The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 5
Nick must have heard me snicker. “Charlestown Navy Yad,” he said quietly to me, purposely leaving out the “r.”
I said, “We passed it on the way here. The Town.”
“That’s a movie.”
“Really?” Apparently, sarcasm came naturally to me.
“Just surprised you can recall a movie set in Boston.”
“I think it was his accent that got me there,” I said, nodding toward Charlie. “Well, that, and I got a quick image of Ben Affleck.”
“Ha. He’s taken, in case you don’t remember that.”
“So am I—taken, that is. I’m just making an observation,” I said coyly.
“That he’s a hunk,” Nick said, nudging my arm.
“You said it.”
“And I meant it.”
“I’m glad you’re gay.”
“Me too. Antonio would be awfully disappointed otherwise.”
We both cracked up.
I heard Charlie clear his throat, like a teacher who knew he was losing control of his classroom.
“There it is.” Charlie removed his wet cigar and spit off to the side as Dino darted ahead and climbed on top of the dark-blue car, or what was left of it.
“Damn” was all I could say.
I stood in one spot, my hands buried in my coat pockets, and stared. The Crown Victoria was shaped like a taco shell. The passenger side had obviously taken the brunt of the hit, the force so strong that the front and back ends appeared to have been pulled together, forming a V. The unnatural shape had busted out most of the glass from the car.
“Is this bringing back any painful thoughts, Alex?”
I heard Nick’s voice, but I was so entranced by the wreckage I couldn’t respond.
“Do we need to leave?” he asked.
“No,” I said quietly.
A strand of my hair that had broken free of my short ponytail blew into my face. I curled it around my ear and took three steps, then leaned forward and peered into the front cabin.
“Airbag deployed,” I said.
“Just that one on the driver’s side,” Charlie said. “This is one of the older-model Crown Vics. They don’t have all the fancy airbags that keep the driver sealed up in bubble wrap.”
Dino made his way to the back of the car and plopped down on the dirt. I could hear his panting mixed in with Charlie gnawing on his cigar with the vigor of a cow chewing its cud.
“You the one who was driving the car?” Charlie asked.
“Yep.” I took another step closer and glanced at the floorboard and then into the nook of the front seat. It looked like a bomb had exploded inside.
“Shit, lady, you’re lucky to be alive.”
I touched the fingers of my left hand, recalling that the hospital had no record of my wedding rings when I’d checked out. I was hoping, or at least wondering, if I’d see them in the wrecked car. I knew the rings might help me recall some of the reasons why I’d married Mark, what I loved about him. I had to assume I still did.
Nick moved around to the front of the car while I circled to the back. Even with the brisk gusts of wind, I could practically feel the heat from Dino’s panting. He was eyeing me, but in more of a protective way. At least that was how it felt.
“So the investigator for the MSP hasn’t filed his report on the cause?” I asked, looking to Nick on the other side.
“Not officially. I think it’s just a formality at this point, like Jerry was saying.”
Resting a hand on the trunk next to Dino’s paws, I crouched lower. The government-issued license plate was crumpled, and the tires shredded. I shook my head, trying to imagine my body being tossed around the metal cage.
I heard Nick’s shoes crunch closer.
“What are you thinking?”
Glancing up at Nick, my eyes were stung by the sun shining just over his shoulder, and I looked back down, but I could hear him crinkling a wrapper, then the initial lip-smacking with his first piece of gum since we’d left the hospital.
“That the Bureau gave me a crap car.”
“It is one of their older models.”
“I heard. Anything to save a buck, I guess.” Something caught my eye, and I ran my fingers along a crease on the rear left bumper.
“They’re slowly phasing out these older cars for newer ones. Chevys, even the smaller Fords, are typically what we drive now. Although the CSI teams drive the SUVs…Tahoes, I think.”
“Fords and Chevys,” I said softly.
“You’ve lost interest in what I’m saying.” Nick crouched lower, then cried out and almost fell back. He hopped up to a standing position, grimacing. “Crap.”
“What’s wrong, Nick?”
“Damn knee. It’s swollen, there just above it,” he said, running his hand down the front of his leg. “Hurts like hell to bend it. But you can’t tell Jerry.”
He flexed his lower leg and hobbled a few steps.
“No worries, Nick. Have you gotten it checked out?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Too much heavy impact over the years.”
“You mean all those marathons you used to run are now catching up to you?”
He stopped and put his hand on my shoulder. “Alex, you remembered I used to be a runner.”
Biting my lower lip for a second, I said, “Not sure how that memory came to mind, but I’ll take it.”
“Anything else?”
I chuckled. “I remember you constantly working out, always prepping for the next big run. Didn’t you travel all over the country just to participate in marathons?”
He stuck out his chest a bit. “Hell yes. I was in phenomenal shape. Body fat was right around six percent. My long-term goal was to run in a marathon in every state. Got twenty-eight states in, and then the knee started acting up. Never been the same since.”
“Perhaps I’m not the only one who needs to be having therapy on a body part,” I said, returning my attention to the bumper.
“Therapy. I tried it a little bit. Didn’t change a thing. Then the doc started talking surgery, and that’s when I bailed. I’ve had enough lunatics try to kill me in my day job. I don’t relish a doctor cutting on me.”
“Afraid of a little surgery?”
“Surgery is only little if it’s happening to someone else.”
“You have a point.”
I heard Charlie clearing his throat. I couldn’t tell if he was demanding our attention or dealing with the ramifications of smoking cigars all day. Well, if he needed something, he could ask.
“I can’t bend down to join you, at least not without lying on the ground. What do you see?” Nick asked.
“Looks like chipped paint.”
“From another car?”
“Possibly.”
“Couldn’t it be from something else you hit, like a sign, or pole, or a tree?”
“Could be, I suppose. This is a gold color. Not many signs with that color scheme.”
“You’re convinced you didn’t wreck this car without something or someone causing you to wreck it.”
Placing my hand on the trunk, I pushed myself upward as Dino licked my hand. I petted his head and scratched his ears, then turned to Nick.
“I’m assuming there are deer or other wild animals around this area that could jump across a road. That’s really the only thing I can think of that would cause me to wreck.”
Nick shook his head. “You sound pretty certain, even though you can’t remember a thing before the crash.”
“I remembered your marathon running.”
“I know I’m giving you a hard time, but I, more than anyone, know you can handle yourself in just about any situation, including behind a wheel.”
“There you go. More proof that I’m not crazy.”
“Great. Just what I need, everything going to your head.”
“Was that supposed to be a pun?”
“I’m not that smart.”
I switched topics. “Take me to the scene of the wreck.”
I ignored him again. “On our way, I’m going to call Jerry and make him tell me what cases I was working at the time of the wreck.”
Nick gave me a mocking salute. “I’m your chaperone.”
“Yes, you are. Let’s move.” In my peripheral vision, I could see him rolling his eyes, which made me grin. I gave Dino one final pet and avoided shaking Charlie’s hand. “Thanks for the help,” I said to him.
Nick’s new best friend escorted us back to his car and even tried to crawl into the front seat. Charlie coaxed him out by tossing something stiff and hairy onto the front porch.
We pulled out of the rocky parking lot. “Might need to call in an evacuation of the surrounding four-block area,” I said, rubbing my nose.
After sitting through some local traffic, I tried to make note of the signs as Nick meandered through the side roads of the towns north of Boston. We skirted through the east side of Malden, cut through Saugus, and took Route 107 north into Lynn. I could see a calm Atlantic Ocean fluttering between trees and buildings off to the east.
“Why’s the ocean so calm along here?”
“There’s a peninsula a couple miles off shore—Nahant. You can barely see it through there,” he said, pointing across my chest. “Lots of bays, coves, and inlets around this area. You don’t even recall the geography much, huh?”
Narrowing my eyes, I could feel a sense of longing to be closer to the water. “Maybe, but nothing really specific. I have this strange feeling inside. Can’t really put my finger on it.”
Another minute passed. More trees impeded my view of the ocean, and we motored by a sign that read “Welcome to Swampscott.”
“Are we in Boston or Louisiana?” I asked, pointing out the sign.
Nick rubbed his chin as if he had a tuft of hair to tug on. I tried not to laugh out loud. He had quite a few lines on his face, but he probably didn’t need to shave more than once a week.
“I think I recall you telling me you actually visited Louisiana a few years ago. College maybe?” he said.
College. My mind drew a complete blank. “Man, I’m struggling with recalling the names of my own kids. College, my life before Boston, seems like one of those dreams I’ll never pull back to my conscious mind.”
He nodded. “I get it. The speech therapist said it would take a while, but—”
“Not to get frustrated. Right. Easy to say when it’s not your life.”
We hit a string of stoplights, then moved into Salem. “Home of the witch trials. See? I remember my history classes, just not the class itself.”
“Witches and bitches, you used to say,” Nick said as he passed a van.
“Witches and bitches. Can’t imagine what the hell I was thinking.”
“This is where you live with the kids and Mark. You had some issues with a few of the other moms.”
“Issues. Care to elaborate?”
He pursed his lips.
“Too uncomfortable?” I asked.
“I don’t want to get you upset or thinking negative thoughts.”
“Now you have to tell me. Or I’ll reach inside your jacket and pull your gun on you.”
He swung his head in my direction, and I responded with a smirk and a wink.
“Suburban neighborhood pissing matches. Some of the snobby women got on your nerves, and you thought they were poor role models for their daughters. They, uh…”
Nick seemed apprehensive to tell me about my own situation.
“Spill it, Nick. I need to know if I should be looking over my shoulder when I go out to get the mail.”
“You said they dressed like hookers, which is why their teenage daughters, uh, dressed like hookers.”
A tiny sting pierced the inside of my head and then quickly expanded into what felt like a metal rod rammed through my skull. I gently squeezed my temples.
“Erin. Our fight this morning. Is Erin’s rebellion some type of warped payback for what I’ve said about my neighbors?”
“Told you I didn’t want to go there.”
“Maybe I had no idea what was going on with Erin.”
“Probably not.”
“But what does that say about me as a parent, not to notice?”
“You’re a driven woman, Alex. You can’t do everything yourself.”
I assumed he meant the act of juggling professional accomplishment with parental responsibility.
“I need to get my arms wrapped around Erin’s issues. Is it only how she’s dressing, or is there more to it?”
“Your nanny hasn’t helped.”
Another steel rod felt like it was being shoved through my brain. “I think I need to talk to Mark first, but my gut tells me I need to get rid of her.”
“And then you’ll be a work-at-home mom and bake cookies.”
He was implying that wasn’t me. And I felt the same thing. But given what I’d experienced, my confidence wasn’t very high that I could achieve a great deal as a field agent for the Bureau, at least not any time soon. I first had to master going to the grocery store and finding my way back home. Maybe then I could graduate to baking cookies. Today’s insight into Erin’s life had left me with an unsettling feeling. Perhaps it was a sign that it was time to cut the umbilical cord to my job. Let Mark bring home the bacon, and I would do that cooking thing again.
My mind went idle for no more than twenty seconds, and then I got restless. I pulled out my phone and called Jerry, putting him on speaker and then sharing my idea.
“You want to do what?” he asked. I could envision his nose turning lobster red.
“You know how I get when I don’t have something to focus on,” I said while winking at Nick, the corners of my mouth turned upward.
“Funny. What if I said you like to sit behind a desk and study terabytes of data? Would you believe me?”
“Hell no.”
Jerry told me to hold on a minute. We could hear him cursing in the background, then he came back to the phone. He mumbled something—probably more curse words.
I cleared my throat then asked, “So are you going to tell me what cases I was working on or do I need to start reintroducing myself to all of my besties at the office?”
He forced out a breath. “Oh, Alex.”
Sounded like something my father or mother might have said when I was younger…if I remembered them. I didn’t want to create any undue worry, but part of me thought it would be somewhat therapeutic to talk to my parents on the phone. “Building connection points” was what the speech therapist called it. I made a mental note to have Mark help me reach out to them as soon as possible.
“Jer, I know I’m a ways off from taking on a real case. I’m only curious because of my crash. There’s probably no link between the crash and my cases. If nothing else, it will help me build confidence in my ability to recall day-to-day details.”
He blew into the phone again, then finally relented and gave me the rundown. Three main cases were at the top of my list, pre-crash. One regarding embezzlement and possible wire fraud, another involving several sexual harassment accusations across a number of global offices of a Boston-based technology corporation, and then another one regarding a series of recent thefts at Boston area museums.
I asked Jerry to email me everything that I’d compiled on each of the cases.
“Don’t have much. I just checked the other day. You hadn’t been syncing your laptop with the SharePoint site. So you’ll find the bulk of the case data still on your laptop. By the way, waiting more than three days to update the central database with your latest case information breaks Bureau policy.”
“How long had I gone without updating?”
“Think it said it had been twenty-three days.”
I mouthed ouch to Nick.
“That’s the benefit of having a new me around. You can train me the right way.”
Jerry didn’t respond. I could only hear him poundi
ng on a keyboard. I looked at Nick, who was mimicking Jerry, jabbing his pointer fingers into an imaginary keyboard.
A few more seconds ticked by, but I remained patient.
“I won’t get the chance. At least not with these case files,” he finally said.
“Why not?”
“Apparently you had your computer out of its case when you crashed. It’s basically destroyed. The IT guys are trying to recover data from your hard drive, but they said to keep our expectations low.”
Gritting my teeth, I knew I’d put the Bureau in a bad spot that only became exposed when I had my wreck. I was sure my story would likely be used as a case study in the training of new agents, hopefully using a fake name.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“I know you didn’t plan it. And it’s difficult for me to be angry when you’re not you. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“See what you can piece together with what I send you. Maybe something will spark a memory and help you out across the board.”
“Will do.” I could feel a bit of an adrenaline rush through my veins as I thought about sinking my teeth into something that had some meaning, professionally speaking.
“For the love of God, if you’re able to recall anything, please write it down, even if it’s on the back of a napkin. Then make sure it ends up in our case database. Can you do that for me?”
“I’m all over it.”
“Hold on. I didn’t ask you to be all over it. You’re still on LOA. You can’t officially work a case until I reissue your creds. So keep your sleuthing to your private thoughts at home while you’re baking cookies.”
Again with the cookies.
I ended the call, promising to avoid any physical exertion and to stay clear of any drama—for my sake as well as his.
I said to Nick, “The men in the FBI must have a thing about women baking cookies.”
“At least it’s not donuts,” he said while executing a turn down a tree-lined road, the canopy of branches so thick it blocked out the sun.
I thumbed through the apps on my phone, wondering if I’d kept any notes on a device other than my laptop.
“You don’t look like you’re searching for baking recipes.”