Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6)

by David F. Berens

  He lunged at her, and she thrust backward away from him. Her head, already suffering from a concussion, maybe two, banged against the steel commode. As she blacked out, she had two thoughts. First, she thought, I’m buying a helmet. Second was Florence … I knew I recognized her. She was Florence McCorker. She had met her once at a rally picnic serving beers in plastic cups to the potential supporters of Frank McCorker. What the hell had happened to her? And what the hell did he mean about sharing a grave with her? She blacked out before she could think about it anymore.

  26

  Bank On It

  Troy’s cell phone rang and he picked it up as he turned onto State Road heading toward the Black Dog Tavern and ultimately the dock behind it. He thought it might be Country calling again, but it turned out to be Michael.

  “Sorry, partner,” Michael said. “I was on the other line taking a call from your pal, Country.”

  Wow, that was some serious synchronicity, Troy thought.

  “Oh?”

  “Ah, yup. Apparently, he’s in need of a few extra hands on deck for his job today and decided a retired, out of shape, narcoleptic police officer was a good choice.”

  Michael laughed and Troy couldn’t help but join in.

  “Well, he’s already recruited a washed up, unemployed, homeless former soldier, so why not complete the pair?”

  Michael laughed again, “I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about on the boat ride.”

  “You mean all three of us will.”

  “Troy, you know I can’t be involved in this mess. Hell, I’m already getting stiffed on my pension. If something like this goes down and I’m involved, I’ll be shit out of luck.”

  “But you’d be a hero if you saved a young girl and stopped a corrupt politician running a drug and gun operation out of Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Son, with my narcolepsy, I’m not even legally supposed to ride a motorcycle at this point. Besides, I don’t have any doubt that you can handle Country on your own.”

  A long moment of silence hung between them.

  “Backup,” Troy said.

  Michael said nothing, the line still quiet. For a second, Troy wondered if the man had fallen asleep again.

  “Michael? Are you still there?”

  “Ah, yup. I’m here.”

  “If you didn’t hear me, I said—”

  “I heard what you said, Troy.” His voice was soft and stern, the jolly tone gone.

  “There’s a young woman in trouble,” Troy said. “I don’t have any problems doin’ this on my own, but I do know when things get rough, I could use some backup. And right now, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have at my six.”

  He could hear Michael taking in a long, slow breath. He gave the man a minute to digest it all.

  “He says he’s got somethin’ to get rid of,” he finally said. “If it’s Prosperity’s body, I’m gonna need help.”

  “Help doin’ what?”

  “Takin’ him in.”

  Michael huffed. “Country ain’t gonna let you take him in. Hell, you might have to shoot him.”

  “So be it.”

  The phone went silent again. Troy pulled the cruiser into the parking lot at the Black Dog Tavern.

  “Well, I’m here to meet him,” Troy said shutting the engine off. “If something happens to me, I’m putting the keys to your car up under the dash.”

  “Now, just hold on a second, Troy,” Michael protested. “I haven’t said no yet. If I do this, it’s gonna go down my way. I know how to deal with thugs like this and if I get involved, we aren’t moving to take him down alone.”

  “What’d you have in mind?”

  “If we discover he’s got the girl’s body, we let him dump it and think all is going like he’s planned.”

  “Okay.”

  “Then, you and I circle back around later and pull her up with the help of some officers I know from up Providence way. At that point, Country won’t have any reason to hide and we can bring the cavalry to take him in. Safer for all of us.”

  “I like the way that sounds.”

  “Of course you do, because it’s a damn good plan.”

  Troy laughed and was struck by how similar it sounded to Michael’s laugh.

  “Now, you keep old Santee busy so I’ll have time to get down there.. I’ll be a half hour or so. That way my boat will be there for us to take out after he brings us back in.”

  “Santee?”

  “Yeah, that’s Country’s real first name.”

  Something deep in Troy’s memory threatened to spark. He thought he had something important to remember, but he was interrupted by a sharp knocking on his window. There was Country grinning into his window.

  True to his word, Michael showed up and went straight to work helping Troy load the crates onto Country’s boat. Troy was sure that two of the crates were too heavy for guns. He nudged Michael and pointed to the two suspicious ones and tried to send a telepathic message for the white bearded man to check them out when he got a chance. The former police officer picked up immediately signaling back by laying a finger on the side of his nose.

  “Say, Country.” Michael patted the man on the shoulder. “How do you feel about me whipping up a batch of lemonades for us? We rum it up and have a real nice frame of mind for the sail.”

  Country eyed him suspiciously and Troy wondered if the old man had gone too far. He looked down at his watch and then back up at Michael.

  “Works for me, but hurry up.”

  Michael made a show of climbing off the boat, then patted his pockets. “Oh, crap. I seem to have left my wallet back home. You got some cash?”

  Country rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

  Troy spoke up quickly. “I’ll get it. I’ve got a few bucks.”

  “We’ll need ice, too.” Michael said, raising two fingers. “Two bags oughta do it.”

  “Fine,” Country said. “Troy, you get the fixins. I’ll get the ice. Old man, you stay in the boat and don’t let nobody go pokin’ around.”

  “Roger that,” Michael said, plopping down onto one of the crates.

  Troy and Country stepped off the boat and headed toward the tavern. Country dragged a big cooler around to the ice machine on the far side of the building. Troy disappeared inside.

  Michael watched out of the corner of his eye until he saw Country disappear around the building. He knew he had seconds to get inside the crates and see what was inside. He jumped up from the crate he was sitting on—one of the ones Troy had indicated seemed suspicious. There were four metal clasps holding the top on. He flipped them one by one and tugged. It didn’t budge. He examined the lid and realized it had been nailed shut at the corners. He pulled out his pocket knife and was able to wedge one corner up enough to get his fingers under it. He looked up again, and seeing no sign of Country, jerked the top up and off. Inside, he found bundles of drugs. Gotta be a million dollars worth or more, he thought. A crap-ton of blow. He put the top back on the box and used his shoe to get the nails more or less back into their holes.

  He moved to the second crate and opened it up. Inside this box were the guns. AK-47’s. At least thirty of them. They looked ragged and worn and no care had been used in packing them. These were budget rifles most likely headed for a terrorist cell or third world army.

  “So, we are lookin’ at a pretty good sized drop here,” he muttered to himself as he put the top back on.”

  He went to work on the third box and finally found what Troy was looking for—the body. The woman was dressed for sailing, and at first Michael couldn’t tell how she had died. One thing was pretty clear though, this wasn’t the young girl Troy had told him about. This woman, whoever she was, lay face down, bent in half, her gray hair matted around her head. Michael reached into the box and pulled her up by her shoulders. Her head hung limp and her jaw flopped at a strange angle. She’d been beat up pretty bad. It only took him a second to realized he knew the woman from all
the television coverage of the election. Florence McCorker—soon to become gubernatorial first lady. Wife of Frank McCorker.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Michael breathed.

  The shock of seeing the politician’s dead wife stuffed into a crate triggered an ill-timed but unavoidable narcoleptic episode. Michael Banks slumped over asleep just as Country climbed into the boat.

  27

  Cat And Mouse

  Troy returned to the boat to find Country sitting in the captain’s chair chewing on a straw. The late afternoon sun shaded the crates that had been shoved into new positions under benches around the back of the boat. He saw no sign of Michael. His pulse jumped up to full tilt panic speed. Had something gone wrong?

  “Michael up and bailed out on us,” Country said. “You know how to make that there lemonade he makes?”

  “Bailed out?” Troy asked. “Why?”

  “Don’t rightly know.” Country shrugged his shoulders. “Said something about havin’ a bad taste in his mouth about what was goin’ on here or whatever. I told him it weren’t exactly church work. I s’pose he got a bad case of the morals or something.”

  Troy thought about it for a second. That sounded like Michael. Then again, he doubted the man would leave him behind.

  “Dang,” Troy said, trying to play along. “Can’t believe he left us hanging like that.”

  Country sniffed. “I ain’t worried about it. I got a call into a buddy who can come help us.”

  Troy did not like the sound of that. With Michael around, it was two against one. With Country’s friend around, it was still two against one, but the wrong side had the advantage. His mind raced trying to figure out a way to get off the boat and get out of here without making Country suspicious.

  “You wanna skip this trip and wait until we can get more hands on deck?” Troy asked.

  “Nah, we’re good.” He looked at his cell phone. “I’m bettin’ Jed will call in a minute.”

  Jed. That rang a bell in Troy’s mind. Jed Manning had been the name of the officer who announced the APB on Troy. Was it the same Jed?

  “Yeah, but if he doesn’t, what say we save our strength for another time?”

  Country stood up and pointed a finger at Troy’s chest. “You’ll do exactly as I say or you ain’t gettin’ in on the big score.”

  “Big score?”

  He eased back into the captain’s chair and sniffed. “I wasn’t really gonna let you in on this just yet, but the next job is a big one. Big enough that everyone will be in on the take. After overhead expenses and such, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But if we don’t get this drop made today, I won’t be in charge of that next job and you’ll be off it too.”

  A voice called over from the dock. “Hey, Country. You forgot your change. Unless you were leavin’ me a tip.”

  “Ah, shit,” he said, tossing his chewed up straw aside. “Hell, you know that ain’t no tip, Gerald. It was a damn hundred. I’ll be right over. You just keep that change handy.”

  He shuffled past Troy to get off the boat, then turned and put a finger on Troy’s chest. Troy suppressed the urge to snap it in half.

  “You keep your ass right here, you hear? I need eyes on them crates at all times.”

  Troy nodded, thinking he’d definitely keep his eyes on them. He was almost certain one of them had Prosperity’s body in it. He decided he’d have a quick look. If she was there, he was going to take this punk down, backup or not.

  “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Country said, exiting the boat.

  When he was sure Country was far enough away, Troy dialed Michael’s number three times on his phone to get his side of the story, but it went to voicemail every time. He flipped it shut and went back to the crates. He wasted no time pulling out the first crate. He undid the latches and found the lid was nailed shut. It was loose though, and the lid came off with barely a struggle. Inside, he saw stacks and stacks of guns laid haphazardly in the box with no protective foam or packaging at all. He closed the lid and checked the second box. Drugs. Whole bunch of drugs.

  When he got the lid back on the box with the packages of white powder, he glanced up at footsteps clomping down the dock. Dangit. Country was back. Troy shuffled back away from the box, sure that the man had seen him. But he was on his cell phone and talking to someone in an agitated voice.

  “I done told you,” Country was saying into his phone. “I cain’t lift nothin’ on account of my balls. Yeah. They’re still bleeding pretty good.”

  Troy felt his eyebrow arch, but quickly looked away, pretending to ignore the conversation.

  “Yes. I did have two helpers, but one is … well, he ain’t available to help no more. Let’s say he got cold feet.”

  That didn’t exactly sound like Michael, but Troy had no way of really knowing what had happened.

  “Uh huh. Three boxes of…” He glanced at Troy then turned his back to him. “Contraband. Uh huh. Exactly. Nah. Just out to the sandbar again. I cain’t reach Jed, but I’m bettin’ he’ll be good to go tomorrow at the latest.”

  The half of the conversation that he could hear almost had Troy convinced that this was indeed just a drug and gun drop. He began to think that maybe his imagination was running away from him. Maybe Prosperity was locked up somewhere, and Country was actually just recruiting muscle to make his deliveries. But if that was the case, where was she? Country clicked his phone off and tossed it on the boat’s dashboard.

  “Well, dude,” he said. “Looks like you got yer wish. Ain’t no way we can deliver today. With only you and me, we ain’t got the manpower to offload them boxes. Tomorrow’s as soon as we can get it done. You available?”

  “Reckon I could be. What time?”

  “I’m thinkin’ after lunch. If I ain’t heard from Jed by then, I’ll grab somebody else.”

  “Cool.” He glanced over at the Black Dog Tavern. “I reckon I’m gonna have a beer or two while I’m here. You in?”

  “Nah,” Country said, shaking his head. “I gotta check in on somethin’ tonight.”

  Alarm bells went off in Troy’s head. He was going to check on Prosperity, he was sure of it. He had her trapped somewhere and had to take her water, or food, or maybe neither. Maybe he was going to kill her and get her body stuffed into a crate for tomorrow. He made up his mind to follow Country and save the girl.

  “Alright then,” he said. “Catch you later.”

  He walked into the bar and watched from the window as Country went to his truck and tore out of the parking lot. Troy jogged to Michael’s cruiser and hopped in to follow the man.

  And in a dark room in the bottom of Country’s boat, a man who looked like Santa Claus snored soundly away to the rocking waves.

  “Shit, Jed,” Country hollered into his cell phone. “Where the hell are you? You’re gonna cost me this job. Now, call me back when you get this.”

  He slammed his phone down into the passenger’s seat and stomped on the pickup truck’s sluggish accelerator. Piece a junk, he thought. When all this is through, I’m buyin’ a damn Maserati.

  Jed Manning listened to the rabid hillbilly yelling into his voicemail inbox and couldn’t help but shake his head. He deleted the message and dialed another number. He put the phone to his ear and caught sight of himself in the rearview mirror. He jerked it toward his face and admired his perfectly shaped, exquisitely waxed, thick as Tom Selleck’s mustache. He’d been working on it for years, and truly, it couldn’t be beat by any of the road cops at the MVPD.

  He’d started it five years ago when he’d been busted down from detective for getting mixed up in that stupid lawsuit with the underage stripper out at the Tail Spinner club. How the hell was he supposed to know she was only fifteen? Chick had the biggest boobs he’d ever seen on a girl that age.

  Lucky for him though, Boonesborough had used his legal connections to get him the best lawyer in the country for such cases. They let him off with a reprimand, but it had force
d the department to bust him back down to a street beat. In return for Boonesborough’s generosity in providing the lawyer, Jed had agreed to run a smoke screen operation for the deals the McCorker campaign was running just off shore. Any time a call came in, Jed could request the case and make it disappear. Sometimes, he’d come back with a miniscule amount of heroin or cocaine or maybe a rifle or two and the department would celebrate his big bust. No one ever suspected they had started the biggest cartel East of the Mississippi—the Sharks.

  McCorker also promised that if he was elected, he would pull all the necessary strings to get him promoted back to detective or find him a suitable cabinet post. Either way, he was keeping the mustache. All the dancers at the club liked to rub their bodies all over it. He was going to have to cut down on that though. He’d picked up something in his nether regions in the past week. He felt the tingle turn into fire and he couldn’t help but scratch.

  A familiar voice picked up on the fourth ring. “Go ahead, Jed.”

  “Hello, Buff,” he said. “Hey, Country is calling me to help him with this drop thing. I think he’s done the thing with the girl and maybe has her stuffed into a crate.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So, do you want me to help or stay clear?”

  “Actually, I do want you to help,” Buff said. “The girl is still alive, but he has someone else. Someone whose disappearance we absolutely cannot be connected with or the whole damn thing will implode.”

  “Oh?”

  “Can I trust you with this, Jed?”

  “One hundred percent, sir.”

  Jed liked to imagine that Buff was his general in this fight for the Governor’s mansion. He actually enjoyed taking orders from the man.

  “Good. Now, listen because I’m not going to repeat any of this.”

  It was a secure, burner phone, but the more vague their communications were, the less likely a leak could happen.