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

  As my eyes moved higher, I saw his cuffs looped inside the metal bar, his head resting on the top of his hand as he sat in a chair that must have weighed seventy-five pounds. I thought I heard more mumbling. Was he praying?

  “Mr. Cobb, we’re with the FBI, and we’d like to have a conversation with you.”

  His mumble grew louder, and he began shaking his head. I glanced at Nick and tried to continue. “For the record, I understand you’ve waived your right to have an attorney present. Is that true?”

  He didn’t reply, but the pace of his head-shaking only increased.

  “Mr. Cobb?”

  The guard in the far corner moved closer. “This is what the warden was talking about.”

  “I’m not crazy,” Cobb blurted out, his head still down.

  I took in a breath. “Are you ready to talk to us now?” I said, keeping my tone measured.

  Metal clanged the bar as he began to rub his temples. “I just need a packet of salt. Pepper would work too.”

  I exchanged a curious look with the guard, now just a few feet from me.

  “Sorry, but that’s not allowed.” The guard set his feet shoulder-width apart and stuck his fingers inside his belt loop.

  “Then I’m not going to talk to anyone,” Cobb said, his voice cracking. He dropped his shoulder and let his wrists hang from the cuffs. Within seconds, they began to turn a shade of blue, but he didn’t seem to care.

  I pinched the corners of my eyes, as the tension began to drain my body of resources. I’d gotten up at four a.m. to take a puddle-jumper three hours from Boston to Williamsport, then another hour in the car winding through the Pennsylvania countryside. My stomach felt like it had been clawed by one of the bears we’d seen on the side of the road.

  “Mr. Cobb, what do you want to do with the salt or pepper packet?”

  The guard stuck out his jaw, but didn’t utter a word.

  “I…I…” He fumbled with his words.

  “You see, he’s just crazy,” the guard said, his palms turned out. “He doesn’t know what he wants or when he wants it. He’s certifiable.”

  His last comment might be true. Anyone who’d committed the deplorable acts Cobb had couldn’t completely be of sound mind. But I questioned the guard’s other assessment about Cobb not knowing what he wanted.

  The guard narrowed one eye. It was obvious he didn’t want me to pursue Cobb’s request any further. But I’d come too far—in every way possible—to not try to appease the murderer so that we could have a few minutes of real conversation.

  “J. L., tell me why you need the salt or pepper packets.”

  I heard a sniffle, but I refused to let myself feel sorry for him.

  “J. L.?”

  “I…I need to count the little morsels of salt. That’s all I need to do, is to count them. Well, I might try to create various mathematical equations. I can think of about six hundred twenty-nine equations to start off with.”

  Purposely not looking to my right, I locked eyes with the other guard. His stoic manner melted in a couple of seconds, and he stretched his lips across his face. Then he dug into his front packet and pulled out a small pouch of pepper.

  “What the hell?” the other guard asked.

  “It’s left over from breakfast, and I…uh…well, I sometimes give my extra packets to Cobb.”

  “What? I ought to have you reprimanded,” the guard to my right said.

  “Sue me, dammit. It’s just pepper.”

  Without debating it, I walked over to the guard with the pepper packet and took it from him. I then walked toward Cobb but was quickly intercepted by Nick. “I’ll do it.”

  “Okay,” I said calmly, as part of me knew it would be difficult to not unleash my fury if I got close enough. Apparently, Nick knew it too.

  As Cobb turned and opened his hand, he lifted his head to look at Nick. “Thank you.”

  I then noticed red marks on the side of his neck and face. As I shifted to my left, I spotted bruises on his face.

  “What happened?”

  The guards looked straight ahead as if I hadn’t spoken.

  Cobb had already started his counting routine, as I thought he would. His lips moved, but he didn’t say anything audible. A typical behavior for someone with Asperger’s.

  “J. L.?”

  “Cigarette burns,” he said, with his eyes still flinching a bit as his lips continued moving even after he’d finished speaking. He added, “And I got beat up for being a queer. But I’m no queer. They just called me that.”

  He was talking, finally. I took in a full breath, rested my rear end against the table, and crossed my arms.

  “J. L., I gave you what you wanted, so I need you to focus a few minutes on my questions.”

  “Sure,” he said with his eyes only inches from his hand.

  “Can you tell me if you made any friends during the time you were killing your victims?”

  Both eyes blinked at the same time, then he said, “I killed your husband, Mark.” His voice was even, as if he were talking about being issued a traffic ticket.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Nick shift in his seat. I took a hard swallow.

  “J. L., I need for you—”

  “It wasn’t personal or anything. Not against you anyway. It was the opposite.” His eyes glanced at me for a brief moment.

  I bit my tongue until I tasted blood, but I kept my demeanor calm. “Opposite in what way?”

  “You had no idea he was screwing around on you. He didn’t give a shit about you, your marriage, or the kids.”

  “How did you know about my kids?” I said far too rapidly.

  Nick brought a hand closer to me.

  I mouthed, I’m okay.

  “Don’t mean to upset you. You had rings. It was pretty obvious you had kids.”

  He was referring to breaking into our house and stealing my wedding rings. I’d yet to figure out how or when. But I couldn’t let him think he had power over me, nor did I want him even thinking about Luke, and especially not Erin.

  “So, let’s go back to my original question please. Did you make any friends during the time you committed the murders?”

  His counting suddenly became audible, as if he was drowning out a voice in his head.

  I needed to poke him a tad. “J. L., you do have friends, don’t you?”

  “I’m not a complete loser. Of course I have friends, just like every other guy.”

  “Did you share your adventures with any of your friends?”

  “Eh…”

  I couldn’t read the meaning behind that sound.

  “J. L., we’re investigating at least one other murder that may have been committed for the same reason you committed your acts. Do you think any of your friends would have a reason to continue your…work?”

  My breath shortened, and I could feel my gut twist into a massive ball. I just hoped I wouldn’t hurl all over the prisoner. That would end the interview and our ability to possibly learn a piece of evidence that could stop these murders—if they were indeed connected.

  “Not my friend anymore,” he said with his volume turned way down.

  Nick and I exchanged glances.

  “I understand you were the brains of the operation,” I said.

  He smirked and said, “Of course I was. You think she could have pulled off what we did without my skills?”

  We’d just learned new information about the old investigation, and I knew we couldn’t stop here.

  “What did she bring to the table anyway? You were the one who actually carried out the acts. That couldn’t have been easy on you.”

  He took his eyes away from the pepper, and I noticed his chest lift for an extra deep breath.

  “She had no clue how to hack into that motel’s computer reservation system. That was all me.”

  I looked at Nick. His eyes were so wide I thought they might never shut.

  “Of course, some people used fake names. But that just made it more
fun, trying to figure out who they really were. But we only took the biggest offenders off the list. At least that’s where we started.”

  Right there! He’d just given us an indication that this person could be continuing this fucked-up murder spree that focused on cheating spouses. But Monty Junior wasn’t married. How would he have fit into this scheme? Maybe he didn’t.

  “J. L., did she tell you that she would continue killing?”

  He closed his eyes and released a breath. “It’s not for me to say.”

  He couldn’t clam up now. “You’re the one facing a long prison sentence. Maybe the death penalty. If you share valuable evidence, it can only help you.”

  Turning to look at the wall, he scratched his thick head of hair. Without warning, he brought his lips together and started whistling.

  The guard stepped toward me. “Do you want us to take him back now?”

  I held up my hand and shook my head. The whistling continued. I started to detect a certain beat. It sounded familiar.

  “Do you like that song, J. L.?”

  He just kept whistling. Maybe it was another way of controlling his outbursts.

  “It’s a classic, isn’t it? Rod Stewart really knows how to write lyrics, doesn’t he?”

  He released a tight-lipped smile, and his whistling ceased for a few ticks. “Maggie May. The best.” His voice drifted off.

  “J. L, can you share with us who helped you commit these murders?”

  He looked back down at his palm and his lips began to move again.

  “J. L.?”

  “Leave me alone. I’m tired of talking.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Can you take me back to my cell?”

  I stepped closer to my husband’s killer. “J. L., this can only help you. Tell me who worked with you.”

  He stood up and closed his fist that held the pepper, purposely avoiding eye contact with me.

  “J. L.?”

  The guards slowly walked over and asked him to face the wall while one unhooked the handcuffs from the rail.

  I wanted to ram my shoulder into Cobb, throw him against the wall, and shake him until he told me. Nick stood up, and we traded stares as I gripped the table.

  “J. L.” I said it so loudly everyone glared at me.

  We locked eyes for a second and then his lips began to move, I couldn’t hear what he was saying, if he was saying anything at all.

  “Are you trying to tell me something?”

  Then the words became more distinct, and he started singing:

  The morning sun when it's in your face really shows your age

  But that don't worry me none; in my eyes you're everything

  I laughed at all of your jokes. My love you didn't need to coax

  Oh, Maggie I couldn't have tried any more

  You lured me away from home, just to save you from being alone

  You stole my soul and that's a pain I can do without

  His last words echoed as the guard took my husband’s killer into the hall.

  8

  “Do you believe him?” Brad asked while sliding a pizza box across the table in the FBI war room back at One Center Plaza in downtown Boston.

  A waft of spices and pepperoni instantly caused my mouth to water.

  “Is that for us?” Extreme hunger had temporarily impaired my ability to listen. After puking up my coffee before our interview with Cobb, I’d managed to down half of a stale bologna sandwich from a vending machine at the Williamsport Airport. And now that my gut wasn’t twisted into a million knots, I could see how inadequate my energy reserves had become.

  “If you want it to be.” Brad’s dimples framed a full-blown smile.

  Just as my hands reached for the box, he grabbed it and slid it back. “Perhaps I didn’t negotiate like I should have.”

  “What’s there to negotiate, who gets the most black olives?” I could practically taste the warm mozzarella cheese.

  His eyes glanced away for a second. “I need more time on the request you gave me when you guys were driving back to the airport.”

  I tapped my chin twice, then lunged across the table. He snatched the box up as both my palms smacked the table.

  “I think she means business, Brad,” Nick offered from the far side of the table. “If you don’t feed the beast, the beast will eat you.”

  All movement ceased for about two seconds, each of us wondering if the person would go there. I glanced over my shoulder at Nick, my hardened face in no mood for such locker room antics.

  “What? I didn’t say blow, I said eat,” Nick said in a voice a half-octave higher than usual. He shrugged his shoulders—the innocent one.

  Two seconds ticked by, then we all broke out in laughter, Nick and Brad looking like two braying donkeys in hysterics. I covered my mouth as I snorted out my chuckle in a feeble attempt to not act like one of the boys.

  An odd déjà vu sensation swept through my mind. Something from my past had again crept to the edge of my memory. Something about how I viewed most guys. I let it bounce around for a couple of seconds. The only thing that stuck was realizing I felt this strong push to compete against—no, check that—to beat any guy who fell into my crosshairs.

  “Okay, I’m hungry as hell, Brad, so give it up.” I’d kicked out my chair with the back of my calves and was standing there, flipping my hand impatiently. “I’m talking about the pizza box.”

  A snicker from Nick almost ignited another outburst.

  Brad held the box shoulder high. “You’ll give me more time on the request?”

  “I’ll give you my son. Or maybe I’ll pull out my Glock. I haven’t decided which.”

  He held out a hand and set the box on the table as if he were feeding a caged lion. He was.

  I opened the box and found less than half a pizza, two of the pieces ripped apart, and it was anything but fresh.

  “What the hell, Brad?”

  “I asked my team of research analysts to work through lunch. Got an important investigation that required some quick turnaround. Sorry.”

  I flopped back into my chair, my eyes barely catching his for more than a second, then scooped up the first piece and tore off a bite.

  “How is it?” Nick said, tossing a handful of yogurt raisins into his mouth. “I think I can tell.”

  I leaned over and grabbed a paper towel to push back into my mouth any food remnants that had escaped.

  Once I’d devoured the first piece, I finally took in a full breath. “It’s cold pizza. Reminds me of college.”

  “Seriously?” Nick asked, sitting forward.

  I nodded and picked up my second piece. I could recall sitting on the floor of the dorm hallway, splitting a massive pizza with four or five other girls. It was late at night, and we’d all just gotten back from a club. I believe we were all having a good laugh at my expense, something about my dancing prowess looking similar to that of Elaine from Seinfeld. I remembered one girl saying, “How the hell are you coordinated enough to play college tennis, but you look like you’re tripping on PCP whenever you hit the dance floor?”

  I heard a bottle tap the table, and I woke up from my trance to hear Brad and Nick giggling like teenage girls. I also spotted a water bottle, so without asking, I cracked the top and chugged a third of it.

  “Okay,” I said, allowing my back to touch the chair. The other two stopped their gossiping and turned to face me. “Why don’t you have what I requested?”

  “Alex, I just told you. I’m trying to get the Boston PD to play nice with the small-town police department in Lowell. It takes some—”

  “Negotiating.” Brad’s diminutive colleague, Gretchen, appeared from behind Brad, holding two sheets of paper.

  She gave me a quick wink, then addressed Brad. Something about her seemed different.

  “You scared me, Gretchen. Whatcha got?” While looking over her shoulder, he shifted his eyes over the pages.

  “It took about ten phone calls and a couple of promises of return favors
, but the two departments finally agreed to swap information about their murders.”

  “Starting with the COD and weapon used?” I couldn’t help but jump in.

  Both heads turned to me, then Brad grabbed one of the pages from Gretchen’s hand and flipped it on the table.

  “That’s exactly what we’ve got,” Brad said, walking past me.

  Gretchen picked up the remote and punched the red button, then tapped the tablet that was on the table.

  A blue screen morphed into a massive picture of a knife.

  “Both departments are fairly certain the perp used a SOG SE37N SEAL Team blade.”

  “A former Navy SEAL?” I asked, taking another mouthful of water.

  “Not necessarily,” Gretchen said. “The knives, while not commonplace, can be purchased in the private sector.”

  I nodded. “Good work, Gretchen.”

  “I told you we would come through for you,” Brad said with a wink.

  “Sure you did, Brad.” I wiped my mouth with the paper towel, then lifted from my chair, energized by the intake of food.

  “To answer your original question, do I think J. L. Cobb was telling us the truth when he hinted at having an accomplice? It’s possible.”

  Nick jumped up from his seat. “We debated this back and forth on the plane ride back.”

  “A very rocky plane ride that almost made me hurl my bologna sandwich.”

  “True,” he said. “Anyway, this guy has a lot of issues going on in his life. It’s a fact that he has Asperger’s, and it’s obvious he hasn’t socially adapted to life in prison. He’d basically been beaten up and tortured.”

  “But having Asperger’s doesn’t mean he’s crazy.”

  “You’re right, Alex. In fact, if I hadn’t been there to see his behavior in person, I might not think what I do.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s lost his marbles. Plain and simple.”

  “You’re too good of an investigator, Nick, to just make a cut-and-dried statement like that and move on.”

  He looked away and smacked his lips, a sure sign he wasn’t fond of my comment.

  “We can’t overlook other possible reasons for why he behaved that way.”