The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 4-6 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set Book 2)

by John W. Mefford

  “Which is why they can be so damn hard to find.”

  “Indeed. Just think, it can be anyone you bump shoulders with while you’re walking through a packed mall. The person might be carrying a package from the shoe store and rushing to meet a friend for drinks. Seemingly normal behavior.”

  He turned back around to face me. “During my graduate studies, I had the opportunity to interview a man who had killed three people. It was something I’ll never forget.” A shake of the head, and then he hunched lower and started sifting through one of the bins. “One thing really stood out during that interview.”

  “What was that?”

  “His humanity. It was really quite striking. For instance, I found out that he cried himself to sleep every night.”

  It sounded unstable, but also very human, as the doctor noted. Who hasn’t lived thirty, forty years on this earth and not experienced trauma of some kind?

  “While there are exceptions, killers are rarely categorized as monsters. To them, there’s really no such thing as a senseless killing.”

  I nodded, recalling some of the same information from my FBI training back in Quantico, although Dr. Strickler seemed to communicate it in a different way. Maybe I was sensing his compassion. It had been a good thirteen years since my time back at the academy.

  “Make no mistake, though, murderers, especially those who are considered serial killers, are profoundly damaged people who are driven by a history of devastating trauma.”

  I nodded, letting his perspective resonate in my mind. Another sickening waft drifted by, and I realized my arm holding the lip balm had dropped to my side. I took in a whiff of the Carmex and exhaled. “I’ve heard various theories about those trigger events that can lead people to kill years later. Do you think it’s a singular event, or a number of events piled on top of each other?”

  He had just dumped a jar of something purple and gooey into the trash can.

  “What the hell was that?”

  His eyes got wide. “Homemade jelly from Mrs. Swift, I think. Lordy, this is like changing the diapers of my twins when they were babies. That smell could have knocked over a horse.”

  “My Erin was probably worse in that department than her brother. But raising twins at any age must have been challenging for you.”

  “You see this head of gray hair?” He pointed at his head, careful to keep his stained fingers out of his hair, which was beginning to thin. He was looking more and more like Albert Einstein.

  I chuckled, and he continued tackling the natural disaster in the fridge.

  “Now, to answer your question, it really depends, Alex. We’re all so different, as is our ability to deal with trauma. How we internalize events, how it manifests itself in our behavior, our self-esteem…it’s a complexity I’m not sure we’ll ever truly figure out. But I will say this: more and more studies are showing that continuous trauma over a period of time can have a longer-lasting effect, even if it’s not outwardly visible. It might be someone who was in an abusive home for years on end or was constantly exposed to violence at school. Or it could even be a person who suffers tremendous emotional abuse over a long period of time. That’s what I’ve heard called the waterboarding effect. It can really screw with a person.”

  “I think you’re trying to say that the killer’s prostitute focus may not have anything directly to do with women in that line of work.”

  “How we as human beings express our feelings, including resentment or rage, a lack of self-esteem or torment, can be as different as the proverbial snowflake. So it may or may not have any direct association with actual women in that line of work. In the world of psychology, we don’t deal with absolutes.”

  The fridge’s motor sputtered twice, and Dr. Strickler used a fist to pound the side, which instantly quieted the unsettling noise.

  “Why don’t you get Ashling to do these types of tasks for you?”

  “She’s not really into working a whole lot, if you know what I mean.”

  I shrugged, a little perplexed with his inability to get Ashling to actually work for her pay.

  “She pretty much just likes to sit in one spot, read her book, speak a few words, and if I’m lucky, she’ll answer the phone and generally provide a human presence out front. You know, just something to at least pretend we have a real business.” He winked at me.

  A fictitious life. I wondered how much trouble Tripuka, or whoever had killed those girls, had taken to hide their twisted obsessions in order to blend in with the rest of society. Without purposely going there, I had allowed my mind to strongly consider someone other than Tripuka committing these murders. But why? Before I took another few seconds to ponder my mind’s deductive process, Dr. Strickler said it was time for his next appointment. We retraced our steps down the hallway. My phone buzzed, and I started digging through my purse. I found the edge of the phone and pulled it out as the doctor opened the door. It was a text from Erin.

  Mrs. Harris said I have to actually do art that I am researching. That means I have to paint something in Impressionism style…by TOMORROW. Help!!

  I could feel her stress through the phone. It was another one of those teenage, end-of-the-world moments. At least it had to do with schoolwork and not some type of mean-girl drama. I rubbed my temple, thinking through our options, given her looming deadline to complete her homework, my lack of knowledge to provide any help whatsoever, and, of course, the fact that we might have just allowed a killer to walk out of jail. Would Tripuka kill again? Did he even kill Emma and our cold-case vic, Gloria Lopez, or was the killer stalking his next victim a thousand miles away?

  “Alex, do you mind moving out of the doorway so my next patient can get through?”

  I glanced up and saw the elderly woman from the other day standing there, her nose angled above my head, even though she was a couple of inches shorter.

  “Pardon me.” Mrs. Carano pulled gloves off each hand and placed them in her purse. It looked like a Dolce & Gabbana, and I momentarily lost my train of thought.

  “Alex? Hey.”

  A familiar voice broke me out of my trance. “Oh. Hi, Colin.”

  “You look troubled. Everything okay?”

  Just as I was about to respond, I heard—and even felt—a sneeze just behind my head.

  “Mr. Brewer, are you ready for your appointment?”

  I flipped around while touching the back of my hair to see a portly man stretching a suede vest to its limits. His nose was red and his eyes puffy.

  I pointed at him. “Dr. Swift?” He gave me a passing “yes,” then looked beyond me to Colin.

  “Oh, you see Dr. Swift, not Dr. Strickler,” I said to Colin.

  He gave me a polite nod. “Usually, yes.”

  Then Mrs. Carano practically pushed me out of the way. “Will people ever learn it’s not always about them?” she said to Dr. Strickler. He smiled politely and held the door open as Mrs. Carano shuffled by Dr. Swift and into the back. Dr. Strickler held up a hand and whispered, “Sorry,” then he disappeared behind his patient.

  “Time on task, Mr. Brewer,” Dr. Swift said through a nasally voice.

  Colin held up a finger. “Just one moment, doctor.” He gently touched my elbow, and we moved a few steps to the side.

  “Everything okay?” He wore a tweed sport coat over a blue, collared shirt and looked more like a literary professor—a handsome one at that. His pleasant nature was a welcome relief from the stressed-out text from Erin, not to mention the pursuit of a killer.

  “I’m okay.”

  His eyes shifted to Dr. Swift, and then I realized he was probably referring to my mental health.

  “Oh, nothing like that. More of a professional visit with Dr. Strickler than anything else.”

  His almond-shaped eyes sparkled off the overhead lights as he offered a curious grin.

  Dr. Swift coughed into a handkerchief, then cleared his throat for a good ten seconds. Just as he ceased with the noise-making, Ashling blew a basketball-s
ized bubble, which burst once again across her face, even catching a bit of her hair this time.

  I turned back to Colin, trying not to laugh. “Wow, this place has all kinds of entertainment.” This time I was drawn to touch his elbow.

  “Are you in a rush to rid Boston of every criminal on the loose?” he joked.

  “Funny you mention that.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, nothing for you to worry about. Right now, I need to go rescue my daughter.”

  “Erin okay?”

  I held up my phone. “Well, from the latest text she sent me, she’s a bit anxious. She supposedly just learned from her teacher today that she actually has to do a painting herself. And it needs to be in the same style as her project.”

  “Impressionism,” Colin said with a smile. His teeth were white and straight, the opposite of Vince Tripuka’s grill. Why I went there, I had no idea.

  “I need to rush home, pick her up from school, and I guess we’ll go to the art store and see what we can figure out.”

  “I don’t think that’s a wise move.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Was he questioning my parenting skills? That came out of nowhere.

  “This is my area of specialty, and I would love to help you guys out.”

  “Seriously? Don’t you have important things to do?”

  He smirked. “It’s my passion. We all have one, right?”

  “I guess so.” I thought about my kids and Brad. I just couldn’t include my FBI work in the passion department.

  A sudden, guttural, throat-clearing sound almost caused me to jump out of my small heels. I turned and saw Dr. Swift blowing his nose.

  “Ignore him,” Colin whispered as Dr. Swift honked twice more.

  I nodded.

  He continued at a normal voice level. “I won’t be long here. Why don’t you and Erin meet me at my loft? I have a little paint studio there, and we can get right to work.”

  I debated the offer, then quickly realized it was the only legitimate chance Erin had to make this happen on short notice.

  “I don’t want to inconvenience you. You must let me pay you back.”

  “We can talk about that later.” He patted his coat, then pulled out a pen and a business card and wrote on the back.

  “This is my address,” he said, handing me his card.

  “Looks familiar.”

  “It’s in the Leather District, you know, on the south side, right by South Station. It’s really kind of cool. It’s a nineteenth-century brick warehouse that has been refurbished into loft apartments. By the time you go pick up Erin, I’m sure I’ll be home. Call me on my cell if you can’t find me.” He pointed at the number on his card.

  “Okay,” I said, my voice still apprehensive.

  “Listen, this is fine. It will be fun. I’ll order in some food, and we’ll make sure Erin has the best painting in her class before we’re done.”

  With a reassuring wink, he disappeared into the back. I could have sworn that Dr. Swift rolled his eyes as he closed the door. I quickly started typing a text response to Erin.

  “You know he likes you, right?”

  Lifting my eyes from the tiny screen, I saw Ashling chomping on her gum. Then she blew another bubble.

  “You’re talking to me?” I glanced around the room.

  “You can pretend you don’t notice it, but it’s obvious to me. He thinks you’re cute.”

  I could feel warmth under my hair at my neckline. Was I actually blushing? “It’s just two adults talking in a friendly way, that’s all. He’s a very nice man, very kind.”

  I typed in another couple of words. I could feel her stare, and I glanced up again. She popped an eyebrow. “I’m just saying he’s digging your chili, that’s all. What you do with it or him is your business. Although, if you ask me—”

  I held up a hand. “I didn’t ask your advice, Ashling. He’s just a friend.”

  “Right.” She smacked her gum a few more times, then sat back in her chair, propping her open book on her desk. I finished the text to Erin and then pocketed my phone. As I walked past Ashling’s desk, I noticed the title of the book she was reading: Friends With Benefits.

  I pushed Ashling’s ridiculous notion aside and darted off to Salem.

  17

  Classical music played in the background as I sipped chardonnay from my wine glass, let it roll down the back of my throat, and exhaled. A moment of peace. While I’d been going nonstop for almost two days straight, staying awake on one caffeine fix after another, I relished the few minutes of calm. I strolled over to the corner of Colin’s apartment, looking through floor-to-ceiling windows, and took in the Boston skyline just as the sun was setting behind a nearby downtown hotel. Through a sheen of thin clouds, I could make out the arc of a rainbow. It calmed my nerves that much more.

  It only lasted a few seconds. Guilt plowed right through my plot of serenity, and all of the uncertainties about our two unsolved murder cases crammed my mind.

  A giggle from Erin disrupted my thoughts. I backpedaled a step and looked across the expansive apartment. My daughter held a paintbrush in front of a canvas. A computer monitor was perched to the left. Colin was pointing at the monitor, then over to the canvas, where there were shades of blue smeared across it. She was actually having a blast learning about this stuff. It would have bored me to tears when I was a teen, both the subject matter as well as the activity. I was far too hyper to have the patience to sit in one spot and intricately create a painting from my imagination, or even from a picture.

  I took another sip of wine and walked in their direction, passing a white leather sofa and a glass coffee table that had two picture books on top, one featuring colonial Boston and the other focused on French art. Go figure.

  “Just tell your teacher…”

  “Mrs. Harris,” Erin said as I pulled up next to a steel pillar outside of Colin’s makeshift studio.

  “Right, Mrs. Harris. Make sure you tell her that you used a size 4 black hog brush filbert. She’ll really think you know what you’re talking about then. You never know, she might give you some extra credit for your knowledge.”

  “Cool,” she said, then she tilted her head closer to Colin, her voice quieter. “Don’t tell Mom, but even though we’re just a couple weeks into the school year, I’ve got a C in this class. So anything I can do to bring my grade up would be totes.”

  Being positioned next to the pillar, I was apparently not visible from her vantage point.

  “Erin, you have no worries. Combined with your research paper, and how you’ve already started this piece of work, I think your grade will be the envy of everyone in your class.”

  She squealed, which in itself shocked me. She seemed so happy to have Colin helping her. His knowledge and enthusiasm about art was infectious, and he was easy on the eyes. Well, easy on my thirty-nine-year-old eyes anyway.

  “So for this cobalt-blue hue, I think it’s best if we go with this size 8 round synthetic brush. That will help with the arc on the waves,” Colin said.

  As I continued my stroll around the apartment, I took out my phone and looked for updates from the team. Nothing. Silence on the text toy. I knew they all had their assignments and would report back the moment they came across anything important. It was rather apparent that Tripuka hadn’t left any obvious smoking guns lying around, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t something right before our very eyes that we had yet to notice, or at least understand its significance to our case or the murdered girls. After our search of his apartment, our best hope rested on the hairs that were found. The DNA testing would take a minimum of five days. My mind had already started counting the hours, but I had this strange sensation that something would happen before we ever got the chance to read the results.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Hey, Alex, do you mind getting that? It’s probably our Chinese food delivery,” Colin called out.

  “Sure thing.” I set my wineglass on his concrete bar, then
walked to my purse to retrieve some cash.

  “By the way, I already paid for it with my credit card, so you can put up your wallet.”

  I turned around and heard him laugh. “How did you know I was—”

  “Because I know you. If it’s Chen, give him a good tip. He’s trying to pay for college.”

  “Got it.” I waltzed over to the large metal door and pulled it open.

  A young guy with an acne problem was smiling while holding two plastic bags. “Where is Mr. Colin?”

  “He’s busy painting. I’m his friend. Are you Chen?”

  “Yes ma’am. Mr. Colin is a good painter. I’m seen some of his work.”

  I thought for a moment. I had not seen anything with his name on it hanging in the apartment.

  “Here is the food. More than his usual,” Chen said.

  I took the bags and placed them on a table by the door.

  “And if you could sign here.” He handed me a credit card slip on a small clipboard along with a pen, but I couldn’t see it very well. I tried angling the clipboard.

  “Oh, sorry, let me help you.” He grabbed the door frame and hopped his feet onto the other side, then shimmied up toward the ceiling, reaching for a recessed lightbulb just above the doorway in the hallway. He screwed it to the right, and just like that we had more light.

  “Thanks,” I said as he hopped down. “Are you sure it’s okay if I sign his name?”

  “Of course, his lady friends do this all the time.”

  I paused a second, caught off guard by his comment. But why should I be surprised? Colin was an educated, attractive, apparently well-off, single, straight man. Well, I couldn’t vouch for the straight part, but Ashling’s comment about his innocent flirtation had resonated a bit. Yeah…I knew he was as hetero as they got.

  “Hold on a second.” I ran over and stuck the small clipboard around the pillar with my eyes closed and asked Colin to sign his name.

  “Oh, Alex, you could have signed it. You’re such a fuddy duddy.”

  I ran back and handed Chen the clipboard. “Wow, thank you, Miss…”