Chesney took the bags. “Thanks, Paul.”
“You betcha,” the paramedic said and shook hands with him. “Letcha know when we’ve got more for ya.”
He closed the back of the ambulance and they drove away, leaving the crime scene in eerie silence.
Chesney was baffled by the USB drive. He’d have someone in the lab get all the data from that and log that into evidence later. He held up the bag with the wallet in it. Protruding out of the wallet’s cash pocket, he saw a piece of paper, waterlogged and almost transparent. The ink was faint, but still legible. He held it up in the sunlight and could read most of what was printed on it.
Lee’s Inlet Kitchen
Clam Chowder Ap-Bowl$5.95
Iced Tea$2.50
Pch Cobbler – A la Mode$6.95
Sub$15.40
Tax$ .93
Amount$16.33
Gratuity$25.00
Total$41.33
Rick had scrawled in what appeared to be a twenty-five-dollar tip and scribbled his name at the bottom. Seems a bit excessive, Chesney thought. Under the signature, it had the restaurant’s address, phone number, date, time and server’s name, a Georgiana S.
Ah, I see. Chesney knew Georgiana Starlington; anyone who had been to Lee’s knew Georgiana. It seemed everyone in town was infatuated with the restaurant’s young waitress. In a town where the female wait staff tended to be transient at best, she’d been there for quite a while now. Not one of the typical “blonde bimbo” types either; more “girl-next-door”, and that was indeed rare around here.
Georgiana did have mildly curly, dirty blonde hair, but usually she had it pulled back in a messy braid or ponytail. Not too flashy, not too plain. She was probably five or six years out of college and had come to Pawleys with some kind of typical university degree that had led to… yup, you guessed it: bartending. She was definitely a cute girl; Chesney felt his eyebrows rise. Would definitely have to question her about— His thought was interrupted by the sound of an ‘89 Lincoln Towncar door opening.
“Please tell me I haven’t wasted two hours of my life sittin’ in my car out here watchin’ the Pawleys Island C.S.I. poke around,” the D.A. said, his voice contentious at best, snotty at worst. “I’m leavin’ today for a week in the Hamptons and I don’t want to be late.”
“You have anything at all for me, Deputy?” Winchester spread his ill-fitting suit jacket apart and put his hands on his expansive waistline.
Chesney opened the door to his cruiser and without skipping a beat, reached into his shirt pocket and flipped open his sunglasses.
In his best David Caruso voice, he said, “Hairre today…” Pausing for effect, he put his sunglasses on. “… gone tomorrow.”
6
Guts for Garters
Darren “The Body” McGlashen slumped down into a crusty, duct-taped recliner in the back of a dark, mostly empty storage unit in a dark, mostly empty parking lot behind a cheesy tourist trap store called Balls—as in beach balls.
He was a scrawny guy; thus, the nickname must’ve been one of those obvious “opposite” nicknames, like calling the biggest guy Tiny or calling a really slow guy Flash. The recliner squalled and creaked under even his emaciated frame and noticeably sagged to one side.
Another man, giant and heavily tattooed, stood by the steel door peering out into the night. He chewed nervously on a McDonald’s drink straw. His arms were sleeves of skulls and flames and tribal markings… no smiley faces or peace signs anywhere to be seen. In his back pocket, he’d stuffed two knit toboggans with eye and mouth holes roughly cut into them. Under his belt buckle, he’d stuffed a small .38 caliber pistol. The pearl handle had dark gelatinous blood in the grooves.
“Well, that didn’t go well at all now, did it, mate?” Darren asked the nervous man by the door.
“Nah.”
“Boss ain’t gonna like it none.”
“Nah.”
Darren rubbed his thumbs into his temples. “Will ya shut up and lemme think, mate?”
The other man said nothing.
Darren stood up and kicked his boot against the side of the recliner. It cracked and groaned and one leg apparently rocked its last. The heavy chair lurched forward and fell on his right foot.
“Aw, shit!!” he cried.
“Will you bloody well keep it down?” the tattooed man shushed him.
“Christ, the damn things broken my toe!” Darren tugged at his ankle. “Get it off me, mate!”
The tattooed man shrugged, and mumbled, “Stupid as a two-bob watch.”
He reached down and lifted the front of the recliner, and Darren shrieked.
“Shit, shit, shit, stop!”
“What the hell?”
“Put it down!!”
The big man dropped the recliner and Darren screamed again.
“If you don’t shut your trap, mate, I’m gonna shut it for you!”
“Damn, it’s cuttin’ me, it’s cuttin’ me,” Darren whimpered.
“Oh, for shit’s sake.” he spat, and grabbed the front end of the recliner and heaved it backward against the storage unit wall. The metal clang almost drowned out the sound of The Body’s scream.
In what appeared to him as slow motion, Darren saw the chair fly up and off his foot, followed by ripped pieces of shoe and his grossly severed first three toes. Blood spurted from the stubs and he screamed again before fainting.
When he came to, he was back in the recliner and the tattooed man was back at the door. He was relieved to see that the man had apparently removed what was left of his shoe and tied a makeshift tourniquet around the ball of his foot with his own sock and remnants of the duct tape from the recliner.
“Toes?” Darren croaked. “Gotta get to a hospital, mate. They can stitch ‘em up good.”
The huge man nodded out into the night. “Tossed ‘em.”
“Shit.”
Darren could see the blood oozing through the sock and thought he might need to put some Neosporin or antiseptic or something on the… wounds. He reached down and gently massaged the upper part of his foot above what was left of his toes. It ached like hell and he could feel his pulse throbbing in and out of the arch of his foot.
“They were smashed and useless anyhow.”
“S’truth,” Darren mumbled. “But shit, mate, shoulda at least lemme toss ‘em.”
“Boss ain’t gonna care about them toes, he’s gonna cut the rest off anyhow if we don’t get that check back.” The tattooed man looked back at Darren.
“You dumped him?”
Nod.
“Can’t be found?”
Nod.
“Good. Then we gotta retrace our steps and find that damn check or the boss’ll have our guts for garters.
Nod.
7
Geaux Tigers!
Troy walked into his bungalow, dropped his keys and his knife onto the dining room table, and collapsed on his futon couch. His head ached and his knee was a knot of pain. He took the straw hat off his head and tossed it onto the arm of the futon. Water from his shorts dripped onto the well-worn wooden floor.
“Shit,” he muttered, looking at the growing puddle of saltwater.
He limped into the bathroom and grabbed a towel. His cheekbones were a little red and the sun had given him a raccoon tan line around his Costas. He gingerly touched the bump on the back of his head, and felt a tiny gash, but no blood came off on his fingertips… so, no stitches necessary. He stripped off the khaki shorts and threw them over the shower rod to dry and wrapped a white towel around his waist.
Beer, he thought, and a nap… and some ice on this dang knee. As he popped the top off a Corona, a timid knock came at his beachside door.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” he muttered, “What now?”
He tossed the cap in the sink and slid the bottle opener onto the counter. He took a long gulp and thought; damn a lime would be terrific right now.
He set the beer down on the di
ning room table next to his keys and knife and tucked the towel around his waist a little tighter. It was a dollar store towel; white, scratchy and just a bit smaller than it needed to be.
He glanced through the blinds on the door, but the sun was dazzling and he couldn’t really tell who was standing there. He opened the door and suddenly realized his state of undress. Standing on his porch, mouth agape, was a young girl holding a wet LSU baseball cap… his LSU baseball cap.
She was pretty, probably college age, brown hair with a tasteful amount of auburn red highlights, big green eyes, slim, but with an athletic build. She was wearing a two-piece bikini with a coral bottom and a teal… no, a sea foam top. Her skin was tan and slightly red as if she’d come straight from the beach, but she was dry and clean and smelled like Herbal Essence shampoo… something with coconut in it. A sheer wrap was draped around her hips.
The girl’s eyes flitted from his chest to his towel and back up to his eyes.
“Yes, can I help you, darlin’?” Troy asked.
“I um… I… well… uh…”
The girl was visibly trembling and her pupils were dilated. Dang college girl all hopped up on pills. He’d seen enough of that back in Vegas to know the telltale signs.
He nodded toward her hand. “My hat?”
“Uh huh,” she grunted and held out the cap.
“Yeah… cool,” he said, reaching for it.
Her grip didn’t quite let go when he grabbed it. His thumb briefly brushed her hand and he thought she might faint. Her eyelashes fluttered wildly and she seemed to snap out of a daze. She let go of the hat and smiled.
“You’re welcome,” she cooed sweetly.
All in all, quite an attractive picture; too bad she was all hopped up on some new club candy she’d probably picked up on South Beach.
“Well… um… thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said in exactly the same tone she’d used before.
He shrugged his shoulders and closed the door in her face. He shook the dampness out of his LSU hat and slipped it over his drying hair. He looked back at the door. Through the blinds over the front door window he could see the girl was still standing outside. Poor thing was probably stoned out of her gourd.
He wondered idly if he should call the police, but then another thought crossed his mind; how had she known it was his hat? He replayed the morning’s events and came to the conclusion that she must’ve seen the whole boat incident. Had she seen him steal the cowboy hat? That settles that, he thought, no police.
He squinted at the girl’s blank face through the partially closed slats on his front door… but what if she goes to the police? And does what? Reports a stolen cowboy hat?
He glanced over his shoulder to see the straw hat precariously balanced on one of the futon’s wooden armrests. The cool ocean breeze drifting through his open windows teetered it back and forth… beckoning him.
Well that certainly didn’t go anything like I had planned, thought Karah Campobello as the door politely closed in her face. She stood on his front porch in a daze.
God, he’d been so stunningly good-looking she’d frozen up when he opened the door. It was probably the fact that his tan chest was still dripping with salty water and his waist was barely wrapped in a beach towel.
He’d taken off the cowboy hat and sunglasses (and his khaki shorts) and put on a towel that exposed a fresh tan line… and a glimpse of a script tattoo on his waist that read, Geaux Tigers! She’d been right; his eyes (framed by a slight raccoon tan line) were an amazingly deep ocean blue. She caught herself starting to drool and snapped out of her trance.
She tried to think of an excuse to knock and start again, but nothing came to mind.
“Dammit, Karah,” she muttered, “think!”
As she stood there, she realized she could see him through the blinds on the door’s square window. Suddenly, she felt very much like a Peeping Tom, or Peeping Sally, as it were. Instantly, she crouched down to hide herself from the window… and immediately regretted it.
She wondered how many people strolling up and down the beach had witnessed her odd behavior. So, she turned toward the ocean, sat down, stretched out her legs and pretended to belong on the porch.
She cringed when she heard the door open behind her. Surprisingly, the man (now wearing the LSU cap) sat down beside her. He had his hat tipped back and his sunglasses hanging from green Vineyard Vines Croakies around his neck again. He held two open Coronas.
“Beer?” he asked and held one out for her. “I’d offer you a lime,” he said with a smile, “but they went bad last week.”
Karah took the beer andtook a long drink. It was ice cold. A few grains of sand bit her lip in a way that made it taste like the best beer she’d ever had.
“I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing sitting on your porch?”
“Yeah, somethin’ like that.” He sipped his beer. “Kinda strange, really.”
She grimaced. “I know it’s a little creepy (he nodded) but I just saw you lose your hat and it washed up to my dock and I thought it’d be a good way to get to meet you and—”
“So,” he interrupted her, “you’re not all jacked up on pills or speed or somethin’ are ya?”
She crinkled her nose. “Huh? What? Ha! No!”
He visibly relaxed and laughed, and Karah smiled her best million-megawatt smile. “I guess I did sound a little crazy, huh?”
“That ya did, that ya did.”
She slapped her hand to her forehead and laughed. “Ugh… I’m sorry.”
“Next time,” he said, flashing his own Tom Cruise-esque grin, “just knock on my door.”
They sat in silence for a moment with the waning sunlight and the briny breeze blowing across the porch.
“Troy,” he said simply and held out his palm.
“Karah,” she said shaking his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Karah.” He stood up and wagged his empty beer bottle. “Another?”
She nodded and handed him her dead soldier.
“Cool.” He tilted his head upward. “Let’s have these on the roof and catch a killer sunset.”
Now this, she thought, is a little more like it.
8
Georgiana On My Mind
Georgiana Starlington was more than a little tired when she walked into Lee’s Inlet Kitchen this morning. It’d been a long night of bartending at Drunken Jack’s and after work she’d been coerced into having a few more fruity-umbrella drinks with her cousin.
“Just one more!” her college aged cousin had yelled. “Woooohooooo!!”
And one more had inevitably turned into four… or maybe it’d been five more… before they crashed for the night.
The breakfast crowd was shuffling in, booths and tables filling with old salty dog fisherman types getting ready to hit the sea up for its daily bounty. Some smoked while they ate and Georgiana thought hazily that she might’ve even smoked a cigarette last night.
She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. Not as young as you used to be, girl, she thought.
She dropped her things into a locker in the back, pulled on her apron, grabbed two plates and hurried out to the dining room.
As she put the breakfast specials in front of two white-haired men, she found her smile and tried to brighten her voice to match. “Good morning, boys,” she said and winked at one of them. Neither replied, and just nodded thanks and started to eat.
Yikes, she thought, I must look worse than I thought. The two men, who she knew as Whitey and Felton, were usually quite chatty. Whitey just stared at his newspaper and Felton smiled a little, but she could see it was just to be polite.
She was about to ask what was wrong, but as she did the bell on the front screen door dinged and a police officer walked in… they often ate here before their morning shifts.
Grabbing a menu, she ushered the officer toward a seat at the bar. As he sat, Martha, behind the counter, shoved a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him.
‘I—” he started, but Martha interrupted.
“Two plates up, Laura-honey.”
“Martha!” Georgiana snapped back at the older lady behind the bar. “Who’s going to get the plates?”
Martha silently mouthed the word sorry and spoke louder. “Two plates up, GEORGIANA.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said and headed back to the kitchen.
Georgiana Starlington was actually not her real name. After years of experience with stalkers and crazy guys, she’d learned never to use her real name when she was serving, daytime or night. Laura-Kate was the name given by her mother when she was born, but there were very few people who knew her by that name.
She’d chosen Georgiana to remind her of the last few years she spent with her mom in the Tanner Hospital in Carrollton, Georgia before the cancer took her away. After she graduated from the University of West Georgia with a bachelor’s in Environmental Science, she packed a suitcase with her most prized possessions (some clothes and a couple of books) and drove east, all the way to the coast. She’d thought finding work in her field would be an easy thing to do, given the current administration’s fervor over the environment, but apparently, everyone else had thought that too. So, bartending and serving paid the bills… for now.
It was a crazy morning at the Inlet Kitchen that never let up. Through lunch until two-thirty, Georgiana never got a break and never had anything to eat herself. Her hangover had become a throbbing headache, and threatened to sideline her for her dinner shift and late night bartending at Drunken Jack’s if she didn’t get something in her stomach. She pulled her apron off, put in an order for some clam chowder, and poured herself a sweet iced tea.
She slid into a seat at the bar next to the police officer that had come in earlier.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 4