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

by John W. Mefford

  “Enough about me and my drama. I need a diversion. What’s your name?” I asked casually.

  He released a breath, poured another drink into his shot glass, and examined the liquid as he swirled it. “Douglass. Some people call me Doug.” He shifted his eyes to me. “What’s your name?”

  Nick’s head popped up above the bar on the far end. I only needed to distract Butterfield a little longer. “I’m Alex, although some people call me Queen B.”

  “B?”

  “For Bitch.” I laughed and he joined me.

  Then his face went cold. “Are you married?”

  “Nah. Been there, done that. It’s not my style.”

  “Good. Keep it that way, if you want to maintain your sanity. I am…well, I guess I was married.”

  I needed to get him to come around the bar. That would be ideal, the safest path to saving Melissa.

  “I’m beat. Join me for a drink here at my table.” I motioned to the table that was covered with fragments of the broken chair. “It’s kind of a mess.”

  He nodded once, staring at the table, considering it.

  “You can bring the bottle with you. I think I’ve got a lot to share,” I said, sitting down in another chair.

  He picked the bottle up by its neck while glancing over at Melissa. He stared at her for a moment, then turned back to me. He dropped his head to his chest. “I didn’t want to kill her. I loved her.”

  Crap. He was getting into the details of the murder. That might send him over the top.

  “Hey, Doug. Come on over here and join me. Let’s just chill and—”

  “I killed my wife. And that prick, her fuck buddy.” Lifting his head, tears streamed down his face. The overt blue and red blood vessels made his nose look like it wasn’t part of his body, almost alien in fact.

  I acted as if I didn’t hear anything about the murders, and I waved my arm. “Come on over, Doug. I’m thirsty, and man, I’ve got a story to tell you. My boss at work…you wouldn’t believe what he did.”

  He puffed out a breath, lifting his hand with the lighter. It looked like one of those flip-top lighters. He set it down to pick up the two shot glasses and started heading around the bar. It was working. Just a few more steps…

  “Damn, almost forgot my gun,” he said, spinning around.

  I quickly turned to the left. Nick had one leg over the bar, and he froze. Shit!

  “Hey, what are you…?” Butterfield started to ask, his eyes narrowing.

  Suddenly, Butterfield leaped forward, but slipped on his first step. The bottle of vodka went flying, crashing to the floor, spraying shards of glass and alcohol everywhere. I shot out of my seat at the same time Nick scrambled to swing his body over the railing, Melissa at the epicenter of all the movement.

  Two steps out of my chair, I screamed at Butterfield to get his attention, then immediately tripped over pieces of the broken chair. My hand touched the floor, which helped me keep my balance, and I pushed forward. Just as I looked up again, Butterfield righted himself and lunged for the bar.

  The lighter!

  He snatched it off the bar, fumbling with it for a second.

  I heard Nick yell, “No!” at the exact moment I saw the deadly flame spark to life. My heart rammed my chest, and I took one more giant step and dove over the bar just as Butterfield’s arm came forward—he was throwing the lighter at Melissa.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Nick hurling himself on top of Melissa as my shoulder connected with Butterfield’s body, sending both of us into the glass shelves…a symphony of crackling glass all around us. Bottles, glasses of all sizes, and booze rained on top of us, a few right on top of my head. It seemed like the cascade of falling crap would never end. But as soon as my elbows felt a solid surface, I scrambled to find the lighter. Butterfield seemed dazed, rolling around on the ground. I quickly sifted through the glass, the smell of booze penetrating every pore. I kicked and pushed bottles and barstools. Butterfield started to groan. I reached for my gun, and all I felt was my leather shoulder holster. Crap! It must have dropped out when I fell. I could see Nick pulling Melissa toward the far end of the bar as glasses continued falling and crashing to the floor around me. Butterfield’s moans grew louder and his movements more pronounced. He was trying to get his big body off the floor. My urgency doubled as I quickly rummaged through all the crap on the floor, searching for the lighter or my gun, hopefully both.

  Then I remembered his gun by the register. Lifting from my knees, I craned my neck. There it was! I took two knee steps and instantly felt glass puncture my skin. I reached for the gun, but the drunk ogre grabbed my ponytail and yanked me back like a yo-yo. I fell into his burly chest and dropped off to the side, landing on more bottles and glass.

  “You’re just like my wife. A sneaky, lying piece of trash.”

  I looked up and saw a meaty fist flying at me…only six inches from my face. I jerked my body left, and his fist glanced off my shoulder, the power behind it feeling like I’d been hit with a sledgehammer. I quickly rolled twice, trying not to get stabbed by all the broken glass.

  “You think you’re quicker than me?” he belted out.

  I looked up. He was midair, pouncing down toward me. He landed knee-first into my rib cage. It sucked every bit of wind out of me, and I had no chance to take in another breath. He grabbed my throat with both hands and started squeezing. Spit flew out of his lips as he shook me like a rag doll. I tried prying his fingers off, even digging what nails I had into his skin. His fingers wouldn’t budge.

  I thought I heard someone call my name. Was it Nick? Where was my partner? But oxygen had stopped reaching my brain, and I started to black out, the edges of my vision quickly closing in.

  I had one chance to stay alive. Channeling my energy to my shoulders and arms, I waited for the right moment. Just as he lifted me off the ground by my neck, I smacked my hands against the side of his head, landing a perfect shot to his ears. He immediately unclenched my throat and grabbed his ears, falling backward.

  “You bitch! You’ve ruined my hearing!”

  I choked out a breath and then tried another. It felt like I’d swallowed a piece of coal. I turned over and pushed off my elbows, but heard more glass breaking, someone stomping behind the bar. I forced myself to flip my head around.

  It was Nick with his Glock aimed right at Butterfield, who was wallowing on the floor beneath him.

  “Sorry, Alex. The bartender was losing it. She wouldn’t let me go.”

  I tried to speak, but could only release a loud, wheezing, whisper, “I know the feeling.”

  4

  I couldn’t help but let my eyelids close as Brad gently ran his fingers along the side of my neck.

  “Don’t stop,” I said in a soft monotone. It was the most relaxed I’d felt since my run-in with Butterfield.

  “I wish you’d gone to the hospital like the medics wanted,” he said.

  I took in a breath and held it for moment, allowing the scent of Brad to fill my senses. Anything to block out the gnarly stench of Butterfield and the nasty concoction of alcohol that had drenched me. We were in our quiet space, a section of unused cubes at the far end of our floor at the FBI’s Boston office at One Center Plaza. While we never acted like love-struck rabbits, we had used this space a handful of times just to share a few moments of peace.

  “I’m fine right where I am,” I said, my eyes still closed.

  “I already see bruising on your neck.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Alex…”

  He paused, and I opened my eyes to see a caring, but concerned look.

  “What is it?” My voice still had a raspy quality.

  “Another few seconds, and he might have crushed your larynx. He might have killed you, Alex.”

  I put my hands on top of his. They were strong, yet soft, just like the man I had grown to care for in the last few months. And in the last couple of months, we’d finally taken that step to share our relation
ship status with anyone who cared to know.

  “Nick was right there. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to me.”

  He tried to smile, flashing his dimples for no more than a single eye blink.

  “What is it?”

  “I know your personality, Alex. You try to downplay anything that might put your life at risk,” he said.

  I tried to counter the point, but he gently put a finger to my lips. “I’m not trying to change you. Not sure it’s possible anyway. But just be aware that you’re not in this by yourself anymore. I’m right here with you, to support you. For us to be a couple, though, there has to be two of us.”

  I twisted my lips. “Not to worry. I realize I’m the lucky one. I’ve come too far not to realize that it’s the journey that counts.”

  He looked over his shoulder, probably ensuring we weren’t going to be interrupted, then leaned in and kissed the nape of my neck. “Just keeping it G-rated since we’re at work and all,” he said.

  My body sizzled with electricity, and I quivered for a brief second before opening my eyes. “Who told you to stop?”

  “Come on. We need to get back to the war room before people suspect something.”

  I tried tugging him back to me, my body fully prepared for the next phase of our encounter.

  “Did you accidentally drink some of the booze at that bar?”

  “It was all part of my master plan.” I gave him an overt wink while continuing to pull him toward me. “But to finish the plan, you need to pull down your pants and let me sit on your lap.”

  He snorted out a laugh. “Oh how I wish.” He pulled me close to his chest and gave me a warm, soft kiss, holding it for an extra second. “After work we’ll finish this. Okay?”

  “But I think I need to pick up Erin after a late tennis tournament.” I sounded like a whiner.

  He took my hand and led me out of the cube space. “Maybe after the kids go to bed. We’ll figure out a way. We always do.”

  He was right. As we walked the maze of hallways to make it back to the other side of the breezeway, I attempted to adjust my focus from Brad’s backside to what was left of today’s work.

  On our way to the war room, we ran into Nick coming out of the breakroom. He raised an eyebrow, then winked at me. “Get over it, Nick.”

  “What? I didn’t say anything.” He held up both hands, although one contained a tomato juice.

  I pointed at the juice. “Still taking the healthy option?”

  “Don’t you know it. I’m going all out to try to qualify for next year’s Boston Marathon. At this age, I can’t afford to take three months off. It’s a year-round effort for this old guy.”

  He looked at Brad and then scrunched his lips together, as if he were about to make another age joke—the one that would inevitably point out that Brad was over ten years my junior. Been there, done that. It was time to move on. And if I could get there, surely Nick and the others could get there as well.

  “So, you ready to interrogate our turkey?” Nick said, referring to our perp, Douglass Butterfield.

  I ignored the bad pun. “I’ve been waiting for him to be processed,” I said, knowing that wasn’t completely true.

  “Let’s give it our best. Not sure he’s going to share much, especially to you, since he thinks you betrayed him,” Nick said.

  “Whatever.”

  “Well, let’s get moving. Jerry said we’ve got an hour.”

  Jerry Malloy was our supervisory special agent, better known as our SSA in FBI land. He headed up the Violent Crimes Squad. He wasn’t into playing politics, but he also knew when to pick his battles.

  “Sounds like he’s getting pressure from someone above him,” I said as we opened a door and walked toward the interrogation rooms.

  “The mayor personally called the Hoover Building in DC, wanting to know when justice would be served and Butterfield turned over to the Boston police.”

  “Can he guarantee he won’t be mauled or killed accidentally?” I asked.

  “I love it when you defend the guilty,” Nick said.

  We stopped for a moment in an adjacent room, the fingerprint machine in the far corner and a technician working on the machine that never seemed to work.

  “I can’t imagine how he’s not guilty. But gutting him with a shank or beating him to a pulp before he ever goes to trial…that’s not very American. Due process, my man.”

  Nick smirked just as Gretchen walked in. The talking ceased, and she eyed each one of us. She was one of our top staff operation specialists and often worked with Brad, our leading intelligence analyst. She used to have a thing for Brad…long before I really saw Brad for who he was. After a lengthy dry spell, she’d found her own younger man, a guy named Brandon who actually looked like a high school senior working at a drugstore.

  “Everything good, Gretchen?” Nick asked.

  “Oh, sure.”

  It wasn’t convincing. “How’s Brandon?”

  “Eh…” was all she could muster.

  Just what I needed, Gretchen lusting after Brad again.

  “What do you have?”

  “Oh, this folder, right. I’ve got Butterfield’s criminal history, as well as everything else I could find out about him. Just to help you guys during your interrogation.”

  I took the folder from her and gave it a quick glance. “This is good stuff. Thanks, Gretchen.”

  “Can’t imagine how it’s going to change his fate,” Nick added. He slurped on his tomato juice. “You ready, partner?” He held up his fist, and I bumped it.

  I gave Brad a quick wink as Nick and I turned down the hall and then nodded at the agent standing outside the room.

  “He say anything yet?” Nick asked the agent.

  “Every time I look inside, it looks like he’s sleeping.”

  We peeked through the vertical glass and saw the same thing. Butterfield, whose wrists were cuffed around a steel pole off the side wall, was resting his head on the table. We opened the door and walked in, but he still didn’t budge.

  I dropped the files on the table, creating a sharp, smacking sound. He grunted out a snore.

  “Are we going to need a bucket of water?” Nick asked.

  I walked around and kicked the leg of Butterfield’s chair. He quickly lifted up, looking around.

  “Where am I? What’s going on?” He wiped his bloodshot eyes with the heel of his hand.

  I glanced at Nick, wondering if we were going to be forced to play this game, the same one he’d apparently shared with his friend at work—that he essentially lost his memory every time he had too much to drink.

  “Mr. Butterfield, you’re in custody at the FBI office in downtown Boston. We have some questions to ask you.”

  He wiped his eyes again. “I got a question for you first. I paid my taxes…at least I think I did.”

  Nick sat in the chair across the table and made sure he had eye contact. “She said FBI, not IRS.”

  “Oh, right. Why am I here again?” His voice pitched higher, and he really seemed to have no clue. “And what’s the deal with the handcuffs?”

  I leaned on the table, my face just a couple of feet from his.

  “What? I had a few drinks, that’s all. I’m not a bad guy. I just, you know, need a break every now and then.”

  “A break.”

  He gave me a strange look. He moved to the back of his chair, as if he were afraid of me.

  “Come on, Mr. Butterfield, you can do better than that. Why don’t you break down and cry and talk about how your mommy didn’t feed you breakfast every morning.”

  I could feel Nick’s gaze, but I kept mine on the lying sack of shit in the room. Butterfield attempted to outstare me, but then he turned and looked at Nick. “What did I ever do to her?” He shrugged.

  Before Nick could open his lips, I smacked the palm of my hand on the table, and Butterfield flinched. “Take a look.” I lifted my chin and pointed at my neck.

  “I did that?”
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  I nodded. “And more. But I don’t have to fill in the details, do I, Mr. Butterfield?”

  His eyes fell from my gaze and eventually found the floor. A sadness seemed to sweep through his body.

  “Mr. Butterfield?”

  He waited and then finally looked up. “Can I get some water?”

  Nick looked at me, and I gave him the nod. He stuck his neck outside the room and asked the other agent for a water. A few seconds later, he put the cup of water on the table. The perp didn’t waste a moment before chugging it down.

  “Go ahead and drink all you want. Then you’re going to need to talk, Mr. Butterfield,” Nick said.

  He released an audible “ah” when he finished. Water dripped off his chin, which sported a thin layer of gray stubble.

  “Just call me Doug. I really hate my last name. Everyone always made fun of me.”

  I could feel my jaw tighten. This big guy, a former college football player, was actually complaining about being bullied. But it was a start, and he seemed like he was willing to talk. Anything to get a confession, at this point.

  Leaning against the wall, I said, “How old were you?”

  “When they made fun of me?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, maybe five or six. I was a chubby little kid. So they called me Butterball, the fat-ass turkey.”

  “But I guess you got back at everyone once you started playing football.”

  “Little League was when it all started happening,” he said, stretching his legs out.

  “You dominated both sides of the ball?”

  “Yeah, that, but I wasn’t really talking about football.”

  “What were you talking about then?”

  His eyes moved from the cup he was fidgeting with to me.

  “I had my first drink when I was twelve.” He swallowed once and tried to maintain his gaze, but it fell away. I wondered if he’d ever gone down this path. I opened the file again and noticed a litany of convictions for DUI, speeding, disorderly conduct, assault and battery. But no prison time.