“Missy, pull up the Frank Sham video.” The girl did a double take, as if Richard had asked her to cross some ethical line. I had to hold back from saying something to the effect of, “Who the hell made the CIA the ultimate authority?”
She finally turned back around and clicked her mouse about a dozen times.
“Your friends at the CIA appeared to be most interested in two segments,” Richard said as we watched video zoom by in double time or faster. “The redhead did her best to keep her face averted from the cameras. But here’s the one decent shot of her face.”
Missy paused the video just as the redhead lifted from her chair, her hand on Frank’s shoulder.
The straight red hair was hard to ignore, if not for the purple-rimmed glasses and considerable makeup, especially the obnoxious dark eyeshadow. And she wore a dress that highlighted her bust. I thought about the woman from Cobb’s house and then the mug shot from her MSP days. She had appeared to be plain, not memorable in the least. Leaning closer to the monitor, I studied her nose and lips. I noticed the position of her cheekbones. It was subtle, but there was a similarity to the Margaret Turov I’d seen, both in person and in the picture back in the war room.
“This is good. Can you show me the next segment?” I’d yet to see why the CIA was acting so territorial.
The video footage moved in reverse in fast motion. It was like watching an old Charlie Chaplin film.
“Getting close here,” Richard said, pointing a finger.
“Oops, went past it. Let me play it in real time from here,” Missy said.
How had I missed the monumental event that had multiplied the CIA paranoia factor tenfold? I’d only blinked a few times.
“Slow it down a bit,” Richard said to Missy.
I saw the back of Turov in the lower right side of the screen; she was speaking to someone.
“That’s a waiter?”
“Yep. He’s already been interviewed by Carella. He’s clueless and has nothing to do with any of this, from what Carella said.”
With my eyes back on the video, Turov took a couple of steps toward the center of the screen and tripped, awkwardly falling to the ground.
“Her purse slipped away. Right there. You see it?” Richard said.
“Sure do.”
“We were able to blow it up and we think…let me re-emphasize, we think the grip of a knife slides out. You can just barely make it out here,” he said, pointing, then shifting his eyes back to me.
A number of men rushed to her side. “Chivalry at its best,” I noted.
“A lot of imitation chivalry in a place like this. The stories I could tell,” Richard said. I glanced at him and noticed his mustache making an odd twerking motion.
He moved his hand down the screen, and I turned my attention from his mustache to the video.
“Keep your eyes peeled to the top right part of her back. It’s difficult to see very well through the strands of red hair.”
A couple of seconds ticked by. “And freeze,” he said.
The hair had parted just enough, revealing part of her back that the dress didn’t cover.
“You do see it, don’t you?”
“I see something. A tattoo, right?”
He nodded. “Okay, Missy, I think her eyes are about like mine. Show Alex the enhanced still shot.”
Five clicks of the mouse, and the screen was filled with Turov’s shoulder.
My pulse instantly ticked a little faster. “The hammer and sickle emblem from the former Soviet Union.”
I was a little fuzzy on when I’d learned these facts, but I recalled studying about Communism, the formation of the Communist Bloc, the long-running Cold War with the United States, and the endless propaganda machine that fueled the people’s blind acceptance of the rules enforced by the corrupt leadership. For the Soviet leaders, the well-known emblem that adorned their country’s flag were symbols of the industrial worker and the peasant from the Russian Revolution—everyone bound together, working for the cause. But for the regular person on the street, and foreign intelligence agencies like the CIA, that emblem brought sentiments of ruthless tyranny. And distrust.
Like a flare shot through the sky, a thought exploded in my mind.
I took out my phone and snapped a quick photo before Richard could say anything.
“Give me a second,” I told Richard, stepping to the corner of the room while dialing up the war room back in Boston.
“Whatcha got, Alex?” Nick said, his voice echoing a bit. He had me on the speaker system.
“I’m not sure you’ll see the actual video, but I’m sending you a screen shot of Turov. She’s sporting a tattoo.”
“Okay. She’s got ink. So does half the world. Everyone’s always trying to make some type of prophetic statement. I’m not impressed.” His voice sounded tired and garbled.
“I know that. Hold on.” I tapped my screen three times. “The photo is on the way.”
I heard a number of voices talking over each other.
“Nick?”
“Hey Alex, Brad here. Just got your photo. Gretchen is putting it on the big screen.”
I heard someone say, “Boom,” and then silence. I looked at my phone to make sure we hadn’t been disconnected.
“So, while I’ve seen a few tats like this before—” I started.
“Probably quite a few in Brighton Beach, given its Russian roots,” Nick said.
“True. And Turov is from there. But for some reason, I think this tattoo is what got the CIA all riled up.”
“Why?” Gretchen’s squeaky voice.
I cupped my hand to encircle my phone and mouth. “As crazy as it sounds, I’m wondering if they think Turov is working with the Russians.”
“But all of these murders appear to be associated with Turov’s personal life,” Brad said.
“I’m not saying they aren’t. I haven’t been able to think it all the way through and make all the pieces fit.”
I heard the door swing open behind me and glanced over my shoulder. “Listen. I need to get back to work. Not sure how to do this, but if there’s a connection between Turov and the Russian government, or some faction from that region who is sympathetic to the Communist cause, we need to find out if this killing spree could be a terrorist action. With the CIA not turning over any information, it won’t be easy, but we need more intel. Maybe get the New York office to question Bruno Chappaletti again. Yeah, push on that angle. Later.”
Turning back around, I saw Richard and Archie in a discussion while Missy was running through more footage.
“You had no right to show anyone that video,” Archie said.
I looked at the moving images on the screen.
“Do you have a court injunction? Last I heard, the CIA doesn’t rule the country,” Richard said, holding his ground.
Archie turned around and saw me looking at the video.
“Stop the video,” he ordered Missy, who immediately paused it.
“Alex, you know I was trying to help you out, and now you go around my back.”
I had no desire to get my pulse any higher. I looked over his shoulder and couldn’t help but giggle.
“What’s so funny?” He flipped around to the still screen where Turov was holding up a middle finger to the camera.
“That’s the last image we got of her before she left the casino,” Richard said.
I popped the CIA agent on the shoulder. “I’ve got the same message for you, Archie. Fuck you.”
I swung the door open and headed back to the crime scene.
***
A wall next to a bathroom door held up my weight as I watched more law enforcement personnel scamper throughout the area. I began to tune out the conversations as my eyes grew heavy. Despite all the anxiety of seeing a mangled body, and especially dealing with the bipolar behavior of our so-called partner agency, the CIA, a yawn escaped my lips.
I knew my dramatic exit from the security room didn’t make any progress towar
d making friends within the CIA. But I could be used for only so long. I’d endured a hell few women or men ever experienced—a long road trip with Archie Woods. He played the raunchy who-me? character well. Almost too well. Whether that was his actual persona, who knew? Maybe that was how he was able to lie so easily. Given my brief interactions with CIA personnel, truth and transparency were considered optional at best.
Through the blur of activity, a waving arm came into focus.
“Alex, you have that zombie look. You didn’t hear me?” Carella walked in my direction while glancing over his shoulder twice.
Pushing off from the wall, I plodded a couple of steps while pinching the corners of my eyes. “I was deep in thought. What’s up?”
“ERT team just found a slip of paper in the front pocket of Sham’s shirt. They’re extracting it now, working with the ME to make sure they don’t disturb any of the wounds.”
I nodded, not very jazzed by the information. We didn’t need receipts or betting slips or love notes. We needed hard evidence. Ideally, I’d take Turov’s exact address or phone number—of course, that was a pipe dream. All kidding aside, we had to figure out the pattern behind the wave of killings. What was Turov’s real goal, and whom was she targeting next?
“Hey, I appreciate the work, but what’s a piece of paper going to tell us? We need something to get out in front of this murder machine. I just can’t tell you what that is.”
“Yeah, you might be right. “ Carella turned around when a man in a blue ERT shirt called out his name. He stepped away, and I yawned again—this one showing all teeth. I was frickin’ tired.
I’d barely had time to fall back into my trance when Carella called to me. “Alex, over here quick.”
His waving arm tried to get me to move faster than my feet wanted to go. As I was headed that way, I heard my name from the opposite direction, in a tone that wasn’t very pleasant. “Alex Troutt, you have some explaining to do.” I didn’t bother swinging my head around. I knew it was that annoying asshole, Archie.
I approached my FBI colleagues. “What’s up, guys?”
Before words left Carella’s mouth, my eyes locked in on the plastic bag he’d just taken from the ERT guy.
I lifted my sights and found Carella’s face full of white and red splotches.
“You allergic to all of this?” I asked, extending my arms wide.
Just then, Archie pulled up to the group, his mouth on overdrive.
“Enough of these games, Alex. Where you go, I go.”
I slowly turned my head. “I could make you eat those words in so many ways. But I’m all about restraint. Because anyone who has ever dealt with you surely believes that you need a strait jacket for your mouth.”
His face turned red, and he moved half a step closer, his foul breath making me recoil. “You think you’re so smart and witty,” he said with saliva shooting out of his agitated face.
“Anyone have a splash guard?” I wiped my face clean, disregarding his ignorance.
“You have no idea who you’re dealing with. No. Idea.” He jabbed his finger twice to emphasize his point.
“Finished with your tantrum yet? You’re the one holding out on me…actually, all of us.” I extended my arm to the two others witnessing the pointless squabble.
“Yeah, well you can just—”
“Archie, shut the fuck up,” I snapped then turned to Carella. “You were saying?”
Lifting his elbow slightly, apparently to keep Archie from seeing the goods, Carella held the edge of the plastic bag with two fingers directly in front of my face.
“What am I looking at?”
The baggie rocked back and forth.
“A note.”
“From who?” I asked.
Carella scrunched his eyebrows until they connected, looking like a furry caterpillar. “Look closely.”
I couldn’t follow the moving target, so I held out my hand and Carella transferred the bag to my two fingers.
“What? I just see a crumbled receipt with faded purple letters.”
“Other side,” Carella said.
Flipping it around, I could feel Archie’s warm breath in my ear. “Personal space,” I said without taking my eyes off the baggie.
“You see it?” Carella asked.
Tilting the bag toward the ceiling lights, the words hit like a lightning bolt.
“What does it say, dammit?” Archie asked.
“Enjoy the chase, AT. We’ve only just begun. J MT”
“Who the hell is AT?” Archie scratched his head, and a bed of curls all moved in unison.
I ignored Archie and met Carella’s eyes.
“Is this sick game all about you, Alex?” Carella asked.
My lips didn’t move. I couldn’t confirm or deny the premise. But I knew one thing. With no more real evidence, we were virtually assured there would be another murder.
16
A final puff of the sweet aroma of applewood-smoked bacon blew out the door just as Sam Beck’s combat boots hit concrete outside of Mary Lou’s Diner. Using the bottom of his old, fatigue-green T-shirt, Sam cleaned his sunglasses as he squinted against the sun. Having downed a plate full of blueberry pancakes, along with two eggs, sunny-side up, and five strips of that mouth-watering bacon, Sam paused on the sidewalk. The crisp, early-morning air filled his lungs, infusing his body with a surge of adrenaline. Too bad the air couldn’t unclog his intake of cholesterol. If Dr. Budde had witnessed that overindulgence, he wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the phone and call Mrs. Beck.
“To hell with them. A man needs a little bit of freedom in life,” he muttered, realizing immediately he was searching for anything to justify going against his doctor’s orders.
Sam released a sudden belch, covering his mouth a second too late, just as a couple he recognized walked past, heading into the restaurant.
“Excuse me,” he said, his baritone drawl, which sounded more and more like the actor and author his wife always mentioned. What was his name? Ah yes, Sam Shepard.
“Guess the food is still pretty good,” the older woman said with a crooked smile, her eyes twice the normal size behind coke-bottle glasses.
Sam tipped his Penn State University cap and helped with the door until the couple was safely inside.
Making his way toward his ten-year-old Ford F-150 SuperCab, Sam recalled a time when he was about seven or eight, exiting a similar breakfast diner with his father, when he took in the ever-present, lingering scent of chocolate in the air. For a little kid, that was the bomb dot com.
“That’ll be the last time you smell that chocolate. Shutting the factory for good this coming week,” his father had warned him.
Such was life in Hershey, Pennsylvania, where Sam was born and raised and had lived his entire life, outside of two tours to the Middle East as a Marine—one to Afghanistan early in the war and one to Iraq two years later.
Chocolate was still one of his cravings, right up there with bacon. But outside of his family, one of his passions was keeping his shooting skills sharp at the firing range. More than that, he enjoyed showing off to his lifelong friends and even wagering a little here and there, when he felt extra confident of his steady hand and keen eye.
Weaving in between parked cars, he couldn’t help but grin. “Today might be the day I go all in.” A month ago, he’d put down a hundred bucks and lost it on the last shot. Today, though, his confidence was running high. He would up the ante to two hundred dollars and guarantee to hit the center target with twelve straight rounds, the first six using his Springfield Armory 1911 pistol, the second from his DPMS AR-15. He’d used similar firearms as a Marine, and both had saved his ass, and a few others, on more than one occasion. Now that he was stateside, nothing got his adrenaline pumping like firing his two favorite guns, especially at the exact moment he pressed the trigger and watched the target hole appear a hundred yards away.
His boot kicked a rock, and for some reason, his thoughts flashed through a quick f
lurry of images from the segment of life that he’d tried to forget. That one mission when everything went wrong. Terribly wrong.
Blinking his eyes, he stuffed those thoughts back into the compartment labeled “It’s Too Late to Change Anything.” He then spotted the same rock and booted it away, severing his memory as best he could.
When he reached his faded red pickup, he glanced in the bed and grimaced a bit. He’d been putting off cleaning up the old rebar, concrete remnants, and a plethora of tools and trash from a little home project he’d started but never finished just as winter set in last year. Looking to the blue sky, he wondered if he’d procrastinated long enough to be able to just restart the project. Anything to avoid the considerable clean-up effort.
Sliding into the front seat, Sam slammed the door shut and turned over the engine on the first try. He blew warm air into his hands and looked at the car stereo on the dash. Music came to life, a country tune by Kenny Chesney. Sam began to hum the classic rhythm of “You and Tequila.”
A flash of motion across the dash’s dark plastic, and Sam slid his hand toward the front, oversized pocket of his cargo pants.
“Ah!” he called out as a blade broke skin on the right side of his ribcage.
“Hiya, Sammy,” the woman’s voice said from behind the front seat.
“Margaret?” he grunted, glancing down and seeing crimson spots on his T-shirt.
“So glad you remember my voice, Sammy. It means a lot to me.” Her voice sounded too pleasant, maniacal even, and his brain was flooded with images he’d just tried to permanently store away.
With his mouth instantly parched, he said calmly, “Why are you here, in Hershey?”
“Why do you think, dumbass?”
He saw more movement through the reflection on the plastic, and he attempted to turn his head.
“Eyes straight ahead, both hands on the wheel.”
She was always a natural at barking out orders, even if her rank and gender never allowed for it.
“Margaret, seriously. What’s up with this hiding-in-the-truck bullshit? You could have just called me up, and we could have met for coffee.”
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 42
