The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 13

  “Look at the sheet of paper.”

  I glanced at the list and said, “Scrimshaw powder horn, worth over ten thousand dollars. Stolen.”

  My eyebrows raised, I looked at Mr. Trow and whistled. He held my gaze for a moment, then continued his trek. Nick and I stayed right on his heels. “Dog head hunting sword, worth almost eight thousand dollars. The design on that dog head was meticulous. It was a true gem in this museum.” He shook his head, somber, as if he’d been dealt a personal tragedy.

  He picked up his pace, as best he could, and wound his way through a number of displays.

  “Mr. Trow, do you need this list to find the next item?”

  He ignored me and continued his seemingly unpredictable path. “Here.” He scooted to one side of a display. “It’s hard to see, but on this mannequin dressed like a Patriot Army soldier used to hang a Bugbear coconut gun powder flask.”

  “What’s the value?” Nick asked.

  “Value?” Mr. Trow chuckled just once, then gave us a stern look, his forehead folding into a horizontal accordion. “I can quote monetary amounts until my eyeballs fall out, but that’s not the point.”

  “Then why were you telling us the value of each item before this one?” Nick asked.

  Mr. Trow made some type of noise, and then he pressed his lips together so hard they almost turned blue. “I apologize, but I’m just a little frustrated with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I reviewed all of this with Ms. Giordano already.”

  “Again, Mr. Trow, I’m sorry about the circumstance.” Just rub it in my face, why don’t you?

  He held up a hand. “I understand completely. I’ll get past it.” He turned back to Nick. “To answer your question, I’ll ask you one. What is the point of any of these stolen items?”

  Nick turned and scanned the room. I focused on Mr. Trow as he folded his hands together in front of his gray suit, his cane now resting against a display case next to him. Neither Nick nor I had an answer.

  Trow helped us along. “The person or team of people stole seventeen items. And I guess I’m trying to say—”

  “There’s no pattern to any of it,” I said.

  He pointed a finger at me and winked. “Spot on. I can’t figure it out.”

  “But what’s the value…I mean, what’s the total monetary cost of all the items combined?” Nick asked, spinning back around.

  “It’s north of a hundred thousand dollars. But as you know, these items are irreplaceable. I assure you, these are not knockoffs.”

  “I’m thinking more about what a thief could get for this stuff—”

  “Stuff?”

  I thought Mr. Trow’s eyeballs were actually going to pop out.

  “Sorry, precious artifacts.” Nick arched an eyebrow at me when Mr. Trow looked down momentarily. “I’m wondering how much money a person could make by selling these items on the black market? You know through the Dark Web.”

  “The Dark Web?” The curator frowned, causing a plethora of creases to scatter across his face. “That sounds absurd, whatever it is.”

  “It’s the part of the Internet where bad people do bad things. No one good knows much about it, which is why you’ve never heard of it,” I pointed out.

  “You’re fully aware that a black market exists for items like these,” Nick said.

  “Of course.”

  “That’s all I’m saying. Whoever stole these precious artifacts will likely try to sell them. We have a cyber squad within the FBI that can start scouring the Dark Web and other sources that might appear to be more legitimate. Sooner or later, I’m guessing they’ll come up for sale. That’s when we’ll be able to identify who has the stolen items, or at least a trail to who stole them.”

  Nick wrapped a thumb around one of his suspenders, apparently proud of his explanation of how everything would come together in the end.

  Mr. Trow’s line of sight went from the opposite wall back to Nick. “I might be old, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “I never got my central point across.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Some of these items have a price tag that is rather high, which I’ve pointed out. But there are a few of these items that, individually, wouldn’t go for more than a hundred dollars, maybe less. Is that worth the risk of being caught?”

  “I admit, it sounds random,” I said. “Maybe they thought they were stealing only the expensive items, but instead grabbed the wrong ones.”

  Nick and Mr. Trow pondered that thought as I began to retrace our steps, putting myself in the mind of the thief. Or, as Mr. Trow had suggested, this could involve more than one perp. A team of thieves would make more sense, just because of the sheer volume of items that had been hauled out of the place.

  “What are you doing, Alex?” Nick asked.

  “Just thinking.” I followed the same path back to our starting point, then looked back across the room, trying to imagine the outline of my steps. The shape wasn’t consistent. At one point, it appeared I’d made a figure eight, but then the path went haywire after that.

  “It’s possible we’re dealing with a person, or set of people, who are great admirers of these relics,” I said, walking back to the pair, the room still void of any patrons. “And therefore would not be looking at the Dark Web to sell the stolen artifacts to the highest bidder.”

  I could see Mr. Troy freeze for a second.

  “What is it?”

  He pursed his lips.

  “Care to share your thought?”

  “It’s just that…” He began to pat his pants pockets as Nick and I exchanged glances.

  “What are you looking for? I have the list of stolen items right here.”

  “It got me thinking,” he said, now reaching inside his suit-coat pockets.

  “About?” Nick leaned in closer.

  “Ah, there it is.” He pulled out a rolled-up paper program.

  “Is this pertinent to our investigation?” I asked.

  “Of course. Well, it’s just a theory, mind you. But your thought about the thief just got me thinking.” He popped the rolled-up paper off the opposite hand, as if he were an old coach from the 1950s, complete with the bow tie.

  “And that is?” Nick said.

  Mr. Trow licked his lips and took in a breath. “I’m part of a select group of people related to those who played significant roles in the American Revolution.”

  I nodded, trying to foresee where this was going.

  “My great-great-uncle, Bartholomew Trow, actually took part in what became known as the Boston Tea Party. My family takes great pride in this association with one of our nation’s most important times. He was born just across the Charles River in Charlestown.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Something about the name of the town didn’t sit right with me.

  “My great-great-uncle became one of the infamous minutemen in the battles of Lexington and Concord, and eventually rose to the rank of lieutenant under Colonel Thomas Gardner’s command at Bunker Hill. Eventually, he became second lieutenant of the frigate named Boston.”

  “Impressive,” Nick said.

  “I realize I’m no Revere or Franklin or Hancock, but there were only one hundred sixteen people who participated in the Boston Tea Party. That took a tremendous amount of courage and conviction. I’d like to think a little bit of that blood is still running through these old veins.” He chuckled.

  “That’s a nice story.” I paused, hoping he’d take the cue to get back to business, but his eyes seemed to bore holes through a painting off to my right. It showed a tattered American flag standing tall amid smoke and haze from cannon explosions in the field of battle. Perhaps Mr. Trow was transporting himself back in time.

  “And so…” I gestured to the rolled-up program.

  “Ah, yes. There are two organizations in this area that meet, hold fund-raisers, and bring awareness to the glory of our nation’s history through museums like this.
One of those is called the Daughters of the Revolution. The women in that group have tremendous passion for the cause, and most of them I respect greatly. This highlights one of their fund-raisers.” He uncurled the program and popped it twice with a stiff finger.

  I looked at Nick, then said, “Mr. Trow, you kinda implied there are a few of the women you don’t respect.”

  He seemed to growl, or maybe he was just clearing his throat. “Some women…” He looked at me. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m no sexist.”

  We’d soon find out. “I’m not offended. Go on,” I said.

  He opened his lips, then paused.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Uh, no. I just…well, I’m the curator of this museum. And I’m a lover of these old artifacts.”

  “What are you trying to say?” Nick asked.

  “There is a new faction of women in the Daughters of the Revolution that has voiced strong opinions about these artifacts. They believe that most of these artifacts should be on display in the homes of the people who sacrificed so much for the country.”

  “A faction, huh?” I found that an interesting term to use.

  “They’re loud and obnoxious.” He pointed the program at me. “And they have no respect.”

  “I thought you said they respected all of these old artifacts a great deal.”

  “I’m talking about people in their organization. You see, the Sons of the Revolution, the group I’m a part of, routinely holds social events with our counterparts. And there are a few, dare I say, ladies in that group who are nothing more than…” He turned his head.

  “Were you going to say thieves?”

  “No, I was not. That’s something I can’t prove. But their behavior is abhorrent.” His face lit up like a fire hydrant.

  An older couple had just walked into the room. Mr. Trow instantly turned into the welcoming curator. He waved and said, “I apologize. Please, come in and enjoy the artifacts and information.”

  He gave us the eye, and we followed him out of the weapons room. We passed a corridor and approached a dark room, where we found the same set of school kids sitting on the floor. Every set of eyes was glued to a huge screen where a video was playing. I paused a second and could see it was a documentary on the events that led up to the start of the Revolutionary War. I noticed Miss Lori off to the left. We locked eyes. She smiled and mouthed, Thank you. I nodded, mouthing, No problem, in return and then caught up with the two men.

  Mr. Trow was saying something to Nick about security and technology at the museum. I cut in with, “So, what about these IT operations?”

  “I was telling your partner new information, something I didn’t know when you were here last,” he said as he swung open the door to a room with the word Security on it.

  There was a tall, thin man sitting in front of a bank of monitors. He jumped up and shook our hands with too much energy, then went back to his monitors.

  “Phil just started two days ago,” Mr. Trow said. “He’s having to learn on the fly, since our previous director left with no notice.”

  Nick gave me the eye. I knew what he was thinking.

  “You have new information for us?” I asked Mr. Trow, the three of us standing at the back of the security room.

  “Our IT vendor, a local group called TakeFive, let us know that we had a security breech.”

  “Say again? Why wasn’t that the first thing you told us today?” I knew I sounded annoyed. I was.

  “Well, we had to deal with the crazy kids, and then I had to explain the entire crime to you for the second time. And now here we are,” he said, extending an arm to the rest of the room.

  “What did they report?”

  “Someone hacked into our computer profile where we maintain all of our codes and passwords.”

  “So, if someone had that information, what would they be able to do?”

  “Oh my. Enter the building after hours, gain access to each room. And if they knew what they were doing, they could disarm the security for each exhibit so they could steal whatever they wanted. I recognize this is not a good development.”

  “It’s better than the alternative.”

  “What’s that?”

  “No trail whatsoever. But we know they at least made a technical footprint. It might take a while to understand how they did it and to find them. Our cyber squad will contact TakeFive. We’ll need access to all servers to continue the technical aspect of this investigation,” I said.

  “Fine. No problem on my end,” he said.

  “I believe you mentioned there was no visible forced entry, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Anything on video?”

  “Nothing. Zilch. Although…”

  “What?”

  “TakeFive also handles the storage and backup of our video. And they said they’d been hacked just after our theft. The video files were apparently corrupted. All you see is a blue screen.”

  “Damn, these guys were good,” Nick said.

  I nodded. “It does sound like a professional operation.”

  We all walked toward the front door of the museum as Nick received another call. I peeked through the window. The skies had turned gray, and I could see quarter-sized flurries swirling in a gusty wind. I could feel my shoulders tense a bit, which instantly gave me a headache.

  Turning to Mr. Trow, I said, “We’ll need names and contact information for everyone you mentioned in our conversation, and the full list of stolen artifacts.”

  He nodded.

  “That includes the names of the women—the faction from the Daughters of the Revolution.”

  He tugged at his rubbery face.

  “Any issues with that?” I asked while eyeing Nick, who was off in the corner talking on his phone again.

  “Oh no. I guess not.”

  “Guess not,” I repeated in monotone.

  “I just know how much grief they’ve caused.”

  “Okay. But I’m assuming you have some reason to believe they would be motivated to steal these artifacts, no?”

  “I do think they have motivation, and they’re young, smart, athletic. They could probably pull it off.” His face hardened into a scowl, and he punched his fist into his bare hand, his cane tucked under his arm. “Who am I joking? Three of them are just bitches. Plain and simple. They think the world revolves around them.”

  “Okay. We’ll need their names, please.”

  Mr. Trow nodded, and we stood there in silence for a moment, waiting for Nick to finish his phone call.

  I wondered how any of these scenarios would have led me to being in a high-speed chase the night of my crash—unless I’d made much more progress than it appeared, possibly confronting a suspect. But Mr. Trow admitted he didn’t find out about the breadth of the security breach until recently, after my first visit with him.

  Nick walked up, interrupting my train of thought, shaking his head at me while holding the phone in front of his face.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Yes sir. I understand,” Nick said while pointing at the phone.

  We stepped away from Mr. Trow.

  I whispered in Nick’s ear, “What’s up?”

  Before he could respond, I heard another voice.

  “To answer your first question, I’m okay with you and Alex taking the lead on this. But you better get your asses to this island, and quickly.”

  The line went dead.

  “Randy?”

  “Yep. We got what we want. I think,” Nick said. “There was another murder. Same MO, but a different location. And I think you heard the urgency in Randy’s voice.”

  Mr. Trow stepped between us and said, “I can send you all the information you requested within the hour. Everything you need. When can I expect to have the stolen artifacts returned?”

  Nick opened the front door, and a blast of cold air stopped Mr. Trow from following us. “No promises on the timeline. We’ll be in touch,” Nick said as the curator
waved a hand and disappeared back inside the bowels of the museum.

  I took two steps outside, and a bank of snowflakes peppered my face. “Damn winter. Who needs it?”

  At that instant, I heard a car backfire, and then the glass wall to the museum just behind me exploded.

  11

  “Down. Get down now!” Nick yelled while jumping behind a stone planter. A little slow on the take, I finally spotted another stone planter on the opposite side of the doorway. But even those two seconds made a difference. As I planted my left foot, I heard two more shots split the air around me, and then I felt a jolt in my shoulder. I hit the unforgiving concrete on the same shoulder and skidded to a stop behind the planter.

  “You okay?” Nick called out.

  Still peeling myself off the concrete, I could see his head peeking just above the planter, searching for the sniper, his Glock ready at his shoulder.

  “Fine,” I said, even though my upper arm was on fire. More than anything, my brain felt like it had been thrown into a blender. “Any idea where the shots came from?”

  “Across the street, I’m thinking.”

  I could see Mr. Trow poke his head through the gaping hole in the front window. I shouted, “Get your ass back. Call nine-one-one and keep everyone away.” He scrambled off.

  I peeked around the edge of the planter. Two buildings and a bunch of parked cars, a few trees dotting the parking lot. And more snow. I had no clue where the sniper was. He could be a hundred yards away, or fifty feet and closing, knowing he had us cornered.

  “You carrying an extra piece?” I asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Just figured.”

  Without taking his eyes off the scene, Nick pulled a gun from an ankle holster then slid it across the pavement. It stopped about six feet shy.

  “Fuck!” Nick yelled. “Leave it there, Alex. If I see anything moving, I’ll shoot it. Otherwise, we play defense and wait until the cavalry shows up.”

  I heard him, but I still felt exposed. I looked around for a stick, something to pull the gun closer. Seconds ticked by. My shoulder stung like hell, but somewhere inside I knew we had to act. Not sit, wait, and hope.

  Without another thought, I pushed off my back foot and reached for the gun. Just as my hand touched its grip, a shot rang out. It clipped the concrete just an inch in front of my wrist, concrete dust in my face.