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

by John W. Mefford

  Nick scratched his hairless chin. “Now that’s a different angle. Maybe there was some type of restaurant politics, or, better yet, given her addiction issues, maybe Karina stole from Tatiana. The owners found out and decided she needed to be taught a lesson.”

  “If I hadn’t seen the body, I’d think your theory was plausible. But whoever committed this crime’s got some serious issues. Serious. Now that doesn’t rule out someone at the restaurant. An emotional love triangle or another addict involved in some way?” Carella suggested.

  “Again, if you believed any of that was possible, you wouldn’t have called us down,” I said.

  Carella blew out a breath. “I’m trying to let the evidence dictate my opinion, but you’re right. Again.”

  Pinching the corners of my eyes, I let all the data collate in my brain, wondering if the combined information would naturally point me in a direction that made sense. The brutality of the murder, even the type of weapon, was similar to the murders of Monty and Ben Murphy. But this victim was a woman, so any theory of the perp strictly targeting men, even philandering men, was no longer a consideration. Each of the three murders had similarities—enough to pull my thoughts toward Cobb’s involvement or maybe some type of apprentice taking over where he left off. But in other respects, such as the selection of victims and the rage exhibited by the perp, made it seem like they were all unique. That took my thoughts in another direction.

  “Are you thinking the same thing I am?” I blinked my eyes and turned to Nick.

  “Copycat killer?”

  “You got it. Not sure if Cobb’s little tease about a woman helping him out, possibly carrying on the murders, is believable. On top of that, we’re two hundred miles south of where the last murder took place.”

  “Only twenty-four hours between the homicides,” Nick said.

  Carella raised a hand, but I didn’t want to interrupt my brainstorming session with Nick.

  “Then again, we’re not all riding mules. A person could navigate down here any number of ways.”

  “But we know that most serial killers like to stay in one area, even blend in with the crowd,” Nick said.

  “Just like Cobb.”

  “Can I speak now?” Carella asked.

  “What?” Nick and I responded in tandem.

  “Cobb. I heard stories about him. He’s the Ring Killer, right? Submerged his victims in the bay waters, then threw cinderblocks on them as the tide rolled in and watched them drown to death.”

  The image of Mark broke out of its protective box, the one I’d created in my mind when I learned he’d been killed just like Cobb’s other victims. My pulse doubled in no time.

  “Guys, I’ll let you continue discussing the case. I need a quick dose of fresh air.”

  As I started walking for the door, dodging two uniforms, Nick said, “The weather is getting nasty out there.”

  “Good. I need something to break me out of this funk.”

  Stepping out the door, I was hit with a gust of wind that nearly caused me to lose my balance. As I made my way to the Boardwalk, veiny flashes of lightning splintered the dark sky, shooting up from the ocean, followed shortly by rumbles of thunder. I turned right at the Boardwalk, moving away from the activity near the crime scene, and picked up my pace. My extremities tingled from the natural blood flow.

  Water sprayed my face. At first, I wasn’t sure if it came from the waves off to my left or from the spastic rain. I didn’t care. I closed my eyes and let the water coat my face, drip down my chin. It was invigorating.

  Hot breath swept by my ear at the same moment a sharp instrument jabbed my side.

  “Don’t say a fuckin’ word,” a man growled.

  I turned my head but was met with a fist to the jaw. I stumbled, tried to look for the cops and federal agents, but the distant lights were a blur. As I got to my feet, I heard a roar. I turned just as the man lowered his shoulder and rammed into me, his knife penetrating my FBI windbreaker, puncturing my skin. I yelled out.

  “Shut the fuck up and get in the alley,” he hissed.

  Before I stopped rolling, I reached at my waist for my Glock. I touched leather, and my heart skipped a beat.

  “You think I was stupid enough to not know you carried a gun? Fuckin’ amateur.”

  I pushed up with my arms, but then he punched his knee against the side of my head. I dropped to the ground with my ears ringing and motes of light flickering in my vision.

  A quick kick to my gut. It felt like a sledgehammer. I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t in a position to fight back, and he was still coming at me. I’d yet to assess who I was dealing with, although each kick or punch was helping to form an opinion.

  With my side stinging like hell, I scooted and crawled toward a black hole, a single trash can sitting at the edge of the alley. A massive clap of thunder coincided with a double burst of lightning, allowing me a quick glance at my assailant. Under his gray hoodie, an L-shaped scar caught my eye. His mouth hung open as he pumped out breath like an animal in heat. He was missing at least two teeth in the middle of his top row of teeth.

  Just then, he swung his leg. I spotted a boot with no shoelaces headed for my ribs. I rolled toward the mouth of the alley, and the boot glanced off my side at the exact spot where I’d been stabbed. It took my breath away. Again.

  “Fuckin’ bitch. Get in there. You’re going to die with all the other rats.”

  This must be the guy. Karina’s killer.

  Lifting to one knee, I couldn’t see a damn thing around me, so I used my hands to feel for something to defend myself. The concrete was coated with a sticky goo, and I caught a waft of something putrid. At that moment, my hand landed on a tin can as the man dropped lower. I gritted my teeth and swung back with my arm, hoping to at least make him flinch.

  “Ah! You fucking cut me.”

  Even better.

  He stumbled back two steps, brought a hand to his face.

  Still gasping for air, I shoved my body to a standing position. Even with him ten feet away, I still had to crane my neck to see the top of his head. His silhouette filled up the alley.

  I jerked my head left and right, still searching for something I could use as a legitimate weapon.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  He chuckled once and walked toward me. “Because I hate cunts like you who pry into other people’s business.”

  Crouched in an athletic position, I shuffled my feet backward, wondering if I could charge him, then spin, and make it out to the Boardwalk.

  “Is that why you killed Karina?”

  “Ha!” is all he said.

  I bumped up against something metal, nowhere to go. Two quick steps, and he was in front of me, swinging his knife down toward my neck. I lunged and hit him with everything I had, right in the gut. His torso folded and his arm dropped. I grabbed his wrist and tried to bite into it. Just as my teeth hit skin, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and flung me like a plastic doll, twisting my neck in the process.

  “Biting like a typical little bitch,” he growled.

  I came to a stop against a brick wall. Scooting up, my fingers strummed against something metal. A trash can lid? I leaped to my feet, spun, and rammed it against the jaw of the charging Neanderthal. The impact jarred my whole body. I turned to run, but he grabbed my jacket as he fell backward. I had no choice but to go with the momentum, and I drove my legs with every ounce of energy left in me. I could hear myself screaming as he landed with an unforgiving thud, my shoulder digging into his sternum.

  He groaned, started to turn on his shoulder. That was when I noticed his hands. No knife. Flipping around on my knee, I frantically pawed at the grungy ground for the knife.

  “Where the hell is it?” Desperate to find the weapon before he could attack, my voice pitched higher. “Where—”

  He groaned and started kicking and pawing at me.

  Our legs got tangled as his boots kicked at my legs, but I continued sliding my hands alo
ng the wet pavement. A plastic bag, pebbles, a small carton. A nasty grime jammed under my fingernails.

  “You broke my ribs, bitch!” And then he howled like a wild bear, as he lunged upward and hooked his paw around my collar.

  Right then, my fingers found something long, thin. A flexible wire of some sort. No, a jagged piece of a coat hanger.

  He yanked me back, but I gripped the hanger and jabbed it over my head.

  He yelped like a wounded animal. Bullseye. I’d hit soft tissue.

  “My fucking eye!”

  I jumped off his torso, but he was still alert. He kicked out his boot and clipped my shoes. I tumbled straight down, and my chin bounced off the concrete.

  “Fuck,” I murmured.

  A second later, he was on top of me, yelling something I couldn’t understand as he pummeled my back and kidneys with shot after shot. I was pinned down, no way of wiggling loose. It felt like my organs were about to shut down, the pain so unbearable.

  A squeak in my left ear. I looked that way, and a rat the size of a football scurried by.

  “What the hell?” the man said, suddenly distracted.

  That was my chance. I twisted and thrust my knee upward, connecting with his groin. He listed toward the right as air rushed from his lungs. I realized the hanger was still in my hand. As he began to fall, I whipped the hanger around his neck, grabbed the other end, and tugged with all my might.

  “Get. The. Fuck. Off. Biiitch,” he said in sputtering gasps.

  I didn’t want to kill him, but I had to incapacitate him long enough for me to take control, get help.

  He swung his mitts over his head, slapping my face a couple of times. I dug my feet into his side, re-gripped my moist fingers on the metal, and tugged again. Even harder.

  Shoes clipped off wooden planks behind me.

  “Alex,” someone called out.

  “Back here,” I yelled through clenched teeth.

  “Alex.” The voice sounded more distant.

  “I’m in the alley!” I yelled until it felt like my veins would pop out of my neck.

  The steps came quicker now, from wooden planks and then to concrete.

  “Alex, where are you?”

  “Right in front of you, dammit.”

  “Holy shit, woman.”

  Carella pulled his Glock as I heard my assailant gagging.

  “Alex, you can let go. I’ve got my gun on him.”

  I did as he said, but the beast was still partially on me. I flailed and kicked until I was out from under him, back on my feet.

  “It’s okay.”

  The next few seconds, I heard Carella on his radio and the man still gagging. I stumbled back toward the Boardwalk just as Nick jogged up.

  I fell into his arms, saying, “We caught him, Nick. Karina’s killer. We got the son of a bitch.”

  10

  Sitting in the back of an ambulance, I could see a mist floating across the dark sky and a single yellow spotlight glowing from the nearby corner as a throng of people gathered behind yellow tape.

  I felt a piercing sting on my chin, and I flinched.

  “Agent Troutt, I need you to sit still please.” A medic with a decent potbelly splayed his arms. I wasn’t sure which was thicker, his waistline or his distinct accent.

  “Where are you from?” I tried to make small talk. Anything to take my mind off the pain in my chin and my side, which he’d already treated.

  “Yankee Stadium was five blocks one way, and three blocks the other way was the home of one Miss Jennifer Lopez. Straight from the Bronx, lady.” I think he belched. “No disrespect.”

  “Of course not. And congrats on your brush with fame.”

  He shifted his weight on his knee, and I felt another stab in my chin.

  “Grr!”

  “If you don’t sit still, I’m going have to take you to the emergency room. That or cuff you.”

  “I’ll throw on the cuffs if you need me to.” Agent Carella curled around the ambulance door, a smile painted on his stubbly face.

  I didn’t want that topic going a step further. “Thanks for saving my life,” I said through a closed jaw as the medic continued working on my chin.

  “Your life?” Carella scoffed. “Hell, I think I saved that asshole’s life.”

  I snickered.

  “I wasn’t sure you were going to let go of that hanger until you cut right through his neck and severed his carotid artery.”

  The medic shifted his eyes to Carella, then went back to working on my chin.

  “Did the asshole admit to anything yet?” I asked.

  Nick approached the back of the ambulance and chimed in, “He just kept repeating one thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “‘Give me five minutes alone with that bitch. I’ll kill her with my bare hands.’”

  “He would have succeeded in about four minutes had I not blindly found that hanger.”

  “You sure you don’t have some Irish blood in you? Damn lucky you didn’t get yourself killed,” Carella said.

  The medic pulled away and started cleaning up the mess.

  “You act like I invited him over for dinner after running into him at the grocery.”

  “No, I’m just sayin’.”

  I raised a playful eyebrow, and Carella replied with another grin.

  I could already feel Nick’s glare and read his mind: he thought Carella and I had this little thing going. He was wrong, at least in my mind.

  “Found this at the edge of the Boardwalk.” Nick handed me my Glock. I checked the ammo and slid it back into my holster.

  “How did he get your gun away from you?” Nick asked.

  “Who knows? Even with his size, he moved like a frickin’ ninja. He got up on me before I knew a soul was there. Stabbed me once, then I became his punching bag, tumbling into the alley.”

  I wiggled my jaw and felt the bandages stretch against my skin.

  “Looks like you were tossed a little chin music,” Carella said with another sly grin, pretending to throw a punch.

  Wait, Mark had said that once. Maybe more. At one of the many baseball games we’d attended.

  My eyes drifted, and I started nodding off, recalling his explanation to Luke.

  “Alex, did you hear me?”

  I blinked and glanced up to see Carella’s hand moving to my shoulder. His eyes shifted to Nick and then the medic.

  “Guys, nothing to worry about. A few nicks and bruises.”

  “She suffered a pretty traumatic head injury a couple of months back,” Nick said to the others.

  “I wonder if she might need to go in for a CAT scan, get seen by a real doctor.” The medic slipped off his rubber gloves as he addressed only Nick and Carella.

  I whistled, and three heads turned my way.

  “I’m right here, and I can hear you,” I said, waving a hand. “Let’s just drop it.” I turned to eye Nick. “You know I’m not getting near another damn hospital.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I had to tell him.”

  “Whatever. This perp. What else do we know about him? He might have killed Karina, but what about the others?”

  Carella pulled a small notepad out of his coat, licked his fingers, and flipped a few pages.

  “He wasn’t carrying any wallet or ID, but we did find his dog tags tucked under his T-shirt. He must have forgotten he had them on, is my best guess.”

  Lifting his eyes for just a moment, Carella waited until Nick and I acknowledged his thought process with quick nods.

  The New York-based agent squinted and moved the wrinkled note pad closer to his eyes, then farther away.

  “A regular Columbo,” I said mockingly. “It might help if you switched to something more modern than hieroglyphics.”

  “Ha. That’s not really the issue. Well, my handwriting sucks. Don’t tell my SSA, but I might need readers.”

  “Could have fooled us,” Nick said, winking at me.

  I climbed out of the ambulance and
could see a good fifty to sixty bystanders gawking at the bustling crime scene.

  “And?”

  “Well, okay. His name is Bruno Chappaletti. Lives in the Bronx.”

  “Hey, I might know him,” the medic said with an eager smile.

  “Not sure you want to claim this guy as your BFF. Unless you have the same complex that drew people to John Gotti,” Carella added.

  The medic’s eyebrows pushed together to form a single line. “Gotti? Who’s he?”

  I chuckled. “You’re too young to remember, I guess. He’s a mobster who somehow became a cult hero to many living in his community, even with evidence showing he robbed, assaulted, and killed people. Come to think of it, that strange fascination is kind of similar to what we see on the Internet today. A herd of people blindly following the biggest blowhard, regardless of what bullshit is spewing out of his mouth.”

  “Amen to that.” The medic lifted his fist, and I bumped it.

  “Bruno from the Bronx,” I reiterated, looking at Carella to continue.

  He nodded. “At least that’s what popped up on our first search. We’ll need to confirm everything about him. This guy could have stolen Bruno’s dog tags just to lead us on a wild goose chase.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Nick stepped in the middle of our little circle as accordion music could be heard in the background. “It just hit me. Bruno from the Bronx did say one more thing during the on-site interview. ‘Semper Fi.’”

  “The Marine saying, ‘always faithful.’” I slid my fingers along my side and recalled how powerful Bruno had been.

  “If this guy truly is Bruno,” Carella added.

  I smirked. “I like your attitude. Question everything and everyone.”

  A quick arch of an eyebrow, and he said, “We did all go through the same training at Quantico, correct?” He patted his coat. Finally, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and stuck a single one in his mouth. “You guys mind?”

  It was lit and he’d puffed out his first smoke signal before we could respond.

  My sights followed the smoke curling up into the sky. “This guy had special training. Must have. We need to confirm when he was in the Marines and if he was a part of any additional Special Forces group.”