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

by John W. Mefford

  I could hear an accent in those words. I shoved in a bite of my grilled chicken Caesar salad, then asked, “Are you two from this area originally?”

  “We get asked that all the time,” Romano said, dabbing his extra napkin at his mouth. “We’re both full-blooded Italian. You know, the whole Ellis Island route last century. My pop moved down here when he was younger because Ma didn’t want him being a cop in the Bronx. She was always the worrywart.”

  “So you’ve got blue-blood lines.”

  He nodded while taking a smaller bite. “Two brothers are on the NYPD, but I stayed down here. Couldn’t resist this woman here.”

  “Gotta get back to work. You two enjoy the food. It’s on the house.”

  “Of course it is,” he said, swatting his hand backward and smacking her on the ass.

  She squealed, but appeared to expect it, maybe even like it.

  Romano quickly became more engaged in the case and began to ask me questions. He then paused and started to use his least greasy fingers to click and tap on the laptop he’d pulled from his bag.

  “Bringing up the original file on the hit-and-run,” he said.

  “Well, not sure if I mentioned this, but we think we know who did it. We interviewed him in our Boston office yesterday, a Douglass Butterfield. Was never arrested.”

  “He just opened up and spilled the beans?” Romano asked, picking up smaller pieces of salami off his plate and eating them.

  “From the way he was acting, I’m not sure Butterfield has had a moment of peace since he took his first drink at age twelve. Alcohol got the best of him, and it’s been a hellish roller coaster ever since. We found him in a bar on the verge of setting a bartender on fire. He’d recently killed his wife and her boyfriend—the Boston police chief.”

  “No shit?”

  I nodded.

  “I read about all that. Like a frickin’ soap opera or something.” He picked up his iced tea and took a nice long chug, then leaned in closer to his computer.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll get to it. So, let’s see if there was a missing-persons report filed,” he said, already clicking on his mouse pad.

  “Okay, I just want to know if the officer who first found the wreck is still around. Wait, did you say missing-persons report? I don’t think you’ll find anything. My dad said in his note to me that he just moved us once she disappeared. I think he was trying to run as fast away from her as she was from us.”

  He tapped his forefinger to the screen. “Right here. Missing-persons report.”

  “From who?” I could feel my chest tighten, wondering if my dad had, again, told another lie, or at least screwed up the facts.

  “Says here, it was a Dr. Marques Cooper.” His lips moved as his finger trailed across the screen. “Okay, he was her treating doctor at Norfolk Community Hospital.”

  “So that makes sense. She walks out of the hospital, and they call the cops. My dad probably told them he didn’t care, or he didn’t respond at all. Then, the hospital, her doctor, might have thought her life was in danger, so they filed the report.”

  He nodded, then gulped down more tea.

  “What do you see?”

  “Well, what you just said pretty much sums up the missing-persons report. I guess you’re a mind reader in your FBI gig.”

  “Something like that. What else does it show?”

  “Gives her basic condition at the time she walked out. Had suffered a concussion and a broken arm, bruised ribs, a broken nose, and cuts and abrasions all over her body. In fact, it actually states they had yet to remove all the glass from her shoulder.” Romano lifted his sights to me. “She was in pretty bad shape. Surprised she even wanted to leave the hospital.”

  I let that sink in a moment. “The note from my dad said that Mom ran off with a deacon from our church, saying something about starting a religious cult. Who knows if that’s true? Could just be an excuse Dad gave so he wouldn’t feel guilty taking me away.”

  Romano scratched a bed of thick stubble on his chin.

  “Any other details that might help us?” I asked.

  “Hold on. There’s a link to the related investigation of the report. And if I click here…” His voice trailed off as he tapped the mousepad a few times, likely scrolling down the page. I couldn’t see the screen, so I took another bite of my salad and then pushed it aside.

  “How long did the investigation last?”

  He inched higher in his seat, his eyes narrowing on the screen.

  “What is it, Romano?”

  He did a double take. “Umm, well, first things first. Looks like the last entry was about a year after she left the hospital.” He paused.

  “And?”

  “Two things of interest. First, about six months after she walked out, there was a note about a supposed sighting of her at a drugstore in Hopewell, Virginia.”

  “She’d survived her initial injuries,” I said softly, my eyes drifting to the salad plate for a moment.

  “Apparently.”

  “Any follow-up on the lead in Hopewell?”

  “Uh, says here that after the original sighting, local cops in Hopewell tried to track her down, but they didn’t make any progress. No use of credit cards in her name, no checks used, and no reservations made at any local motels.”

  I made a mental note of all the follow-ups. Apparently I was using my fingers to count them off, because Romano said, “Counting out all the leads to follow up on?” He nodded toward my hand—sure enough, my fingers were mid-count.

  “I know we don’t have anything solid, but this just adds a few things to my list,” I said as Mrs. Romano walked by.

  “Get you anything else?” she asked as she balanced three plates on a single arm.

  “You know I could go for seconds.” Romano smiled and patted his stomach, which appeared pretty flat from my view. “But we only have so many ways to work it off, right, Patricia?”

  “Come on, Romano.” She shifted her eyes to me. Her cheeks turned a shade of pink. “You don’t want to air our love life to everyone in the restaurant, do ya?”

  “Ahh, I’m just playing with you.” He reached over and tickled her rib cage. A plate slipped, and she had to quickly use her opposite hand to keep the stack from falling to the floor.

  “Jesus, Romano. Sometimes you can just…” She shook her head and walked away, mumbling something under her breath.

  “She’s such a jokester,” he said, swatting a hand at her, then turning his attention back to his laptop.

  “You had said there were two things of interest in the investigation notes. What’s the second?”

  “Right,” He repositioned himself in the booth, clasped his hands on the table, and faced me. “It’s the investigator. The same person investigated the hit-and-run as well as the missing person.”

  “Odd on one hand, but considering this person probably had a decent idea of my mom’s background, it made sense to put him or her on the missing-persons case. The real question is…is this person still with the force? Or maybe we should start with whether they’re even alive.”

  He leaned his head back for a moment. I could see the muscles in his jaw clench a bit.

  “What is it?”

  “The detective isn’t with the force.”

  “But he or she is still alive?”

  He nodded, although it was a slow nod.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Romano?”

  He cleared his throat. “The detective’s name is Anthony Romano. It’s my dad.”

  I sat in stunned silence for a few seconds, until my brain had fully processed this new information. I scooted to the edge of the booth seat. “What are we waiting on? Let’s go see him.” I glanced around, looking for Romano’s wife. “Wait, our food was free, right? So we can roll out of here right now.” I stood up, hooking my purse strap over my shoulder.

  He motioned his head for me to sit back down.

  “What’s
wrong?” I asked, sitting my butt on the edge of the seat.

  “Pop…” He cleared his throat again. “Pop’s in one of those homes. He’s got dementia. You know, his memory is full of holes.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure that isn’t easy on your family.”

  “Yeah, especially on Ma. Not exactly enjoying her glory years, but she makes the best of it. And still, Pop has his days. Just last week he was telling me all about the ’58 Yankees that beat the Braves in the World Series. He could even recite the season stats for most of the roster: Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra. So, his mind is still active, and every once in a while, like last week, he throws us a curveball.”

  “That’s cool.” Romano and his family seemed close, yet his life still had a fair amount of stress and sadness, all because they were that close. I realized that having a sound family still didn’t guarantee lifelong happiness.

  “Okay, if your dad is off the list, then I need to get to my top priority and visit our old church. Might be a difficult conversation there. After that, I want to drop by the hospital, just in case I can get someone to recall my mom and if she mentioned where she was going. You want to join me?”

  He shut his computer and lifted from his seat. “You can go to the hospital. It’s only a couple of miles from here. While you’re there, I’ll drop by to see Pop and see if this is one of his good days.”

  “You sure you want to do that?”

  “Yeah. It’s one of his cases. He might get into it. The doctors say connecting with old memories can only be a good thing for him.”

  We agreed to meet up in an hour.

  ***

  I sat in a high-back chair and took in the smells of the Virginia Beach Home for Senior Citizens. It was surprisingly pleasant. I realized there was a vase of fresh flowers on a round table in the foyer of the main social area, an assortment of colors and variations. I could also pick up a hint of food, maybe a meatloaf.

  I’d just walked in the door after a brief, but mainly useless visit at the hospital. The doctors who had cared for Mom had all left the hospital long ago and most had died, including Dr. Johnson. In speaking with Human Resources, they did say that one of the nurses assigned to Mom, a Monique Trimble, had worked at the hospital for thirty-five years and had just retired and moved to Boston to live near her kids.

  I lifted my head and scanned the three entry points into the large area, looking for Romano. He had texted me fifteen minutes ago saying I should drop by, that his dad was in good spirits. I pulled out my phone and sent off a quick group text to Brad and Nick, asking if they could try to locate Nurse Trimble and then, if they found her, to question her about my mother. My phone dinged a few seconds later. It was a personal text from Brad.

  Making progress?

  I responded with: Not a lot, but VBPD is helping.

  The three dots started flashing again, so I knew he was typing.

  Wish I was there to help you. I’ll start looking for the nurse. Thinking of you.

  I heard voices enter the room. It was Romano and a smaller, grayer version of Romano. Mini-Romano.

  I typed a quick last note to Brad.

  Back at ya.

  As soon as I tapped send, I realized how lame my message was. Couldn’t I have said something caring, or even sexy?

  “Hey, Alex,” Romano said.

  I stood up.

  “This is Pop. You can call him—”

  “You can call me Pop,” the shorter Romano said. “Everyone thinks they need to speak for me.” He leaned in closer and shook my hand. “Believe me, it’s not necessary. I understand you’re with the FBI?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He nodded. “Have a seat. They’re free, unlike just about everything else around here.”

  Romano rolled his eyes from behind his dad’s back, and we all sat down.

  “Did Romano, I mean Ed, give you an idea of why I wanted to speak to you?”

  “Because I’m a legend in my own mind, right?” He chuckled hard, his eyes just slits. But it was infectious, and it also broke some of the tension of the topic—my mom’s life.

  He tapped me on the knee and said, “Tell me everything, Alex. I’ll do anything I can to help you.”

  And I did exactly that for the next ten minutes. At the end, I blew out a breath. “Sorry if that was the long version.”

  Mini-Romano just sat there and stared at me. Shifting my eyes over to Romano, I began to wonder if his dad had drifted to another time, another place during my monologue.

  “Pop, you okay?”

  A second passed, then Pop slowly turned his head to his son. “I’m not deaf. I’m just studying Alex and thinking about Charlotte thirty-two years ago. I can definitely see a resemblance. You look more, uh…athletic, but she was a striking woman, even without any makeup.”

  “Thanks…I think.”

  “No offense. You’re beautiful too.”

  I tapped him on the knee this time. “You’re one of the few people who has fond memories of my mom. It means a lot.” I swallowed back an unexpected surge of emotion. “I know it was a long time ago, but is there anything that comes to mind that might not have been in your investigative notes?”

  He started pulling the hair from his overgrown eyebrow. I looked over at Romano.

  “Pop does that when he’s thinking.”

  A screaming child ran through the foyer, yelling something about not getting the candy that his mom had promised. The mom’s heels clipped off the tile floors, not gaining much ground. Another glance and Pop was still tugging away on his eyebrow. Pop didn’t seem to notice or hear anything around him.

  “That’s it,” he said, eyeing something off to my right. He leaned forward and pointed at a table where a Bible sat on top.

  “I’m not sure if I put this in my notes or not, but something the Hopewell police officer told me…”

  Another pause. Romano put his hand on his dad’s back. “And?”

  His father shook his head as if he were jarring himself back to the here and now. “So, I was just about to close the investigation, or put it on the backburner, when the Hopewell police officer called me back.”

  “So this was after the original sighting?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Two, three months later, he calls me back and said he found out there was another employee in the gas station at the time. Not the main clerk, but a guy stocking shelves. He told the cop there was another man with your mom, although the man wasn’t being very obvious about it.”

  I remained calm on the outside, but my pulse clocked faster.

  “Did the employee provide a description of this man?”

  “It was generic. White guy, medium build, medium height. Nothing stood out.”

  My thoughts quickly jumped to Dad’s assertion that Mom had been urged, if not coerced, by a deacon at the church to run off and join some type of radical cult. While I hadn’t dismissed Dad’s theory, I could also imagine him inserting an opinion or even a justification for his actions in moving us away.

  “Alex, did you hear Pop?” Romano said.

  “Uh, right, the average-looking man who was with Mom. That’s good to know.”

  “No, the other part, about what he called her,” Romano said.

  Suddenly I felt like I’d had a senior moment.

  “Sorry, my brain was already jumping ahead to how this news connects to the note from my father. Can you repeat what you said, Pop?”

  “Sure thing. According to the Hopewell cop, the employee said he overheard the man saying the woman’s name, and he didn’t call her Charlotte.”

  I could feel the area between my eyes grow tight. “What did he call her?”

  “Beulah. He was sure of it.”

  I flipped around and glanced at the black, bound book on the table, then turned back to the men. “A biblical name.” Both men nodded.

  “To your old church?” Romano stood up and twirled his keys around his finger.

  Pop reached up and touched my forearm.
“I’m sorry about not adding this information to the case file. When I was younger, I was a bit forgetful. Go figure.” He turned his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  “We just got our first big break. And that’s because of you and that mind of yours. Not many people could have done that.”

  His smile warmed my heart all the way to the church.

  ***

  The painted wood sign on the front lawn looked clean, yet antiquated, as if someone had gone back in time about thirty years and pulled it into present day. Beyond that, however, the nondenominational church had propelled itself into the twenty-first century. I paused at the edge of the parking lot, allowing myself to take in everything that had changed since I was seven years old. For starters, the church wasn’t contained to a single building. The original structure, which looked more like a double-wide, was off to the side, maybe used for administration offices or smaller classes. Next to it was a new structure that had obviously been designed by a modern architect, with a stone facade, sharp angles, and a plethora of stained glass, including a huge, eye-catching pane just below the cross that was affixed to the top of the highest point of the building. It had to be at least a hundred feet high.

  “Bring back memories?” Romano asked.

  “Eh…not yet. It’s all pretty new.”

  I noticed a woman in dark sunglasses walking on the concrete path that led from the old building to the new building. I held up a hand, but paused before calling out. She didn’t turn her head, and then she disappeared through a side door.

  Romano and I walked around the lawn and aimed for the same metal-framed door.

  “You hear anything about this church being associated with cults or cult-like activities?” I asked as we stepped onto the sidewalk.

  “Not sure what you mean by cult-like activities.”

  “I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Whoa there, Alex. I’m not naïve, but I didn’t know if you meant the Jim Jones crap back in the 1980s or—”

  “You mean the 1970s, at least when he moved his so-called Temple to Guyana, and then, as we all know, he brainwashed over nine hundred people into committing a mass murder-suicide. Over nine hundred frickin’ people.” I popped him on the arm, like I did with Nick.