The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 21

  He grabbed a fistful of my hair, and my neck snapped back. I called out as my pulse skyrocketed. I was fucking pissed.

  Using all of my weight, I leaned away from the asshole, then slingshotted back toward him with a closed fist ramming into his nose.

  He fell back to the floor, covering his face, although I could already see red liquid squirting between his hairy fingers.

  “Alex, are you okay?” Nick asked, now with one foot in the back of the hearse.

  “I’m fine,” I said, hopping onto the gravel, inspecting my arm. I found four fingerprints. “What happened?” I looked at both men.

  Randy had just gotten to his feet. “I slipped, dammit.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Ten minutes later, a female medic with spiked hair urged a handcuffed Robert Earl to hold some gauze pads against his nose.

  “You do it, bitch. I don’t care if I bleed all over the back of your truck. We’re all going to die anyway. How about bleeding out?”

  Randy stepped over to Robert Earl and put his cheesy ’stache about an inch from the man’s enlarged and crooked schnoz. “Listen, you piece of garbage. Do as she says, or I’ll ram that nose into what’s left of your brain.”

  I was almost shocked to see Randy come to the defense of the girl.

  Robert Earl rolled his eyes, then raised his arms and pressed the gauze against his nose.

  Randy walked back to me and Nick. “Fuckin’ maggot.”

  “And you were expecting anything different?” I swung my head around and glanced at the hearse. I spotted the metal hood ornament in the shape of a girl with wings. Was that supposed to be an angel on the vehicle of the man who appeared to have a fascination with death?

  “When he’s not defying orders, he’s ranting and raving about death,” Randy said with a frustrated tone. “The CSI guy found cocaine residue on the floor of the hearse.”

  I rubbed my arm where I knew some bruises would soon form. “Is he the owner of this morose mobile, or just a squatter?”

  Randy said, “We confirmed it’s his.”

  “Have you found out if he has a Nancy in his past?”

  “He won’t answer a straight question. Just keeps rambling.”

  “Have we checked the records to verify the name of his ex-wife?”

  “Uh…” Randy said, his chin suddenly rigid. He called to the agent who had nearly puked inside the trailer and spoke to him quietly while they both looked at a tablet.

  I pulled out my phone, wondering if I’d received a text from one of the kids, or even from Mark. I felt a need for us to pick up where we’d left off last night. I allowed myself to at least partially think ahead to tonight’s interaction. Maybe we could add in a glass of wine, kick off our shoes, so to speak, or anything else that might need kicking off. I blew out a breath. Dammit, I needed to get laid by the man who has loved me for the last seventeen years.

  “You frustrated about something?” Nick asked.

  I arched an eyebrow. “It’s nothing you can do anything about.”

  “Got it. TMI, by the way.”

  I could hear Robert Earl rambling about wanting to go back to sleep in his death box.

  “Hey, what happened back there?” I asked.

  Nick took in a full dose of chilled air. “I just froze.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “No offense, but how would you remember? I could be the worst federal agent since the beginning of time.”

  “For whatever reason, I’ve recalled more about your mannerisms and even a few flashes of moments we’ve worked together than about anyone else.”

  “I’m flattered. I think.”

  “So, you going to share, partner?”

  “You won’t let this go, will you?”

  “Who, me?” I brought a hand to my chin and shot him a wink.

  He did a full three-sixty, perhaps looking for a way out. Then he looked me in the eye. “It goes back to when I was a teenager. A friend and I were creeping around a cemetery. We came upon this crypt and found it open. We walked around to the other side and found a man lying on the grass.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “We just about did. I got close to the body and…” He scratched the back of his head while shuffling his feet.

  “And?”

  “The damn thing woke up and grabbed my wrist, just like with you and Robert Earl Dracula over there.”

  “Was that the same person who’d been in the crypt, buried alive?”

  “Who the hell knows? I peed my pants and managed to wiggle away from the guy. We hauled ass out of that cemetery. Never went back, never told anyone else. Anyway, this crazy setup sent me back about twenty-five years.”

  “You ever think about trying out for a part in the Walking Dead?”

  Nick’s jaw dropped open to speak, but Randy cut in, having just rejoined us.

  “Fuckin’ A, his ex-wife’s name is Nancy.”

  I felt certain I was the least surprised in the group. “He’s not our guy, is he?”

  Randy looked off into the gray sky. “We still need to take him in, question him under the lights. But probably not.”

  Shaking my head in frustration, I turned and spotted a plastic sign flapping against a chain-link fence. It read: $99 Move-In Special. You Pay, You Stay.

  I tapped Nick on the shoulder and headed for the car. “We’re going bar hopping.”

  18

  Just as I cut hard off the brick pavers to avoid an older man and his three-pronged cane, my right foot slipped on an invisible sheet of ice. I threw out my arms for balance, hoping to grab hold of Nick, but he was nowhere to be found. I landed hard on my ass.

  “Jesus, Alex,” Nick said, trying to pick me up.

  Resting my elbows on my knees, I said, “Give me a minute. Need to make sure I’m still in one piece.”

  In reality, besides a bruised ego for showing my athleticism was not at optimum level, the only pain was in my brain—again.

  I closed my eyes and felt snow flurries sticking to my face.

  “If Jerry were here, he’d ask if you’re falling asleep on the job, or why you’re such a klutz.”

  “But Jerry isn’t here,” I said, pushing off the ground to get to my feet. Now looking directly at Nick, I added, “And by the way, a real klutz would have knocked the old man to the ground.” I tapped him on the chest and glanced up at a neon sign. “Monty’s, let’s go.” I grabbed the brass door handle.

  “Alex, we’ve been to, what, seventeen bars and restaurants in and around Back Bay? I’m tired and I’m hungry.”

  “We can catch a bite in Monty’s. I’ll even pay.”

  “More cheap burgers or nachos? No thanks. I’m getting old, Alex. All this walking and crap food will do me in by the time I’m fifty-five.”

  I took a step his direction. “If Jerry were here, he might say you’re wimping out on me.”

  Nick removed a pack of gum from his pocket and offered me a piece. As usual, I waved him off. He tossed a piece in his mouth and started smacking away.

  “What’s up, Nick? You normally don’t whine like a sixth-grader being fed chicken mushroom casserole.”

  “It’s, uh, a special day for Antonio and me. Been together twenty-three years today. He’s made a surprise meal for me. Home-cooked food. The guy is one hell of a chef.”

  “You should have said something. Go home. I’ll dig around in Monty’s and then get a cab.”

  He took out his keys and tossed them at me. I snatched them out of the air.

  “You still got it, Alex. You just drive yourself home, then pick me up in the morning. I’ll take the cab.”

  I wasn’t going to argue my newly bestowed privilege. “Sure thing. Enjoy your evening, at least what’s left of it.”

  Walking into Monty’s at almost nine-thirty, I felt a longing to be at home myself. Earlier, when Mark hadn’t responded to my text messages, I reluctantly called Sydney and asked her to stay late. After the fiasco with Robert Earl Dotson,
I knew we couldn’t waste another night of chasing FBI theories. While I still awaited Brad’s research on Agatha Darden, old-fashioned investigative work seemed like it might get us there just as fast, or at least confirm our suspicions—Agatha was partnering with a younger man, and possibly other women, to exact revenge on philandering husbands.

  “You waiting on anybody?”

  Swiping off a mixture of sludge and mud from the back of my trench coat, I glanced up to see an attractive thirty-something man with perfect hair and a warm smile sifting through menus.

  “Uh, no. Just me, myself, and I.”

  His grin widened. I wasn’t sure why he found my statement that witty, but dealing with anyone pleasant and genuine—the antithesis of Randy—was a welcome change.

  He turned his back for a moment. “Outside of our quiet side room that’s usually reserved for more discreet couples, it will be probably ten or fifteen minutes until a table is ready. Unless you’d like to sit at the bar.”

  “The bar it is.”

  He showed me the way, even pulling out the barstool for me.

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding onto the stool while I pulled my phone out of my purse.

  “Dad here will help you when you’re ready to order.”

  Just as I turned back to ask the host a quick question, I heard a gruff voice behind me.

  “Junior’s busy running this place. What can I get ya?”

  Flipping around to face the bar, I saw a napkin with the Monty’s name on it, and I asked, “That’s his name? Junior?”

  “That’s what I call him. What’s it to ya?” He was in his sixties with two chins and a Jimmy Durante nose. He planted two sausage-like hands on the rim of the wooden bar.

  I looked more closely at his eyes. “If he’s Junior, are you the senior Monty?”

  His eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t crack a smile. “Like I said, what’s it to ya?”

  Inching a little taller in my seat, I rested both arms on the bar and locked eyes with the senior Monty. “I suppose I could ask you just as well as I could ask him.”

  He held up a hand. “Not sure who you are, but before you ask anything, you gotta place your order. Food, drink, whatever.”

  My headache had subsided, and the day had been hellaciously long. Just a little nip would take the edge off before I headed home to deal with any drama from Sydney or Erin. “A glass of your house chardonnay.”

  “Got it.” He clanged bottles behind the bar, then unsealed a cork and poured me a generous glass.

  Someone called out Monty’s name, and he set the glass in front of me so quickly a bit of the wine sloshed over the rim. He held up a finger and plodded over to another customer.

  “But—”

  He held up the finger again without even looking at me.

  Glancing around the main area, the décor was slightly dated, but very clean. A few tables had larger crowds, but the booths were understated with low lighting and high backs, probably made for intimate moments.

  Just then, Junior walked by, and I reached out and tapped his shoulder. “Can I borrow you—”

  “He’s not a blow-up doll, lady.”

  Senior had snuck up behind me.

  I could feel a laser beam of heat light up my face. With my canines showing, I turned back to Senior, my finger extended. “Listen, I’m not—”

  “I know what you’re going to say.”

  “And what do you think that is, oh wise man?”

  “You’re just here to get a drink and people watch.”

  “And if I was, then what’s your problem with that?”

  “Junior is, you know, not interested.”

  “I didn’t know he was fifteen and needed Daddy’s permission.”

  “Damn, you’re feisty. I kind of expected it. You have that look.”

  I was about to go across the bar after this guy. “What look is that, Monty Senior?”

  “You know, short hair, kind of athletic.”

  I started to rise out of my stool. “Listen, Monty Senior, I’ve got more—”

  “Hey, hey, everyone.” A man behind me was trying to intercede. A hand touched my arm. It took every bit of me not to make an aggressive countermove.

  “Excuse me,” I said through gritted teeth. I turned and saw a calm, but concerned Monty Junior.

  “Dad, are you harassing our customers again? Jeez,” he said, wiping his face. “I apologize, Miss…”

  “Giordano. Just call me Alex.”

  Junior gave his dad a go-to-hell look that would have melted a glacier.

  “What? She started it,” Senior said, while throwing an arm in my direction. “Just another feminazi.”

  “Dad!” Junior’s face turned red as he stabbed a finger toward the opposite end of the bar. “Down there, now.” Senior shrugged then moseyed in that direction.

  I blew out a breath. “I didn’t need saving, you know.”

  “But my dad did. Another thirty seconds, and I think you would have leaped across the bar and broken his nose with one punch.”

  He tried to smile, but I could see this wasn’t his first attempt to rope in Mr. Progressive.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  He slid onto the barstool next to me. “Know what?”

  “That I could take him out in one punch.”

  “You have that…athletic look.” He broke out in laughter and tapped my hand softly a couple of times.

  “Like father, like son,” I said, arching an eyebrow.

  “I’ll take any compliment but that one. I know he’s just a grumpy bigot. But until he’s six feet under, he’ll be here every day and night, chasing customers away.”

  “And then you’ll spend all of your time trying to win them back. Am I right?”

  “So right,” he said.

  I sipped my wine, then opened the camera roll on my phone. “I need to ask if you’ve seen either of these two men in this bar.”

  He nodded, releasing a sly grin. “I knew something had to be up. An attractive lady dressed more for business than fun.”

  I first showed him a picture of Christopher Barden. It was actually a picture of him and his wife Agatha.

  Junior tapped his chin, then lifted his eyes, a glowing amber. “This is official, isn’t it?”

  “Do you want to see my credentials?”

  “Not really, although you’ll probably impress me more if you show me.”

  I discreetly pulled out my creds and opened the leather pouch to where only he could see them.

  He whispered, “Fuckin’ FBI? Who robbed the bank?”

  “No one. Beyond that, I ask the questions.”

  A slow nod of his head.

  I replaced my creds and pointed to my phone. “Seen him around Monty’s?”

  He pressed his lips against his teeth, the whitest I’d ever seen. Had this guy been a model?

  “I see so many businessmen in and out of here, they all start to look the same.”

  “Okay, how about this guy?” Rick Lepino’s picture came straight off his company’s website. A cheesy grin with a hand propping up his chin.

  Junior held up a finger to me, then looked around the restaurant. He spotted his dad and shook his head. “He won’t help us any.” He continued scanning the room.

  “Wait!” he finally said, hopping off his barstool and disappearing into the kitchen. A minute later he returned, accompanied by a short, frumpy man with baggy pants.

  “Alex, this is my brother, Lonnie. He has a better memory for customers than I do.”

  “Your brother?” I almost thought it was a joke. Then I recalled dear old dad’s appearance, and Lonnie’s look suddenly didn’t seem so farfetched.

  “Lonnie. That’s my name,” he said with little enthusiasm.

  I showed him Lepino’s pic first. “Looks kind of familiar, I think.” His droopy eyes looked up at me, as if awaiting my approval.

  “This isn’t a test. I need an honest answer.”

  “Try the other guy,”
Junior said.

  I thumbed to the next picture of Christopher Barden, thinking this was another lost cause. Lonnie stuck out his neck and then put a finger on the phone. “Damn. I’m usually pretty good at this game.”

  “It’s no game, Lonnie, but if they don’t look familiar—”

  “I know that scumbag.” An ultra-thin woman with cropped red hair had sidled up to Lonnie and Junior while balancing a tray of food and glasses of wine.

  I jumped out of my stool. “Tell me more.”

  “Hold on.” She ran off and served the food, then walked back to the bar. “I’m not sure if the food servings are getting larger or I’m just getting weaker. I was shaking. Did you see that?” She flipped her extra-long fingernails against Lonnie’s shoulder.

  “Eh,” he said.

  “Tess is one of our longest-tenured waitresses at Monty’s,” Junior said.

  “He’s trying to say that I’m old as dirt.” She let out a high-pitched giggle.

  I stuck the phone in the middle of our space, Barden’s face still on the screen. “So, you know this man?”

  “Sure as hell do. Saw him here just the other night. He’s one of those…” She looked around, then leaned in closer. “Players. You know, the guys who have all the money, think they can land any girl who walks through the door. Typically, though, the guy is married, and the girls they bed are half their age.”

  “Is that the case with him?”

  “His name is Christopher. Don’t recall his last name. He always paid in cash. Gave me a handsome tip, especially if he thought he was getting lucky that night.”

  “So, the other night, did you get a good tip?”

  “Sure as hell did, sweet pea.”

  “What about this guy here?” I swapped out Christopher’s picture for Rick’s.

  “This guy here…oh yeah. Can’t forget him. Name’s Rick something. He really threw his money around. Heard him sweet-talking some young girl. Practically undressing her in the middle of the restaurant.”

  I bit my lip, knowing we’d finally found a common thread between the two victims. Now, the tough part.

  “This is going to sound odd, but do you recall if anyone was watching either of these two when they were here?”

  “You mean, in a creepy way?” Her neck tensed, bones appearing like they might break the skin.