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

by John W. Mefford

  Then I felt a bump. I glanced in my rearview mirror. The car behind me had rammed the right rear panel. And it didn’t stop. My car started spinning.

  I screamed as I tried turning violently left and then right. But I had no control over the two tons of metal, or my fate. On one of my rotations, I saw more lights heading right for me. I held my breath. Then the Impala slid off the road, my face was smashed, and everything went black.

  20

  Herb honked his horn just as his brakes squealed to a stop in front of One Center Plaza, FBI’s main office in Boston’s West End.

  “Appreciate the drop-off. You ought to apply for Uber. Make some money on the side.”

  “Uber, my ass. I tow what no one else can, cars and trucks.” The man who looked like a grizzly bear tapped his greasy fingers on the dash of his growling tow truck. “And Old Betsy here is the best. Hasn’t let me down yet. I just did this as a favor to you and the FBI. You know, to serve my country and all. I couldn’t let you freeze to death, get buried in the snow. Hell, you look like you got in a fight with a Chinese star. No offense.”

  Looking out the windshield of Old Betsy, I spotted Nick, Jerry, and Brad converging just outside the front door. I’d updated all three on a quick conference call earlier while I waited for Herb to clean out his front seat to make room for me. I threw a twenty-dollar bill on the center console. “That’s all I got. You can bill me later.”

  He coughed out a laugh and stuffed the bill in his gray jacket. “No worries. This ride was free. I’ll put this toward the car tow. That will cost ya.”

  I slammed the heavy door shut as he choked out another laugh.

  Trudging through snow that felt more like packed quicksand, I joined the boys. Nick and Brad were shivering shamelessly while Jerry, with nothing more than a brown sports coat that would never button across his big belly, seemed like he was out for a casual evening stroll…except for the scowl on his face.

  “After this is all over, we’ve got lots to talk about,” he said, opening the door to the building for all of us.

  Nick put his arm on my shoulder. “You don’t need to go to the hospital?”

  I’d eaten eggs less scrambled than my brain felt, but every other body part was intact. “I’m fine.”

  Nick turned me around as we all dusted snow off our coats. “Your face.”

  “I could think of a couple of comebacks, but now’s not the right time. The airbag went off, and that’s a good thing.”

  “That explains some of the cuts and burn marks on your face, but you have a pretty deep gash on the side of your head. Did you bang your head against the glass?”

  I wasn’t sure of anything at this stage, but I did suddenly remember something. I held up the middle finger of my left hand. “Don’t make fun of me, but I tried to experiment with fake nails this morning.” The nail on that finger was gone.

  Nick looked closer at my cut. “I think the fingernail is still embedded in your head.”

  “Later. We’ll deal with it later. We don’t have much time.” I walked from the group. “Someone going to show me the way?”

  “Forgot you didn’t know where you were going,” Jerry muttered.

  Nick pulled up beside me. “You never liked this office even before the crash. I mean the first crash.”

  “Funny.”

  We took the elevator up to the fourth floor where a team was already assembled, and we gathered in a huge, open area labeled “War Room 1.”

  I threw my coat over a chair and walked to a table as Jerry pulled out his cell phone and took a call.

  “What do we have on the Lexus, or on Peacoat? Give me something,” I said, tilting my head to lay eyes on an enormous flat-screen showing a digital map of the area west of Boston. I looked around and noticed I’d been abandoned. Nick was huddling with Jerry, who still had the phone to his ear. Brad had peeled off and was speaking with a female colleague, who had a laptop in front of her. I saw four other people about the same age anchored behind their computers, all angled toward the front of the room, where I stood. When Brad walked back over, I pointed to the group of five. “Who are they?”

  “My team of analysts.”

  “You have a team?”

  “I’m a team lead during critical situations like this. More of a liaison between the investigators and research analysts who are brought in. If we don’t know it, we’ll find it, legally of course.”

  “Of course.”

  I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the older guys getting animated. Not a good sign.

  “Do you know if they, or anyone here, has been able to locate the Lexus?”

  He shook his head. “Haven’t seen or heard anything, but it’s only been an hour since the team has been assembled. Jerry could be getting an update right now.”

  We turned to look at the map. Brad said, “I know it’s none of my business, but your husband Mark was reportedly in this older model Lexus?”

  “There are no suppositions. It’s true. I saw him with my own eyes.” I swallowed back a hint of emotion and some pride. “Brad, it is your business. Mark left that bar with another woman I’ve never seen, and it’s obvious they weren’t bowling partners. He got into the back seat of the Lexus, and someone drove it northwest out of Boston. I tailed him all the way up until I had the wreck.”

  Just then an image popped into my mind. While I pondered, Brad was muttering something, possibly offering his support.

  “Alex, did you hear me?”

  “What?”

  “Are you sure you didn’t suffer a worse head injury?”

  “Hell no. I’m fine.” I gripped his forearm and looked him in the eyes. “Brad, I just recalled something important.”

  He turned in my direction.

  “I got clipped, you know, by another car.”

  “I heard that’s what you believed, yes.”

  I paused, wondering if he and the others thought less of not only my opinion, but also my ability to recall basic facts.

  “I’m not bullshitting you.” A few heads turned my way.

  “Sorry. I don’t mean to doubt you. Go on.”

  “Two things. First, when I was spinning out of control, I now remember seeing a brown sedan pass me. That was the car that hit me.”

  He motioned for me to follow him as he walked up to the same girl he was speaking to before. “Describe the car.”

  I closed my eyes for a brief moment.

  “Just your first thoughts. Anything.”

  “Tan, four doors.”

  “Foreign or domestic?”

  “Domestic, I think.”

  “You’re getting this?” he asked the girl.

  “Yes, Brad,” she said calmly as she typed faster than I knew was possible.

  “Anything else about the car?”

  “Had a prominent grill. Oh, and the wheels were a simple, smooth metal, no design.”

  He nodded and then looked over the analyst’s shoulder.

  “Sorry I don’t have a plate or a specific make or model.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, glancing down to get the analyst’s confirmation.

  She said, “I’ll tap into the DMV database and start trying to put a net around a subset of vehicles, then overlap that with owners living in the five counties immediately in or around Boston.”

  Brad held up a hand, looking like he was about to add something, but the attractive girl spoke up first. “And, I’ll ask Landon back here to start pulling camera feeds from around the Monty’s location.”

  I said, “Good, thanks. We don’t have much time. We need a lead. Quickly, uh…”

  “Bianca,” she said through tight lips.

  Brad turned back to me. “What’s the second thing?”

  “Right.” I quickly replayed the few seconds when the Impala took the curve and then feeling the loss of control, wondering if I was going to be blasted into oblivion by the large truck.

  “The person who did this had training. They executed the PIT mane
uver to precision.”

  Nick had just marched over. “You said you thought you were bumped?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Not just a hit-and-run?”

  “It was a hit-and-run, but by someone who is or has been in law enforcement.”

  Brad shuffled a couple of steps and shared the information with his pretty little assistant.

  “Nick, tell me you got something on Peacoat.”

  He smacked his gums just once. “Nothing. Not yet. Looking through mug shots won’t help, right? You didn’t really see his face.”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Are you sure he was taking pictures of Mark and this…?”

  “Woman, Nick. He was with a woman. It makes me want to bite a hole through my lip, but from what I saw, they hadn’t just met. That’s right. He’s having an affair with another woman.”

  I sucked in deep breaths, doing everything in my power to keep it together. I laid my hand on Nick’s shoulder. “He might be a two-timing asshole, but I can’t let anything happen to him. Not until I get my hands on him.”

  “I understand completely. And once we find him, I’ll be the second in line to kick his ass from here to Back Bay.”

  I snapped my fingers and said, “Nick, remember seeing the gold paint on the other car I crashed? Well, the one that clipped me tonight was tan. Tan, gold, similar colors. It could be the same car.”

  I put both hands over my face and tried to think. “I need a whiteboard. Now.”

  Within seconds, Brad rolled one up from the corner and handed me a red marker.

  I nodded, then uncapped the pen and wrote Profile across the top. “Tess told us the Peacoat she knew was awkward. OCD, even.” I wrote down OCD and underlined it. “What does that sound like to you, guys?”

  “Like the guy has social issues,” Nick said. “He’s probably most awkward around women.”

  “To the point where, what? Maybe he was trying to prove something to a woman.” I fidgeted with the pen cap. “Brad, did you ever find anything on Agatha Barden?”

  “Dammit, I forgot to send that to you. I have it right here.” He grabbed his tablet off a desk and tapped the screen about a dozen times, then he held up a finger. “We found numerous Facebook posts with her complaining that she wasn’t getting any at home. She actually said, quote, ‘If Christopher thinks he’s the only one who knows how to lure another person to bed, then he’s got another thing coming.’”

  I nodded. “Any mention of retribution?”

  “Not on Facebook. But we found an interesting recent text conversation between her and her brother-in-law.”

  “Trent?” I was a bit surprised, given the history with Christopher’s brother-in-law. “Why was it interesting?”

  “It was in code, essentially. We deciphered it this afternoon. It was mostly fluff, but there were references to the size of certain appendages and something about them dancing in the sheets that Christopher owned.”

  “Around us, she had acted like Trent was scum. I wonder if she acted that way so we wouldn’t suspect the two of them working together. Where’s the reference to payback against Christopher?”

  “That was it. Basically having sex in his house, his bed.”

  I tapped the marker in my hand.

  “That makes sense, now that I think about it.”

  “What makes sense?” Nick asked while removing a piece of gum from its package and curling it into his mouth.

  “Trent’s a mess, but he’s not awkward around women. And we didn’t see anything to indicate he’s OCD or has Asperger’s. So I think that might rule out the team of Agatha and Trent.”

  “Who said anything about Asperger’s?”

  “Tess mentioned he had this strange fascination with numbers and repeating behaviors. Add that to the awkward social skills, and that, my friends, is a classic case of Asperger’s.” I turned and wrote Asperger’s on the board with two arrows pointing to social skills and number fixation. When I flipped around, Brad’s mouth was half open, ready to add something. But I beat him to it. “This also means he’s probably smarter than all three of us put together.”

  I heard Bianca clear her throat, and I glanced her way. She appeared to shift her eyes. Maybe she thought she was the bomb. I gave Brad the look. He moved over to Bianca, and they spoke briefly. She stood up and stepped toward me.

  “My brother has Asperger’s.”

  “Are you saying you think he’s a suspect?” I asked.

  “No, no. I just wanted to say that your description was pretty accurate. But it was tough growing up with him. Not every kid is like this, but my brother had episodes where he just lost it. It scared me a couple of times.”

  I thought about the two murder scenes, the attention to detail to not only torture the men, but also shame them.

  “Thank you,” I said calmly, even though my gut was churning like a blender.

  She nodded and started to turn back to her computer. Then she flipped back around and said, “He is smart as hell. There is nothing he can’t do, especially with numbers and computers. Brilliant.”

  Brad practically jumped at me. “Alex, Nick, check this shit out. The items stolen from the museum? I have their catalog numbers. There’s something about the combination or sequence that stands out, but I can’t figure it out. None of us can. Not yet.”

  I wrote Museum Catalog Numbers on the board and underlined it three times. “So we’re basically saying that the tan car that clipped me tonight could be the same car that made me crash when I left the museum almost a week ago, right? And we’re also theorizing that this Peacoat fella robbed the museum?”

  “Do you remember Mr. Trow pointing out the randomness of the items stolen?” Nick asked.

  “Exactly. But, in hearing Brad here, maybe the historical collectibles weren’t his target. Follow the number trail.” I tapped my pen again. “The museum had its video footage erased. Someone hacked into their computer system. Someone damn smart was behind that.”

  We all nodded.

  “Is there any possibility this same guy was the sniper on your second visit?” Brad asked.

  I turned and wrote Sniper???? on the board. “Doesn’t fit the profile, but we’ll keep it up there.”

  “I’ve waited long enough, dammit. Give me the confirmation I need to do my job,” Jerry yelled into his phone. He was across the room, and we could hear him loud and clear. I ignored his grumpiness as more pictures of the ocean crossed my mind. I looked back up at the big screen with the map. “I think I recall my dad, Nick.”

  “Damn, Alex. Freaky timing, but that’s great.”

  I could see my dad’s pointer finger showing me things on a map. I must have been ten or eleven years old. I recalled a logo on his shirt.

  “He was in the Coast Guard,” I said. “And he was really into maps. Every place on Earth could be identified as an intersection of longitude and latitude.”

  The three of us traded stares, then I turned and popped the pen off the white board. “We’re looking for a white male, dark features, who wears a Peacoat, might have Asperger’s, could be a computer genius, has awkward social skills, and likely needed some prodding or incentive from someone. I’m guessing a woman, an older woman. Not sure about the law-enforcement connection, though.”

  “Yes…” Nick rolled his arms in a keep-it-coming motion.

  I said, “It’s got to be in the numbers. Can we pull up a map of the longitudes and latitudes of both murder scenes?”

  Brad scooted over to one of his team members. “Can you bring that up?” The guy nodded.

  Then he got the attention of his team and pointed to the red scribble. “Get this down and start to identify a list of suspects.”

  “How quickly do you need it?” Bianca asked.

  “An hour ago.”

  I looked at Nick and lifted an eyebrow. Who would have thought that pretty boy Brad could bring the heat when he had to. I was impressed.

  The map went dark, dropping shadows
on the room, then it came back to life with a grid placed over the eastern part of Massachusetts. Two red balloons appeared on the map.

  “Darla, give us the long-lat of the murder at Choate Island,” Brad said to one of the other gals on his team.

  I looked up and read the screen: 42.66408 / -70.744.293.

  “What does the negative number mean? I know, I’m not Coast Guard material,” Nick said.

  “Anything south of the equator is considered a negative latitude, anything west of the prime meridian is considered a negative longitude,” I said. “In case you’re wondering, the prime meridian is in Greenwich, England.”

  We studied the numbers, and I calculated in my head. “If you add those numbers together, you get a negative 28 point something.”

  The complete number flashed on the screen and it read: -28.080245.

  “What about the murder in Sandy Bay?”

  “Give me one second,” Bianca said, her perfect complexion now with a trench between her round eyes.

  About five seconds later, we saw the following equation: 42.664770 / -70.619849 = -27.955079.

  Three of the analysts lifted their heads and began to study the numbers along with Brad, Nick, and me. Jerry was still in a heated phone conversation across the room.

  Seconds turned into minutes, and the only thing that could be heard was an occasional rattle of a keyboard and the associated hum of the laptops. But no one had a theory.

  “I don’t have a fucking clue. Anyone?”

  Brad looked at me over his shoulder. “I still have to show you the catalog numbers from the museum. Later, once we figure this shit out.”

  “Put them up on the screen here,” I said.

  Brad paused for a moment.

  “A numbers savant could do any one of a million things with these numbers. While I’m guessing the longitude and latitude are part of it, maybe there’s an overlap with other numbers. The stolen artifacts’ catalog numbers are a good place to start.”

  Five minutes later, seventeen catalog numbers were listed vertically on the right side of the screen.

  Biting my lip, I tried to think what these numbers represented together that they didn’t represent individually.