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

  “Jerry will kill me if you die from drowning at the crime scene of a drowning.”

  I tried to bring my body into a calmer state, then I realized I could see my breath in the air. The brisk wind bit against my exposed face.

  “Are you going to ignore me?”

  I’d yet to give anything more than a passing glance at the shore. That would show need, or even worse, desperate need. That wasn’t me.

  I slipped my mask back on and torqued my body into a horizontal position. I could hear myself breathe. Steady and even. I readjusted the mask—a small amount of water had seeped in from the side—and found my vantage point. I attempted to filter out any emotion and look at the body logically.

  It was a man, thick hair, stubble on his face in semi-fetal position. But what the hell was wrapped around his body? It was cone-shaped. His arms appeared to be forced around him, as if in a straitjacket. I guessed the cone was made from duct tape. A lot of duct tape. The wall of gray tape was hard and full of something. I moved in closer and looked straight down. Inside the cone were two cinderblocks.

  Then I saw two lines of string, each attached to one of the blocks and tied to something small and hollow at the other end. I wanted to dive down and inspect it, but I knew it would create a shitstorm back on shore. Plus I wasn’t completely confident my body wouldn’t wig out once I submerged to eight or ten feet below the surface.

  The dead man wore a pair of slacks, cream-colored dress shirt, and tie. There was a watch on his wrist. Looked high-end, but I was only guessing. Could be a cheap knockoff. His skin was wrinkled, and the hue ranged from pink to red.

  My eyes gravitated back to the cone, and I could see a large blotch of burgundy on his dress shirt. Maybe he hadn’t drowned. Maybe he’d been shot and then the body submerged until it decomposed so badly most of his appendages would fall off.

  How did I know that?

  His neck seemed extra thick, which swayed the cause-of-death theory back to drowning. On top of that, he was hovering near the bottom, just at the tips of the seaweed. The gases were still trapped in his body, which made me question the idea of a gunshot wound to the chest. Maybe it was a wound of some kind, but not deep enough to tear all the way through the skin tissue.

  Flapping my arms against the water, I moved backward while keeping my vision on the body. Looking down his leg, I saw a rope tied around his ankle. The rope disappeared into the seaweed, probably tied to a heavy object of some kind, like another cinderblock. I glanced again at the cone of duct tape and wondered who had thought of this contraption and what the motivation was. Had it been premeditated or a quick reaction to an emotional killing? There were a hundred possible scenarios. Hell, probably closer to a million. I recalled somewhere in my past being taught that no two killings were the exact same, even if they were committed by the same person, for the same reasons. Too many other variables to consider.

  I took another mental snapshot, then flipped around and floated toward the shore, where Mike the amphibian picked me up chest first. His hand accidentally brushed my nipple, which might have done something for me had my entire body not been frozen.

  “Sorry,” he said in my ear as I righted myself on the shore.

  Nick covered me in a blanket. “You’re going to get pneumonia, and then Jerry is going to make sure I get pneumonia.”

  I could hear my teeth rattling, and I clamped my jaw down before anyone could see.

  I told Nick I wanted to change back into my dry clothes, and I shuffled into the tent, sniffling and shivering. I pulled the wetsuit down to my ankles, then paused briefly, my mind still digesting the vivid images from the dead man with a duct-tape cone wrapped around his body.

  Suddenly, the tent door unzipped. My feet shifted, but I tripped on my wetsuit and tumbled to the ground. As the fabric flapped open, I spotted my clothes and threw them on top of my most vulnerable parts. I shot my eyes upward only to see Randy removing his glasses.

  “Someone told me you had an incident in the water. Are you okay?” he asked, his shoulders so wide I could barely see the outline of light. I realized I still felt a bit of air…down there, and I shifted my hand six inches lower. Instantly, I was mortified from embarrassment, sending a wave of heat up my spine.

  “I’m fine,” I said in short order, noticing his eyes never left mine. That was good.

  Then, just as quickly, he backed out of the tent and zipped it back up.

  I put on my clothes, then stepped outside while roping my wet hair into its standard ponytail, thinking more about my unexpected visitor. I found Nick at a makeshift table sifting through images on a tablet. I didn’t ask what he was doing.

  “Did you tell Señor Douche Bag that I had trouble in the water and needed his assistance?”

  “Hell no. I wouldn’t do that to you, even on your bitchiest day.”

  “Did you see him enter the tent when I was changing?”

  Nick’s eyes bugged out. “He did what?”

  Saying it out loud made me wonder what the hell I’d been thinking when Randy had walked in uninvited. For whatever reason, I just froze, fumbling with my words, failing to admonish him. That didn’t seem like the Alex Giordano buried somewhere deep inside.

  “Where is he?” I asked, turning, looking for the biggest dick I could find. Actually, the biggest asshole. He probably had the smallest dick.

  I scanned the shoreline and brush, the area as active as a kicked fire-ant mound. Did Boston have fire ants? I spotted Randy, nodding his head while speaking with two guys from the CSI team. I marched in that direction as I heard Nick say from behind me, “Oh crap. Alex, please don’t punch him right here at a crime scene. Let’s not dip to his level, okay?”

  Nick was right behind me, but I couldn’t have cared less. Just as I approached the three men, I overheard the older CSI agent say, “Wedding rings, Randy. They’re all catalogued digitally. We just need to bring them above surface. No hope in getting any trace or transient evidence off them, although we’ll go through the routine. Who knows? We could get lucky.”

  Taking my last step, I tripped over a stump, tumbling forward. I would have hit the ground had I not face-planted into Randy’s ass. Being graceful and all, I pawed at whatever I could find—his belt loop and back pocket—and pulled myself upright. I stood at attention, then noticed a huge lock of hair dangling in front of my eyes. I curled it around my ear and returned to my authoritative position with my hands clasped behind me.

  “Alex, you’re not still feeling the ill effects of your freak-out in the water?”

  “What? No, I am not,” I said, sticking my chin out. I eyed the two CSI agents, realizing now may not be the best time to chide the douche bag. But I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

  “So the objects attached to the cinderblocks were wedding rings?” I asked.

  Three head nods.

  “Were they male rings? Anything with diamonds in it?”

  The gray-haired CSI agent, who had a wart below his left eye—how had I not noticed that before?—bent slightly to rest a hand on his knee. “It appears to be a combination. One male ring, possibly his, since he wasn’t wearing one. There were three other rings. Two had diamonds on the band. The other was a simple band, platinum maybe.” The confirmation of what I’d seen floating in the cloudy water had simmered my immediate aggression toward Randy. My eyes drifted to a couple of rocks sticking above the sand, theories scrambling in my mind that was already cluttered with scattered memories at best.

  Nick pulled up next to me, and I realized I’d been picking at my nails. Was this an old stress habit?

  “His chest. Appeared he suffered a wound,” I said, looking for affirmation from the graying CSI agent.

  “Yep, he did.” He sounded like a Yankee version of Sam Shepherd. Kind of looked like him too.

  “Do you know if it punctured his chest cavity?”

  “Not likely. Looks like scrapes from the cinderblocks.”

  I bit my lip. “Unless there’s anothe
r wound that penetrated his body, then it’s almost certain that he died from the drowning itself.”

  “Good one, Alex,” Randy said.

  I gave him a stern look, then addressed the CSI guys. “I guess there could be a possibility of drugs in his system.”

  Before they could respond, Randy chimed in with, “True. Drugs could have killed him before he was tossed in the water. This whole setup could have been put together just to throw us off.” He nodded at everyone like he’d just discovered the secret to immortality.

  “I’m wondering if he might have been drugged just enough to keep him unconscious until the perp was able to create the cone of duct tape and place the man in the marsh. The toxicology will tell us everything. How soon until we can see that?”

  Randy chuckled. “Didn’t I hear you were recently in the hospital after wrecking your car?”

  “I’m here now. If you put a rush on it, how soon until we see the toxicology report?”

  He checked his watch. “Preliminary, probably tomorrow morning. Full report, maybe two days later, if we’re lucky.”

  Another agent walked up wearing rubber gloves and holding an evidence bag. A soggy wallet was inside.

  “Sir, we’ve got an ID on the vic.” He held up a piece of paper, then lowered his eyes to look through bifocals. “A Christopher Barden, out of Beverly. From what we’ve been able to find out, he’s thirty-eight years old and works at Transamerica Financial in Boston.”

  “Credit cards and cash still intact?”

  “Well,” the young agent pulled off his glasses and chuckled once, “I can’t say how much cash he had on him. But there is cash in there, two hundred eighty bucks. I’d never seen a hundred-dollar bill before. Anyway, credit cards, license, even a soggy picture of his kids.”

  “No pictures of his wife?” I asked.

  “Uh, no.”

  Randy spoke up. “Is that supposed to be strange? I mean, all of us need a break from the ball and chain occasionally.”

  I slowly turned my head and eyed the tall dipshit.

  He held up his hands. “What did I say? You going to file a complaint? Come on, guys…and lady, let’s get back to work. We need to pull the body and other evidence attached to him and make sure we bring it back without destroying a thing.”

  More divers arrived on the scene as they prepared to cut the body loose and bring it ashore. I heard them say they would actually conduct a preliminary autopsy report on-site, with the hopes of capturing pertinent information immediately after being exposed to air.

  The sky grew a darker gray, and the temperature started to drop. With my hair still damp, I tried to keep moving so I wouldn’t shiver. They pulled the body, and the medical examiner conducted the initial examination under a bank of portable lights with about ten people looking over his shoulder.

  Standing there with my arms folded, my face felt frozen. Either the cold temperatures, or the tension of the scene, or an aftereffect of my head injury—or a combination of all three—had created a pulsating line of pain from both shoulder blades into my neck. I arched my neck and tried to rub the muscles. The effort seemed futile.

  “You’re stressed from all of this, aren’t you?” Nick asked as he stepped next to me.

  “Stressed isn’t the right word. Keenly interested, I’d say. But I’m also frigid.”

  “I knew you shouldn’t have gotten into that water. Doctors would probably cut my nuts off if they knew I let you do that.”

  “We could replace you with Randy and make the world a better place,” I said, eyeing my partner for a moment as we watched a gaggle of CSI agents analyze the cinderblocks, string, and rings.

  “That guy’s a piece of work,” Nick said.

  I shook my head. “And he actually thought he had a chance with me? Did I used to be a ditzy, bow-headed bimbo looking for her MRS degree?”

  “This isn’t Utah. Only two people in a marriage.”

  “Funny,” I said, even though it wasn’t.

  “He’s married himself, even though I’d heard he’s been separated off and on. Not that I care. TMIAAA.”

  “What the hell does that mean?’

  “Too Much Information About An Asshole.”

  I snorted through my hand, and one of the CSI agents turned his head in my direction. I shrugged innocently.

  A few minutes passed, and the abbreviated daylight was quickly disappearing. A few domestic thoughts entered my mind: dinner, the kids, when Mark was getting home, and when our nanny would leave for good. But I also felt compelled to stay.

  “It’s getting late. You need to get home. This day has been far too long for you, and way too much exertion,” Nick said, doing that fatherly thing again. He walked over to Randy.

  I fumed a little. Okay, maybe a lot. I couldn’t just stand there like a well-behaved lady, ready to take orders from a bunch of men. It didn’t seem…natural.

  Randy gave instructions to two guys wearing MSP hats and badges. “Okay, so we have a preliminary plan. You two will visit the Barden residence and notify his wife of the death this evening. Ask some basic questions, document anything noteworthy. Make sure you show some compassion.”

  I was shocked to hear Randy use that term, compassion. Maybe his superiors had given him that specific order during his last performance review.

  Next, he turned and pointed a finger at Nick, then saw me and wagged his finger between us. “You guys can go back tomorrow and try to quiz Mrs. Barden further. I think you know how to conduct a thorough interview.”

  “No worries,” Nick said. “We’ll keep you updated, as well as my immediate boss, Jerry.”

  “Oh. Jerry,” Randy said, rocking forward on his shoes.

  They had a history. Then again, Randy appeared to have an opinion on anyone who breathed, and a few who didn’t.

  Randy took a phone call and walked away.

  “That’s our cue. We’re on the next airboat to the mainland,” Nick said, walking toward the trail. “If I’m lucky, I’ll get home in time to eat a warm dinner cooked by Antonio.”

  He turned to see if I was following, which I wasn’t. “You go ahead,” I said.

  His arms fell against his jacket. “Don’t tell me you have this sense of duty to stick around until all the work is done? If that’s the case, you’ll be here all night.”

  “No, I just need to, uh, clear up some things.”

  His eyes found Randy, and he nodded. “I get it. I’ll take my time getting back to the airboats.”

  “You don’t have to wait. You’re not my daddy.”

  “I’m barely moving now,” he said, going in mock slow motion.

  Just then I noticed Randy pocket his phone. I cut him off before he could join the others.

  “You need something, Alex?”

  “Uh…” I paused a second, wondering how our private conversations had gone in the past. I hoped I’d never led him on. The mere thought of it made me want to puke in the marsh.

  He put a hand on my shoulder.

  I slowly turned my head and eyed his hairy mitt. “Do you mind?”

  “Feisty, aren’t you?”

  My body temperature shot up twenty degrees.

  “Randy, that ruse you used to walk in the tent? Not cool.” My hands were planted at my waist, my feet shoulder-width apart.

  “Can’t I show a little compassion for a colleague? Jesus, Alex.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

  “You just wanted a peep show.”

  He chewed the inside of his cheek as he stared me down. After a few seconds, he glanced over my shoulder. “I need to get back and oversee this investigation. As you can see, this is an enormous operation. We’re dealing with a real sicko here, Alex.”

  He’d essentially ignored me calling him out. I held up a hand. “You ever do that to me again, I’ll shove your balls down your throat.”

  “Damn, that kind of turns me on, Alex.” He arched his eyebrows, then moved past me while bumping his shoulder against mine.

&n
bsp; I almost swallowed my spit. I had to stop myself from sticking out a foot, then jumping on his back and pounding the shit out of his kidney until he cried like a baby.

  “Randy, don’t you—”

  “And thanks for the peep show,” he said without turning around.

  I curled my hand into a fist and raised my arm.

  “Alex, it’s not worth it.” Nick had grabbed my fist. “You’ll have ample opportunity to stick Randy in his rightful place. But wait until you can really kick his ass. I’ll even buy some popcorn and watch.”

  He was right. As we took the chilly airboat ride back to our car, I thought about how my next confrontation might be more dramatic than the last.

  7

  Lifting a wood-framed picture from a built-in bookcase in the living room of our home, I touched the glass, trying to make a connection with the image. Smiling like it was the best moment in my life, my arms were wrapped around Mark’s chest. We were both tan, although my eyes had that raccoon look. The purple sky behind us illuminated a green mountaintop, and I could see white caps of an ocean below that. While I wondered where we were geographically, I also pondered where we were in our relationship.

  But damn, we looked happy as hell. It gave me hope.

  I’d just made my way downstairs, and I could smell a homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. I wiggled my feet in my worn slippers, fluffy white and burnt orange with a Longhorn logo on the sides. I must have had a connection to Texas in my pre-crash life. How far back, I had no idea.

  I could hear a game of some kind echoing throughout the house, most of which had hardwood floors. When Nick dropped me off earlier, I’d just stood in front of our three-level home in awe. It reminded me of a Norman Rockwell picture—why that image came to mind was another great mystery. In fact, the mysteries were stacking up pretty high, especially the mystery of why my brain could remember certain things and not others. I had to throw my heart in there as well. It appeared to have a say in the game.

  “Get out of my room, you little twerp,” Erin yelled from upstairs.

  I could hear Luke’s cute giggle, and then a door slammed.