He pressed his thin lips against his teeth. “I thought we were partners. A team.”
“We are. Just know that Holt told me I couldn’t bring in anyone.”
“I could have helped you, Alex. You take on too much. And screw Holt anyway.”
I chuckled and smacked Nick on the knee. His lips finally lifted into a slight grin, then his eyes shifted to the kitchen. Was he jealous?
“I can see now that I made the wrong move. I should have told you right after he told me not to.”
He nodded. “It’s crazy how Brad and Gretchen ran into you during the surveillance.”
“And because they were so loopy—well, Gretchen anyway—my cover was almost blown. It really could have sunk this entire investigation. But we’re beyond it now. Will you join us in the kitchen? We need you, Nick. I need the whole team if we’re going to figure this shit out and stop these bombings.”
He jumped out of the chair, then turned back to me. “What are you waiting on, Troutt?”
I followed him into the kitchen, where Brad was on his phone yessing someone every few seconds, and Gretchen was pecking away on her laptop at the table. Ezzy was mixing spices into a bowl on the counter, her face etched with every bit as much intensity as the two FBI employees.
“So I just got off the phone with your ATF friend, Allen Small,” Brad said from the far side of the kitchen. He slipped his phone in his front pocket and ambled a couple of steps in our direction.
“I would have thought he would have called me directly. Anyway, what’s he got?”
“He said he texted you three times.”
I pulled out my phone and found the three text messages. Two asked if I could call him about the post office explosion. A third used a number of emojis to playfully ask about us having that drink together—what most people would call a first date. While I hadn’t made a firm commitment, I knew I’d given him the impression that I was leaning that way. I set the phone on the kitchen table. I couldn’t think about fun or kicking back until we stopped the bombings, or rather, the people behind it, even if one of those was Jerry.
“I guess I didn’t hear it coming through while I was talking to Holt.”
“Holt? The FBI assistant director called you again?” Gretchen’s throat sounded like it pinched shut.
“Yes, the guy who asked me to work a second full-time job investigating our boss.”
“I’ve seen his picture. He looks like…I don’t know, like he’s the Godfather, the head of a huge organized crime outfit.”
Nick chuckled as I turned back to Brad. “So what did Small have to say?”
“The bomb at the post office. He confirmed it was more sophisticated and powerful than the first two.”
Nick stepped in between us, his hands at his waist. “Really? That’s all the insight he has? Anyone who was there and saw the destruction could tell that. Sheesh.”
“There’s more. The vic you spoke with…” Brad touched his temple.
“Gavin O’Hara,” Nick said.
“Right. The IRA connection might indeed be real. Small said the bomb was detonated by pressure applied to the brakes. The power of the explosion, how it was packaged, were characteristics of bombs from the IRA. But here is the most—”
“The IRA,” Nick interrupted. “They disbanded, turned in all of their weapons back in the 1990s, right?”
“Actually, they signed the Good Friday Agreement in 1998,” Gretchen said. “That was the peace accord between Sinn Fein, the political party representing the IRA interests, and the UK. But it wasn’t until 2005 that the IRA confirmed all of its weapons had been destroyed.”
“Thanks for the history lesson,” Nick said.
“No problem. That’s why I’m here. I think.”
Gretchen momentarily looked up at Brad, a confused look on her face, then shrugged and refocused her sights on her laptop screen.
Brad cleared his throat extra loudly, and all heads were on him again, including Ezzy’s. “Spit it out, man,” she said.
Brad smirked, then continued. “Small said this bomb was also similar to some of the IEDs used in Iraq.”
“Iraq?” Nick’s eyes were nothing more than slits.
“Apparently, a few years ago, members of the IRA, or former members of the IRA, trained several groups within Iraq on how to assemble certain types of bombs.”
I heard a gasp and a few curse words from Nick. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I tried to process what Brad had just relayed to us.
“Jerry’s connection to Shaheen looks like it could be at the center of this entire thing,” I said.
I took a moment to update the team on the new Shaheen intel Holt had shared with me.
“He could be in Boston at this very moment, helping assemble the next bomb with some unknown target,” Nick said, scratching the back of his neck.
“It’s possible,” I said.
No one spoke for a few seconds as we all exchanged glances. I was wading through possible scenarios and motives, and I assumed the others were doing the same.
Brad’s nose twitched. He leaned over and tried to peek into the bowl that Ezzy was preparing. “Not now,” she said. “I’m still assembling this special recipe. It will be ready when I see progress on this investigation.”
With his dimples on full alert, Brad turned back to us. “Apparently Holt has employed Ezzy to be his mole on the inside of our conversations.”
I noticed Gretchen staring at Brad, her lips turning down at the corners. Was she sad? Even after their evening out, when she’d been more than a little tipsy and danced all over Brad, it appeared that she’d yet to catch her fish.
“Ezzy’s right. We eat only when we take the next step,” I said.
“Tyrants. Both of you,” Brad joked, nodding to Ezzy and then me. “I need fuel for my brain.”
An electronic bell dinged from the laptop, and Gretchen sat up in her chair. “I just got back the facial recognition results from the photos outside of Finnegan’s Tavern.”
“And?” Nick said, walking around the table to glance over Gretchen’s shoulder.
I moved next to Nick as Gretchen tapped a nail to the screen, which showed a plethora of data and a mug shot of the man we saw talking to Jerry.
“The short guy, the one with the limp—his name is Patrick Cullen. A Southie resident, born and raised.”
“What does he do for living? Does he have a history with explosives or being involved in terrorist plots?” Nick rattled off questions faster than an auctioneer.
“Hold your horses, Nick. Waiting for the rest of the page to load.”
Brad walked up next to me, angling his vision to get a better view of the screen. I could feel his breath on the nape of my neck. It was a bit distracting, but for some reason I chose not to say anything.
“Okay, Patrick is fifty-three. Never graduated high school.”
“Isn’t Jerry about that age?” Nick said.
I nodded.
“I’ve been able to access Patrick’s juvenile record, which is normally sealed. Says here he was arrested six times, twice for B&E, twice for truancy, and twice for assault. Spent some time in a juvie detention center.”
“Just the kind of guy you want your daughter to date,” Nick said.
I glanced at my partner.
“Not that I have a daughter or plan to have any kids, for that matter.”
I raised an eyebrow and asked Gretchen to continue.
“I see what looks like a pretty decent rap sheet.” Her fingernail tapped the screen again. “Racketeering, money laundering, and bribery.”
“Nice trifecta,” Nick said.
“And then we have one, two, three more arrests on assault.”
“Any time served?” I asked.
“County jail twice, neither time longer than three months. Was sent to prison once for what looks like about nine months.”
Standing straight again to stretch my back, I felt Brad behind me. Were those his pecs? I momentarily lost my
train of thought.
“I’m pretty sure Patrick is the guy Jerry told me about. When he was younger, growing up in Southie, Jerry was about to get beaten up by some older, bigger kids, and then Patrick waltzed in slinging a big chain, injured the leader of the pack, and the others ran off.”
Brad touched my elbow, and I could feel a little shiver inside. I actually looked across the kitchen to see if Ezzy had opened the back door, maybe let in a cool breeze. But she was still at the sink, both hands in the bowl of whatever she was making.
“Do you think Jerry has some type of loyalty to Patrick?” Brad asked.
“Hard to say at this point.” I shifted to my right a few feet. “We don’t know if he’s been having beers with Patrick once a week for the last twenty years, or just the last three months.”
“Patrick really didn’t serve much time for all those arrests. And how do people usually avoid or reduce their prison terms?”
“Sleazy lawyers,” I said. “Oh, that’s a redundant statement.”
Nick shook his head at me.
“What?”
“Remember, you were once a lawyer.”
“Obviously I’d been brainwashed by Mark.” Actually, my father helped me recall after my crash that I’d decided to become a prosecuting attorney after my mother was killed by a drunk driver. It still puzzled me as to why I’d been so driven by that motivation when I wasn’t very close to my mother.
“So, Mrs. Sarcasm,” Nick said, addressing everyone, “besides a sleazy lawyer, you typically see reduced sentences when someone noteworthy in the law enforcement community speaks on your behalf or, if it’s a bit more secretive, calls in a favor. And Jerry probably has that kind of clout.”
“Maybe. But unless we ask Jerry, hunting down every judge who tried Patrick’s cases would take days, if not weeks.”
Nick raised a finger. “We could try to get access to Jerry’s credit card statements to see if he’s been frequenting Finnegan’s a lot in the last few weeks or months. You never know, it might lead us to Shaheen as well.”
“Think about how long and how difficult it would be to get a search warrant. Keeping that kind of move under wraps would be virtually impossible. I’m certain Holt would vote us down…or, I guess, vote me down, since he doesn’t know about you guys.”
“Yet,” Gretchen said, “he’s the Godfather, remember. He’ll find out.”
Gretchen went on to tell us about the other guy in the photo, Patrick’s brother Dermot. He had a couple of arrests for assault, but no prison time. He also has a family, while Patrick is single.
“Okay, I’ve heard enough. Come grab a plate,” Ezzy said as she placed a colorful platter on the counter.
“I’m frickin’ starving,” Brad said, the first to arrive at the counter. There were times when he seemed more like a peer because of his knowledge and ability to interact professionally. Then, there were other times when he came across like a kid in college who hadn’t eaten homemade food all semester.
Ezzy smiled as she used two spoons to scoop up the dish and place it on Brad’s plate. He licked his lips, lifted a fork, and took his first bite. “What is it?”
“I’m sure it’s something from Guatemala,” I said.
“It’s called fiambre, a type of salad with a lot of ingredients. I have about twenty or so in this version. I knew you guys were in a rush to eat.” She smiled at Brad, who was raking it in. “It has pickled baby corn, onion, beets, olives, and Brussels sprouts. Typically, this is served to celebrate the Day of the Dead.”
With a mouthful of food, Brad stopped chewing, his fork just a few inches from his lips.
“This doesn’t mean I’m hexed or anything?”
Another Brad college moment.
“No worries, dear,” Ezzy said. “It’s a Mexican holiday that is also celebrated in other Central American countries, where families pray and remember other family members who have died. It’s considered part of our spiritual journey.”
The others shoveled food onto their plates and started eating as I stood there, pondering what we’d learned.
“You going to eat, Alex?” A piece of corn stuck at the edge of Brad’s full lips.
“Don’t want to make a mess in Alex’s nice house,” Gretchen said, stepping in between us and dabbing her napkin at his mouth. I caught her eyes glancing at me, and it seemed a bit possessive.
I walked to the bar and stared at the separate monitor, where there were nine pictures of the three previous bomb crime scenes—the first two that killed the priests and the third that killed the kid on the freeway.
“We still don’t understand Leo’s connection to this whole thing,” I said. Jerry certainly didn’t act like he knew him when we were at the crime scene together.”
“That’s another one of my projects,” Gretchen said, setting down her fork. “I started working it with Brad.” Her eyes twinkled, and she glanced at him and giggled slightly. Brad’s face turned red, and he asked Ezzy for a glass of water.
“Let me see if I can pull together a quick report based on all the data I was searching for,” Gretchen said.
“Cool. Thank you,” I said, still studying the photos.
“What is it, Alex? What do you see?” Nick asked in between chomps.
“It’s what I’m not seeing. A clear path to our suspect.” I raked my fingers through my hair, realizing I still hadn’t removed my rose-colored glasses when it came to Jerry.
I pressed my fingers around the edges of my eyes. “Jerry grew up in Southie, and most likely, he knew Patrick. They seemed close when we did surveillance on him at Finnegan’s. On top of that, Patrick spoke exactly the same phrase to Jerry that was on the flyer I found in Jerry’s car.” I looked at Gretchen, who was buried in her laptop search, then at Brad. “Can we look that up?”
“I’m on it,” Brad said. He slid into his chair behind his laptop, setting his plate next to him, and typed the phrase as he said it aloud: “If you don’t stand for something, you will fall for anything.”
While he waited, he locked eyes with Ezzy and held up his plate, flashing those dimples again. He could move oceans with those dimples, especially if the oceans were controlled by women.
“I’ll get you a second helping, Brad. No worries,” Ezzy said.
Shifting my sights back to the crime scene photos, I could hear forks clanging against plates and chewing, as the tantalizing smell of Ezzy’s latest concoction filled the kitchen air. I could see Jerry going to town on a dish like that. He would have eaten Brad under the table at this point.
Jerry. Before the bombings, before Holt, before speaking with Dawson to learn so much about Jerry’s friend, Ahmed Shaheen, I would have considered my SSA to be one of the simplest people I knew—but in a good way. I knew what he believed, what he stood for, and how he responded in certain situations. He didn’t go around waving the American flag as if it were a holy cloth, nor did he beat his chest as he shouted to the world that America was better than every other country out there. He just did his job. He was a real person who had his shit together. Like all good men should.
Unlike my deceased husband.
I grunted, shoving any thoughts about Mark out of my conscious mind.
“Does cavewoman Alex want food now?” Nick asked.
I think I grunted again, and seconds later, a plate was in front of my face.
“Thanks,” I said, scooping up a forkful of fiambre and slowly chewing. I stared at Brad as he worked and ate, somehow simultaneously. He was right. It didn’t take long to feel the impact of fresh food relieving the pressure in my brain, the gears moving in one fluid motion.
“Alex, that phrase—”
He stopped talking when he realized food remnants were flying from his mouth, then he snorted out a laugh. Gretchen giggled like Wilma, and then Nick joined in. All I could muster was a lame smile as I shoveled more food into my mouth.
“Love this, Ezzy. Why haven’t you made this before?”
“Oh, just trying t
o find healthier options, given my age and the issue we talked about yesterday.”
I gave her a wink as Brad cleaned up his mess.
“Sorry,” he said, taking a cue from Gretchen to wipe the side of his mouth. “The phrase we heard Patrick tell Jerry—the same one you found, Alex, on a flyer in Jerry’s car—it was very commonly used as propaganda by the IRA.”
I could feel eyes on me, and my mind replayed the scene outside Finnegan’s with Jerry and the Cullen brothers.
“Something else to mull over,” Gretchen said, breaking the silence. “I’ve found evidence of Leonardo Pescatore posting comments on the blog of none other than one Arnold Lyons.”
Nick pushed out an airy breath. “The man who prepped for the end of the world and who ran a meth lab to fund all of his little projects had at least a few loyal followers.”
I turned to Gretchen. “Can you find any hint of Leo’s role in this bombing spree?”
“Nothing so far. He’s more curious, and a little naïve. Not sure he knew very much about the real world. He seems…impressionable.”
“Paulie gave me the same opinion of Leo.”
Images of Jerry being pistol-whipped by Paulie flashed in my head. Setting down my plate, I pulled out my phone and checked the app that tracked Jerry’s whereabouts, or at least the whereabouts of his leather jacket.
“Still at One Center Plaza,” I said, gazing out the window, watching the branches bending from the gusty wind.
“Nick, I need you to track this angle with Leo. Gretchen will continue feeding us the latest information she captures from her technical research, but I think you need to talk to Arnold Lyons. Quickly.”
Nick scooted his chair out so fast it banged against the wall. “Oops, sorry.” He ran his fingers across the chipped paint on the wall. “Did I do all that?”
“No. The kids have space issues. They must have smacked the wall in that same spot a hundred times.”
Just then, the back door opened, and Luke toddled in, dragging his backpack at his side. I cringed a bit. I didn’t want to expose Luke to any of this.
“Holy sh—” he started to say when he saw us.
“Hey, no potty mouth. You know better than that.”
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 70
