.

  “Oh, well, I guess it was a tad inappropriate.”

  Nick bellowed a laugh.

  “Dude, we’re just yanking your chain,” I said.

  “Good one. Now I know what it’s like.”

  “You should. You’re still wearing the FBI diaper.”

  Another Nick snicker.

  “Funny,” Brad said while tapping madly on his tablet.

  He seemed to be a natural multitasker, just like the kids. Then I had this thought: Brad might be closer in age to Erin than he was to me. Jesus, I didn’t want to go there on about a thousand fronts.

  I gave a nod to Nick and stood, knowing we needed to head to the Lepino house for our interview with Jeanne. I glanced down at Brad. “You can hang out here and work. Maybe the president of the Brad is Awesome fan club will serve you all day.”

  “Hold on. One more thing.” He raised a finger, then slipped a phone from his pocket and used his thumb to type as his eyes slowly made their way up to me.

  I put on my coat. “Yes.”

  “The Daughters of the Revolution.”

  “Right, the group of ladies Mr. Trow brought up, said he thought they might—and I do mean might—be connected to the robbery at the museum.”

  “Yeah, I had some time on my hands last night, and I looked into the three names Trow sent over.”

  “You must live a boring life.”

  “All work and no play. That’s the FBI way, right?”

  “Something like that. You
were saying.” I buttoned my trench coat.

  “The three ladies—Brandy, Lois, and Trina—recently formed a corporation.”

  “For what?” Nick asked as I slung my scarf around my neck.

  “Their company is called Priceless Artifacts.”

  “Any revenue or other information?”

  “Nothing as of the end of last month.”

  “Dig more.”

  “I did, but not on the corporation.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Two of the stolen items were found up for sale on the Dark Web.”

  “Just two?”

  “The cyber squad is trying to identify the seller.”

  “Maybe this will finally lead us to the person who ran you off the road. You remember, that was supposed to be our primary mission,” Nick said.

  “Shit happens. What do you want me to say?” I walked around the table. Brad pulled his stuff together and caught up to us as we walked to the front door. I noticed Nick reading something off his phone.

  “Checking to see if you’re winning your Candy Crush game?”

  He stopped in his tracks, halting Brad and me in ours.

  “What is it, Nick? We’ve got a hundred things to get done today…you know, before another dead body is found floating in another bay.”

  “There was another killing last night.”

  Gripping his forearm, I said, “Tell me it wasn’t—”

  “It wasn’t. Just some guy who got whacked overnight. A single GSW to the head. The brass will probably leave that to the Boston cops. As long as it’s not on our plate, I’m good,” Nick said, pocketing his phone.

  “Where?” I asked as a blast of cold air brought water to my eyes.

  The wind whipped more snow and ice in our faces as Nick tried to protect himself by putting his nose into his arm. He yelled above the weather, “I don’t know. Some bar in Back Bay.”

  I knew then where we’d start circulating Barden’s picture. For now, though, we had to figure out if the “women’s murder club” theory had any roots of fact.

  16

  “What’s your take so far?” Nick whispered as I ambled over to the fireplace, glancing at framed family photos.

  “I think Jeanne is holding back.”