“Number one, who the hell are you?” she demanded, dropping the pastry. “Number two, what the hell are you doing in my house?”
The man grinned, exposing a few gaps in his mouth where teeth had once been. He lurched toward her and she took a step back.
He feigned sadness. “Ah, now c’mon sweetness. You don’t recognize me?”
Her mind flashed back to the night before at Drunken Jack’s. It was the vomit dude who’d gotten into the brawl with the frat guys. What the hell was he doing here? His pretended frown disappeared, replaced with a maniacal, Cheshire-cat-like smile. He lunged at her again, this time getting even closer to swiping his oozing hand across her shirt.
She clicked the phone open. “Stop right there! I’m calling the police.”
“Yeah, that ain’t happnin’, chicky.”
With impossible quickness, the man lunged at Laura and knocked the phone out of her hand before she could hit send. It clattered across the floor and through the open door to the stairs, and Laura heard it thunking down out of reach. She turned to run, but he grabbed her shirt. It tore a little, but didn’t rip through. He had her. He was reaching behind his waist and she saw the glint of metal flash from the barrel of a pistol.
She threw an elbow behind her high and felt it connect with his face. She heard a disgusting crunch and felt like she was hitting the open half of an orange. His grip loosened and he howled.
“Thet’s mah good eye, ya fookin’ bitch!”
Laura didn’t look to see, and instead just jumped for the open door. She bounded through and reached for the knob just as the man was recovering and giving chase. She jerked the door closed as hard as she could and just before it slammed shut, the man reached his hand through. But it was too late, as Laura had pulled with all her might and she saw blood spurt out of the man’s fingers as the door banged hard on them. The top of what might’ve been his middle finger snapped completely off and skittered past her. Ugh, gross, she thought. He yelped like a wild dog from behind the door.
“Shit!! Not mah good hand!”
Laura was already bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time pausing only for a second at the bottom of the stairs to retrieve the cell phone that had jumped away from her in the scuffle. She hopped into Karah’s Land Rover and suddenly realized she had no keys. She must’ve dropped them back in the house. She heard the man beating on the door and screaming even louder. She jumped out of the car and sprinted out into the street kicking up gravel with every step. She ran straight into the arms of another man who was obviously the weasel guy’s accomplice. Without thinking, she pulled back a tightly grasped fist to punch the man.
“WHOA there little darlin’!”
Laura gasped out her breath and let her fist drop. She was looking at the bluest lensed Costa sunglasses wrapped around the bearded face of a ruddy-skinned man. On top of his head was a straw cowboy hat with a peacock feather stuck in it.
“Troy?!”
“That’s right, and you are?”
She didn’t answer; she just grabbed his hand and jerked him away from her house down the street.
“I’m Laura. Listen, someone’s got Karah,” she said, panting and running as hard as she could. “Kidnappers or something.”
“What the hell?” Troy was doing his best to keep up, but his legs ached a little from the long ride and the walk.
“There’s a man in there,” Laura said, jerking her head back toward her house. “A drunk from DJ’s last night. I think he’s got Karah.”
“A drunk? In Rick’s house?”
“How do you know my father?”
“Your father?”
“Well, my stepfather.”
“Doesn’t everybody know him?”
That was true. Laura looked back, but saw no sign of the creepy man who’d been in her house. When they reached the driveway of the next house, she jerked him toward the car park underneath. A small Chevy S10 pickup truck sat lonely in one of the parking spots. She wondered if anyone was home.
“We can probably break in here and lay low,” she said and pulled Troy up the stairs to the door.
“No need to break in,” he said.
“What? Why?”
He held up his hand, dangling a key chain with two keys and a rabbit’s foot on it. “Cause, I got a key.”
25
Follow The Money
Chesney Biggins blew on his overfull coffee and slurped a whipped cream sip into his mouth, slightly burning the tip of his tongue. Dammit, that’ll hurt for a week. He took another sip, careful to blow on it a little more before drinking it.
Todd had radioed him off of the St. Francis hospital run; apparently all the trouble makers had gone. So, there was nothing to do now but chill on the side of the highway and wait for the next call.
He parked his cruiser under a clump of Palmetto trees and slid his coffee into the cup holder, careful not to spill any.
He opened his laptop and a screen popped up showing a deposit slip. Remembering where he was, he pulled out his yellow pad and scribbled some new notes as he examined the files on the zip drive.
Check out deposit slip at GKCU.
He closed the .jpg of the slip and clicked on the file labeled TCWEdPro.pdf. A two-thousand four-hundred and twelve page document opened. At the top in bold letters were the words:
Tourism Conservation and Wetland Education Project
Chesney had remembered hearing something about that, but he had no idea what it was all about. Under the title in smaller text:
Author: Marianne Deckerton
Co-Author: Rick Hairre
Interesting, he thought as he scrolled down through the document. Wetlands, blah blah blah, richest biodiversity, blah blah blah, sustainable development, blah blah blah… it went on and on with every environmental buzzword Chesney had ever heard packed into a completely unreadable paper.
He scrolled faster, not even reading the words and hoping something would stand out. Just as he was about to close the document, feeling there was nothing to be learned there, he saw a table of financials. It looked to be what the authors considered a reasonable estimate of what the requested grant should be for this project.
There were seven major headings and about a bazillion smaller headings under those. The larger headings were things like: building environmental awareness, providing direct financial incentives for environmental protection, and minimization of tourism’s environmental impact.
Each line had a number attached to it. Chesney gathered that this was the proposed amount they were requesting for that portion of the project. The bottom line was $7,000,000. Chesney whistled through his teeth. Seems like a lot of dough to protect the wetlands for tourists. He wondered why the government wasn’t footing the bill, but then of course, the environment wasn’t on the top of anyone’s political list right at the moment. He clicked through the last few pages of the .pdf and finally got to the clincher. The last page was literally stamped DENIED in huge red letters and several signatures from different offices in Washington gave their name to the denial.
Chesney picked up his coffee and leaned back. What the heck does all this have to do with anything?
He wondered if there was anything significant enough in the project to warrant a murder. Doesn’t seem likely. Government grants were boring business and were denied all the time. No one would be murdered for such things. And in the grand scheme of the trillion dollar deficits, seven million dollars seemed like small change.
Chesney clicked the file closed and sighed. “No help there.”
He clicked the next file - IMG_4833.jpg. Chesney blinked in surprise, as it was a picture of Laura. But it wasn’t a personal snapshot that someone would take of their step-daughter; it looked like a surveillance photograph. She was clearly unaware the picture was being taken. Chesney recognized the photograph’s surroundings as the outside of Lee’s Inlet Kitchen—where Laura worked during the day.
“What the hell is going on here?” Chesney
muttered and took another sip of coffee.
We’ve got a deposit of half a million going to a random account, a denied grant for some kind of ecological tourism project, and a picture of Laura. It felt like a puzzle with pieces that didn’t look the same or fit together. Chesney was baffled.
He opened the last file - VNHSBC002-08171971-47.pdf, and warning bells began to go off in his head. It was a .pdf of a cashier’s check. As he looked at it, he still didn’t know how all the pieces fit together, but he knew something sinister was going on.
Oddly, the cashier’s check did not have a payee listed, that blank was… well… blank. The guarantor of the check was CPM via The Traditional Department of The Interior of South Carolina. And the coup-de-grace… it was made out for you guessed it: Seven. Million. Dollars. Chesney sat his coffee down and looked out the windshield of his cruiser.
“What the hell… ” He tapped his finger on the side of the laptop.
A thought snapped into his head and he looked back at the list of files. Deposit slip for half a mil, but no deposit slip for the seven million. He looked at the date… shit, one week before Rick was found. Something that sounded like a bad episode from one of those cop shows began to form in Chesney’s mind.
We got a councilman denied for an eco-tourism whatever grant, an un-deposited cashier’s check for the exact amount of the grant from some bureaucratic foundation, a half a million deposited somewhere… and a picture of the dead guy’s step daughter.
He scratched his chin. “Where the hell’s that check?” he finally said out loud.
Another thought struck him and he opened a browser. He tapped out The Traditional Department of The Interior of South Carolina and a few thousand hits came up that had nothing to do with the actual company. Wikipedia had an interesting line buried among some official sounding jargon: The Traditional Department of The Interior of South Carolina is associated with being a front for money laundering.
Wait… what?
He searched for CPM… 177,000,000 entries. Dammit. He added South Carolina. 461,000 results. Better. He tacked on environment and in quotes “The Traditional Department of The Interior of South Carolina.” 9,975 hits and there it was at the top: CPM—Consolidated Paper Mill.
“What are you up to, CPM?” he muttered as he clicked the link.
A very bland page with a bunch of jargon that described the goings on at the paper mill in stale outdated language popped up. He clicked around and almost left the page before a thought hit him. He hovered over the “About Us” tab and a dropdown appeared: Mission Statement/Company History/Board of Directors.
He clicked Board of Directors and gasped. There at the top was a picture of a man with close-cropped white hair, a goatee that was peppered with grey, and small, circular glasses propped low on his nose. Underneath the photograph was the caption: Victor Böhring – CEO and Owner.
“Oh. My. God.” Chesney opened a window and searched Victor Böhring, Pawleys Island. A property deed popped up from fifteen years ago with an address to a beach house on Pawleys. He dropped the laptop and slammed his cruiser into gear. His tires scattered gravel as he squealed onto the road.
The goon Laura had served at Drunken Jack’s had been carrying this man’s credit card… maybe it wasn’t stolen. Maybe this guy was a hired thug. This was getting deep—deeper than his pay grade.
He picked up his personal cell and clicked through the contacts. He found John Dodd Welford and pushed call.
After exactly two rings, a vague voicemail answered, as any secure line phone call would. Chesney left a quick message. “John, it’s me, Ches. Call me back as soon as you get this. I think I’m on to something big here in Pawleys… maybe a homicide. Something above local jurisdiction. I need a fed’s eyes on this. Check out Victor Böhring and give me a call.”
He hung up the phone and accelerated. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought Laura was in danger. He opened her contact screen and clicked call again. Chesney cursed as he remembered her phone was stolen. Of course, it went straight to voicemail.
“Shit,” he said, turned on his lights, and sped up.
26
Don’t Eat No Yellow Snow
Daisy Mae Gallup held little baby Troy, er… little baby Darren… in her arms. He was nursing and alert. He had a messy shock of almost black hair on top of his head and his eyes were dark too.
“Dangit if he don’t look like Troy,” she said, stroking the top of his head.
“I know it,” Ellie Mae said from the chair beside the bed, “I cain’t believe he ain’t.”
“That’s alright though,” —Daisy Mae switched the baby to her other breast— “his new daddy, Darren, is gon’ take care of us better’n that loser anyhow.”
“You betchur ass he is!”
“When they gonna let us outta here?” Daisy Mae jerked her thumb toward the call button. “This here baby needs ta see his daddy.”
“Jus’ cool yer jets, sis,” Ellie Mae said, and held up her hands palms facing her sister. “They gotta make sure little baby Darren is truckin’ along jus’ fine and dandy afor they let us outta here.”
“It’s a dang prison!” Daisy Mae groaned.
The baby turned his head away from the breast and nuzzled into her arms to take a nap.
“It ain’t that bad, Daisy.” Ellie Mae rolled her eyes. “If everythin’ looks okay, they’ll probly let us go tomorrow mornin’.”
“Tomorrow mornin’?”
“Yup, that’s what they said.”
“I cain’t spend another night in here drinkin’ that apple juice crap they keep bringin’ me!” Daisy Mae slapped a small paper cup off the lunch tray sitting next to her.
“Oh, come on now,” Ellie Mae said and reached down to retrieve the cup, “it ain’t that bad.”
“I need a Pepsi.”
“What?”
“Go down to the cafeteria and get me a Pepsi.” Daisy Mae pointed at her forehead. “I got a ragin’ headache and a Pepsi’s all that’s good for it.”
“I don’t think yer ‘posed ta have any caffeine,” Ellie Mae said and picked up the nurse call button and started to push it. “I’ll find out for ya.”
“If you push ‘at button, I’m gone come up outta this bed and clobber you.”
Ellie Mae dropped the button and snorted. “You couldn’t stand up, let alone catch me right now. Whatchu gone do?”
Daisy Mae pouted her lips out. “Come on, sis. Just a little Pepsi. Just a little one and I won’t even drink it all. I’ll share it with you.”
Ellie Mae arched her eyebrow in obvious suspicion.
“Swear it!” Daisy Mae drew a cross over her heart with her finger. “Hope ta die. And make it a Diet Pepsi if ya want!”
Ellie Mae snorted again. “I ain’t drinkin’ no Diet Pepsi. If we’s sharin’ it’s gonna be full test.”
“If you insist,” Daisy Mae said.
Ellie Mae shook her head, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out the door. Her sister hadn’t been gone for more than a minute when the nurse came in.
“Ok, ma’am,” she said and reached for the baby, “we need to take this little guy over to the nursery for his tests.”
Daisy Mae jerked him closer to her body. “Oh no yer not!”
The nurse blinked in surprise. “But, Miss, they all have to get their shots and tests done.”
“Oh, hell no.” She pointed a finger at the nurse. “I know how this works. I give you my baby, you take ‘im away, and then he’s gone, kidnapped.”
The nurse cocked her head. “Ma’am, I assure you that won’t happen. He has a tag on his wrist that matches yours. No one can leave this hospital with your baby without a matching bracelet. That only happens in the movies.”
“Sure, it does!” Daisy Mae was starting to get hysterical. “But why do you think they made them movies in the first place? Cause it happened to someone, that’s why.”
The nurse was baffled. “But… ma’am, if you want to take your baby home, we
have to do his tests.”
“You can take yer tests and shove ‘em up yer—”
“Hey now,” came Ellie Mae’s voice at the door, “What’s this all about?”
“This lady is stealin’ mah baby!”
The nurse held her hands up. “I most certainly am not! I was trying to take the baby to the doctor to have his tests—”
“She probly ain’t even a nurse!” Daisy Mae pointed an accusatory finger at her.
Ellie Mae walked into the room and sat two large drinks in Styrofoam cups on the bedside table.
“You might be right.” Ellie Mae narrowed her eyes. “Why dontchu jus’ get on up outta here, nurse whatever yer name is.”
Then she turned to Ellie Mae. “I seen ‘is in a movie once. They take yer baby and sell ‘im on the black market fer kidney’s and such.”
Daisy Mae nodded fiercely. “Yup!”
The nurse put her hands on her hips and sighed loudly. “Well, I never,” she said, exasperated.
“And you ain’t never gonna.” Ellie Mae raised a fist and shook it at the nurse. “Now git!”
The nurse turned and scurried into the hall. They could hear her voice echoing down the corridor, calling for security.
“Sounds like maybe we best git little Darren outta here,” Ellie Mae said and nodded to her sister.
“I think yer right,” Daisy Mae agreed, handing the baby to her sister. “Lemme git his things.”
With that she waddled out of the bed, unplugged herself from various IV’s and machines, and started rifling through the cabinets. She dragged diapers and wipes and lotions and towels off the shelves and into a bag that said, St. Francis Hospital of Litchfield on the side.
When it was fully stuffed, Daisy Mae set the bag down by the door and peered out into the hall. It was quiet for now, a lone wheelchair resting empty a few doors down, but the security team would be coming any second now.
“I need some clothes,” she said, pointing to the open backside of the hospital gown. “Cain’t git far with my butt hangin’ out!”
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 14