Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4)

by David F. Berens

  He eased the ancient car through the roundabout at the entrance to the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, and took the gravel road that started just past the main gate. The Tesla Supercharger used to be located inside the security gate in the parking garage, but with the burgeoning population of electric cars, the airport had decided to build a whole new bank of charging stations out in front of the airport. They were outside of the security checkpoint, but even if they had stopped Eddie and T.D. all they would’ve found were a couple of guys and a couple of suitcases. And if they had asked to see tickets, Eddie had bought a couple of round trip airfares to Daytona. He figured if worst came to worst, he and T.D. could spend a day bettin’ at the greyhound track. Always pick the dog that takes a dump right before they run.

  “You sure you got that thing workin’, right?” he asked T.D. as he switched off the radio.

  “Yeah, boss.” T.D. was fiddling with a small, handheld device that looked like a walkie-talkie.

  Eddie Vargo wasn’t so sure, but he’d been through a lot with the big man, and trusted him to get things done.

  “It’ll ping us when the cases are moving and then we can track ‘em.” T.D. looked up and grinned.

  “Perfect,” Eddie said and spat the toothpick he’d had in his mouth out the window.

  He pulled into the first row of sparkly new, space-age looking charging stations, and eased down the newly paved lot. Then he saw it. A silver Honda Civic with an Enterprise sticker on the back.

  He pulled the Buick in beside it and scanned up and down the row of chargers. Besides the rental car the thief had dropped, and the clunker they were in, there were no other cars charging at the new station.

  “Good call on the million-dollar toasters,” Eddie snorted.

  “Yeah,” T.D. said, looking like he had no idea what his boss was talking about.

  “Okay, let’s test that thing.” Eddie pointed at the device T.D. was holding.

  The big man clicked it on and it pinged once. T.D. held gave a thumbs-up. “Got it,” he said.

  “Good,” Eddie said, “now let’s talk plan. We’re gonna get in that car there. Then we’re gonna head over to the Double Tree and wait for the call, right?”

  “That’s the plan, boss.”

  “Meantime, I’ll get the painting outta that lock-tube, and when the car with the money starts to move, we’ll know about it, right?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Then we’ll follow that car and get our money back.”

  “That’s the plan, boss.”

  There was a part of the plan Eddie Vargo hadn’t discussed with T.D., but it was early yet. The matter of what to do with the thief once they’d recovered the money was still a loose end.

  In Eddie’s mind, they would follow the thief after they secured the painting – which was supposedly in a stainless-steel lock-tube. Upon securing the money, the thief was to send them the combination to open the tube. But what the thief didn’t know, was that Eddie was a master at cracking the simple combination locks in such tubes. They weren’t exactly high-security, just a deterrent to amateur theft. Anyway, upon securing the painting, they would follow the tracker on the suitcases, incapacitate the thief, take the money, then drive the thief back out to the airport and dump it all back where they started. It was the incapacitate part that Eddie hadn’t discussed with T.D. yet.

  But the big guy was super-loyal, so he figured he’d bop the thief on the head without much coaxing. It was simple and elegant, and Eddie felt sure… or at least mostly sure…it would go off without a hitch. The thief had obviously sold hot items before, but didn’t seem as professional as the guys Eddie was used to dealing with. But something kept nagging him about the drop, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

  “We goin’ now, boss?” T.D. asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Eddie said, and turned the Buick off. “Let’s go.”

  The two men stepped casually out of the car. Eddie acted like he was stretching and T.D. mimicked his actions exactly. He walked over to the Honda and pulled the driver’s side door handle – it was open, and the key was in the ignition. He slid in, while T.D. wedged his giant frame into the passenger’s side, his knees touching the dash. He grabbed the seat handle and slid it back. Looking over the headrest of Eddie’s seat, T.D. reached his arm behind him.

  “Got it, boss,” he said, lifting a metal tube and showing it to him.

  “Nice,” Eddie said, starting the car. “Doubletree here we come.”

  “Boss?”

  “Yeah, T.D.?”

  “You think they got a breakfast bar?”

  Eddie looked at his watch. “It’s after noon, T.D.”

  The large man’s face sunk. Eddie thought for a second.

  “But we could go to The Frog and the Peach,” he said, his mouth suddenly watering, “it’s just on the south side of the airport.”

  “Now you’re talkin’, boss.” T.D. rubbed his hands together.

  “Just keep your eyes on that transmitter,” Eddie said, “and if she starts movin’, we gotta bolt.”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” said T.D., nodding vigorously, “I’m a fast eater.”

  “You sure are.”

  Eddie turned right on Gulfstream Avenue. It was a long way around the airport, but it didn’t really matter. He’d let T.D. grab some greasy buffet food while he worked on the lock. After that, they’d follow this thief and get the money back. It was turning out to be a great day.

  17

  Gotcha!

  “You gotta be freakin’ kiddin’ me!” Eddie Vargo slammed his hand on the dashboard of the Honda Civic.

  “What’s wrong, boss?” asked T.D., his belly distended from too many servings of scrambled eggs, bacon, waffles, pancakes, grits, and biscuits from The Frog and The Peach.

  “I’ll show you what’s wrong,” Eddie fumed as he slid the rolled-up sheet of paper out of the tube.

  He’d cracked the code on the combination lock in less than an hour. The sheet came, out and unfurled with a rustling sound… unusual for a canvas… which was to be expected, since this wasn’t a canvas. Eddie unrolled the print and spread it out on the dashboard. T.D. blinked and crinkled his nose.

  “Boss, that don’t look like the painting we’re supposed to have.”

  “Ya think?” Eddie backhanded T.D. in the chest.

  The poster laid out on the dash of the Honda Civic rental car was a full color movie poster with a young, blonde Anthony Edwards holding a gun up, movie-style, next to his head over a sexy, lingerie-clad Linda Fiorentina lying on her back while rubbing a hand on her stocking-covered leg. In the middle, under the night scene of the sparklingly lit Eiffel Tower, was a single word in red capital letters: GOTCHA!

  “Dammit!” Eddie slammed his hand on the dash again. “You check that transmitter?”

  “Yeah, boss.” T.D. held it up.

  The red light was solid. If the suitcase had been on the move, it would’ve been flashing. The faster it flashed, the closer they were to the transmitter… and thus, the suitcases… and thus, the thief.

  “We’re going back to the airport!” Eddie jerked the car into reverse, throwing T.D.’s knees toward the front and cracking against the glove box. “If that Buick ain’t there, dis is gonna get ugly.”

  T.D. sat in silence, rubbing his knees and looking at the light on the transmitter. Twenty minutes later as they rounded the airport, the light began to flash. Pulling off the gravel drive into the charging lot, it began to flash faster.

  “It’s still there, boss.” T.D. pointed at the light. “See?”

  “You better be right, T.D.”

  The junkyard Buick was sitting in exactly the same spot they’d left it in. The trunk was popped open.

  “Sonofa…”

  Eddie jerked the Honda into the space next to the Buick. He jumped out and ran to the open trunk. Inside were the two suitcases, open and empty.

  “Dammit!” Eddie sho
uted as he slammed the trunk shut.

  He walked back to the Honda, slumped into the driver’s seat, and banged both hands on the steering wheel three times.

  “Dis thief don’t know who he’s messin’ with, T.D.” he said through gritted teeth.

  T.D. said nothing.

  “Okay, let’s get back in the Buick,” Eddie said when he finally cooled down, “Leave this piece of shit here.”

  T.D. nodded and heaved himself out of the Civic. As the wheels of the junker crunched down the gravel road, Eddie’s phone rang. Blocked Number.

  “Listen here, you sonofa—”

  “Now, hold on a second,” the thief interrupted him, “I’ve got your painting. I just had to be sure you weren’t trying to double-cross me. You’ll have a package waiting for you when you get back to your shop.”

  “If dat paintin’ ain’t there when we do—”

  “It’s there already,” the thief said. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

  The line went dead.

  “What’d they say?” T.D. asked carefully.

  “The painting’s at the shop,” Eddie said, inhaling deeply, “I hope—”

  “Boss?”

  “Yeah, T.D.?”

  “How’d they know where the shop was?”

  Eddie Vargo felt a chill run up his spine. The garage they’d been working out of was a secure location. No one ever picked up or dropped off anything there. Every deal took place off site.

  “Dunno, T.D.,” Eddie said, “but I got a bad feelin’ ‘bout dis.”

  “Yeah, boss,” the big man agreed.

  “I don’t think we’re gonna go back just yet.”

  T.D. nodded and clicked on the radio. He turned the dial until he found the New Hope preacher again.

  Eddie reached down and turned the radio off. “Not now, T.D.,” he said, “I gotta think.”

  18

  Touchy-Feely

  Samantha Eliza Dawn was buck-naked and RayRay had his hands dangerously close to the part of her breasts her mama told her nobody but God, her mama, and her future husband should ever see. But, it wasn’t a sexual thing. RayRay was blind, and this was how he “saw” his subjects. His request to sculpt her had been innocent enough; all the students at SCAD had a final project due and naturally they all wanted to use Samantha as their subject. The furor the painting had caused now meant Sami’s face was all over every news report and internet news board. She knew it wasn’t her face that made Tayler’s painting so amazing… it was his talent that had brought to life such a beautiful piece.

  RayRay’s hands were covered in mud, and as he touched her it left light gray streaks on her. The effect made her look like an African warrior princess. She thought back to another life, when her father used to put his hands on her… not in love, but in a hurtful way. Remembering that period in her life always brought tears to her eyes. She wondered where her father was now. Same old trailer? Prison? Dead? Hell, she didn’t give a rat’s ass—

  “Hey, RayRay!” she chided, her thoughts interrupted by the blind sculptor’s hands drifting over her body. “Not the nips, bro. That’s a no-no.”

  “But, Samantha-san,” he protested, “to get it perfect I must feel them with my hands.”

  “I don’t think so, Mr. tweaky,” she said, “let’s just make that part up, shall we?”

  RayRay looked disappointed, but continued to move his hands around on her abdomen and alternately on the misshapen lump of clay in front of him.

  “So, RayRay,” Samantha said after she was satisfied he was staying clear from the off-limit parts of her body, “what do you think about this whole Tayler suicide business?”

  The sculptor stopped working for a second. He opened his mouth and closed it several times, considering his response. When he finally spoke, it was the voice of someone slightly choked up.

  “Samantha-san,” he started, “as someone who has faced severe depression, I have myself considered taking such a drastic step.”

  “RayRay,” she said, “I had no idea.”

  “Of course, you know that I am blind,” – he reached up and touched the dark glasses on his face – “but I wasn’t always so.” He cleared his throat and began to sculpt again. “When I realized my sight was going and the doctors confirmed I would eventually go completely blind,” he said, “I began getting depressed.”

  “I’m sorry, RayRay.”

  He shook his head. “It is okay now. I have become used to it, and I have turned it into a blessing, rather than a curse.”

  She sat silently as he worked.

  “But my point is,” he continued, “I was severely depressed and no one knew about it. I was able to hide it from everyone in the world… except one person.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Becky.”

  “Becky?” she said. “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “Samantha-san,” he said, “you heard the story of when Becky lost her friend in an avalanche?”

  “I know that, yeah.”

  “Well, when she first arrived at SCAD,” he said, “she was depressed as well. Severely so.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “The world of people around us, people that are generally happy, do not see the signs of depression.” RayRay stopped moving his hands on the clay for a second. “But those who have experienced it… we see it like a beacon in the night. Or we feel it, as clear as scalding hot water.”

  Samantha was quiet for a second. “So, what are you saying, RayRay?”

  “As sure as Becky saw my depression,” he said, “I saw hers.”

  The room filled with silence. The air conditioner made Samantha’s skin chill and rose goose bumps on her arms and legs.

  “Fortunately, SCAD saved us both,” RayRay continued, “as it became an outlet for us to express our feelings. We grew as artists and our depression subsided.”

  “So, what does that have to do with Tayler?”

  “I am no doctor, Samantha-san,” he said, “but Tayler was not depressed. I know what I am saying is not proof, but I would bet on it. He was not emotionally or chemically depressed. I am certain that I would have detected it… or perhaps Becky would have seen it, too.”

  Samantha brushed her hands up and down her arms. Maybe it wasn’t the cold causing her to feel a chill.

  “Okay…” she said finally, “does that mean he didn’t kill himself.”

  RayRay shrugged his shoulders. “I find that to be highly unlikely.”

  “Then, he was killed and it was made to look like a suicide,” she said.

  “Possibly.”

  She took a deep breath. She hadn’t planned to tell anyone about her meeting with Troy, because she felt as if the more people knew about her theory, the more likely it was that word would get out and the possible killer would be on to them.

  “I think it was Professor LeFleur,” she blurted out.

  “Yes, I know,” RayRay said matter-of-factly.

  “Wait… what?”

  “Oh, I apologize, Samantha-san,” he said, touching her back. “I overheard you talking to Mr. Troy.”

  Samantha was shocked. “Wait,” she asked, “you tellin’ me you were at the Fox?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you overheard me talkin’ to him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you didn’t say nothin’?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you, Samantha-San.”

  She was quiet for a second. “Are you tellin’ me I was that loud?” she asked.

  RayRay shook his head again. He tapped his ears and smiled.

  “No,” he said, “one of the… benefits, shall we say… of losing one’s sight, is that one’s hearing becomes sharper and more attuned.”

  “Oh,” Sami said.

  “And from the sound of it, I was sitting just two aisles across from you in a booth,” he said, “so it was not likely you could see me from your vantage point.”

  “You mean to tell me you heard all that from
a couple of aisles away?”

  “Yes,” RayRay shrugged, “it is a gift.”

  Samantha shivered again. “Why the hell’s it so damn cold in here, RayRay,” she asked.

  “Oh, I am sorry,” he said. “I sweat so much when I am working. I shall turn the air-conditioning down for you.” He stood up and tapped his way across the room to the thermostat.

  Samantha struggled to make sense of what she’d just found out. She’d had a meeting with Troy to tell him she thought Mortimer LeFleur was the killer, and RayRay had overheard them talking. But he hadn’t said anything about it. That seemed odd to her, but she couldn’t figure out why.

  “RayRay,” she said carefully, “why didn’t you say anything about that conversation I had with Troy?”

  “Oh, I started to,” he said, “but when I stood up to join you I thought I smelled Becky-san walk in. And… well, we all know how she feels about me.”

  “Wait…” Samantha was floored, “you smelled Becky walk in?”

  RayRay nodded. “Yes, another benefit of being sightless is that my sense of smell is more sensitive as well. I am basically SCAD’s version of a blind Spiderman.”

  “Okay, Peter Parker,” Samantha said and couldn’t help smiling, “but Becky wasn’t there with me. I never saw her.”

  “She could easily have been sitting a few tables away as well.”

  Sami thought about this. It was possible, but it seemed really unlikely she would’ve missed both RayRay and Becky.

  “So, when you say you smelled her…?”

  “Magnesium carbonate,” RayRay said, “and something floral.”

  “Huh?” Samantha asked, perplexed.

  “She always smells like magnesium carbonate and deodorant… probably Secret,” he said.

  “Okay, hold up.” Samantha held up an index finger, even though she knew RayRay couldn’t see it. “Two things: one, how’d you know what magnesium carbonate smells like? And two, why does Becky smell like it?”

  “Simple,” he said and shrugged, “I use magnesium carbonate to introduce magnesium into my glazes. It is good for strength and with very little shrinkage, unlike your breasts, Samantha-san.”