The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  There weren’t enough people here to worry about being recognized. It was just an old man out with his daughter on a lake trip… or so Gil tried to portray. But if anyone had seen him smearing sunscreen all over her bare back, they would’ve thought it was an odd relationship at best, incest at worst. When he was through, she turned around, her top falling away completely.

  “Oops!” she said, feigning embarrassment and barely covering her breasts.

  He squirted more sunscreen into his palm. “Young lady, you’re gonna get an awful sunburn if I don’t put some of this on your chest as well.”

  She grinned and played along, dropping her arms. She was exquisite. Perfect fake boobs and a flat stomach covered with a very slight sheen of sweat. He knew what was going to happen next. As he lurched toward her with his creamy hands, she said the first terrible thing he’d ever heard from her.

  “So,” she started casually, “when you gonna be honest with yourself and get rid of that old hag you been bangin’ for the last twenty years?”

  The comment struck him as rude and crass, and he backhanded her hard… too hard. Say what you would about him, but Sandra was as pure a soul as there ever was… no one was allowed to speak ill of her when he was listening. The intern screamed and turned back toward him. Her jaw was clearly broken and slightly caved in. Blood gushed from her mouth and she spit out two teeth.

  “You bagghstarddd!” she gurgled, as if her mouth was full of marbles.

  Gil was shocked. He hadn’t meant to hit her so hard.

  “Oh my God, Sandy, I mean, um…” he couldn’t remember her name.

  “Ith Jackie, you pieth of thit!” She reached across the boat to grab her phone out of a nearby towel. “I’m goirng to end yrou!”

  She started punching in a number that only had three digits; nine-one-one. Gil sat paralyzed. How would this play out? Would it make the papers? Would Sandra leave him? Shit, his campaign was just getting started. The scandal would be the end of it and the end of his political career.

  He leapt toward her and punched her in the face. Her phone jumped out of her hand and plopped into the lake as the scream burbled out of her mouth. The shock was replaced with terror as she suddenly realized she was in mortal danger.

  Gil grabbed her towel and forced it into her face. He dragged her down into the floor of the boat and held it there until she stopped breathing. He let go of the towel and scrambled back to the back of the boat. He drove out to what felt like the center of the lake, wrapped the boat’s anchor around her ankles, and tossed her along with her belongings into the water. Panting for air, he raced away from the scene. He parked the boat, got into his car, and sped away without looking back. He made his own call to someone he felt he could trust to help him deal with the situation, Senator James Hardy—the owner of the boat.

  He felt tears forming in his eyes as he breathlessly told the story.

  “Shut up!” Hardy said as he got to the gory details. “Just shut up and get your ass home. We don’t need to discuss this over a cell connection. Get home, sleep with your wife, and call me in the morning.”

  He ended the call and drove as fast as he could manage back to his condo in Brickell. He explained to his wife that the filibuster he’d claimed was keeping him away that weekend had ended earlier than expected. She kissed him on the cheek and had the chef make him dinner… the perfect First Lady.

  Private investigator, Remington Hoyt Reginald, sat in his car with his ridiculously long telephoto lens in shock at what he’d witnessed. Senator Gil Dickerson had been having an affair with Jackie Ranchero-Doral, that was common knowledge around D.C. What wasn’t known to anyone around the senator was that Jackie flew home every weekend to her husband. Said husband had become suspicious of Jackie’s more and more frequent weekends spent with the good senator, and had hired Remington to find out what was really going down.

  It had been a typical shoot some eight-by-ten glossy photos of the adulterous couple having a tryst, show the shocked spouse the damning evidence, collect the payment, shake hands and walk away kind of case… until Remington had watched Dickerson take the girl out on the boat, stay gone for an hour, then come back without her in a rush that said, I’m guilty as hell. But guilty of what? Had he dropped the girl off at another dock? Had she run away? Had he… murdered her and dropped her body in the water? Remington got out of his car and strolled casually over to the boat. He glanced around the marina like a tourist on holiday. God knows he looked like one, dressed in a cheesy beach shop t-shirt that said Lake Okeechobee Reel Legends with a picture of a large mouth bass on it, garish drug-store bought flip flops, and a pair of khaki shorts with cargo pockets… ugh, cargo pockets, for Christ’s sake. Who wore this crap? He promised himself he’d change into his Ralph Lauren outfit of desert-red, seersucker light spring cashmere sweater with horizontal navy stripes, and Bardene burlap slip-on sneakers, as soon as he hit the first gas station.

  He peered over the edge of the boat and didn’t need to look hard to see the blood all over the seats in the back. With a closer look, he spotted what he thought might be… a couple of broken teeth. Jesus, Gil, he thought, what have you done? Checking to be sure no one was watching him, he stepped down into the boat, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and scooped up the two teeth. He also soaked the corner of the cloth in congealed blood in case he’d need a D.N.A. sample later.

  Slumping back into his rental car, he took a Ziploc bag from his duffle and slid the handkerchief and teeth into it. Slowly, his shock at what had seemingly happened started to form into a plan. As he drove south on I-27, he began to realize just how much power he’d just been given over the senator, likely soon-to-be governor, of the state of Florida. He used the drive to organize his thoughts and how he would present the proposition to Gil Dickerson. He made a mental note to Google the cabinet positions a governor would need to fill once he took office. His gram would be so proud. Tears formed in his eyes as he thought of her.

  So proud, indeed.

  4

  Coronas With Orange

  Troy Clint Bodean flip-flopped his way down Sunrise Drive toward the ocean with a stolen white Ritz-Carlton towel slung over his shoulder. He was glad of the shade provided by his Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat ‘cause it was hot… dang hot.

  When his toes hit the sparkling white sand, he hopped gingerly from one foot to the other. The heat was burning his feet as he looked left and right down the beach for Mindy. His eyes finally lit on her, waving him over.

  Good gawd, he thought, careful not to let his tongue fall out of his mouth. Mindy Colpiller was wearing a tiny, but not distasteful bikini top, with some sort of paisley pattern and rope-like lace layered on top. Her Daisy Duke denim shorts were unbuttoned at the waist revealing a coordinating solid bikini bottom beneath her belly button. As he got closer to the two beach chairs she’d reserved for them, he was glad he had on his Costa Del Mar Pescador sunglasses to hide his wandering gaze. She was barely halfway through her twenties and had the body to match her age.

  No cavortin’, he thought to himself as he smiled.

  “So, you wear your khakis to swim in?” She arched an eyebrow and grinned.

  He looked down at his shorts. Columbia PFG Half Moon shorts, a light khaki color that leaned toward olive green, complete with black canvas belt.

  “They’re actually fishin’ shorts,” he said and tapped one of the side pockets, “waterproof, plenty of pouches, good for holding line and bait and such.”

  She nodded and then shook her head. “Maybe I can show you something more… updated? So, you won’t look so out of place down here.”

  Troy looked around. Just a few feet from them sat a man who reminded him of Auggie. Older, bulging stomach, hairy back, sagging everything, and all squeezed into tiny neon green Speedos like a popped can of biscuits.

  “No thanks, darlin’,” he said and plopped down onto the chair next to her.

  She followed his gaze to the man and laughed. “Not like
that, silly! Something tasteful and modern—no cargo pockets.”

  “That’s okay,” he said, tipping his straw cowboy hat at her, “I like my style just the way it is.”

  Her smile relaxed. “As you should, Troy. It’s a good style.”

  “Thank ya, darlin’,” he said reclining back on the chair. “So what’s on the agenda this afternoon?”

  “I’m thinking about ordering a drink,” —she jutted her chin toward a man walking up the beach with a tray, a waiter from the Ritz-Carlto— “though I’m still feeling those Pina Coladas from last night. How about you?”

  “Hmmm, hair of the dog, eh?” Troy scratched his beard. “Yeah, why not. I’ll have a beer.”

  Mindy stopped the waiter, ordered two Red Stripes with an orange slice, and then slid her denim shorts off. She stood and walked a couple of steps backward toward the ocean.

  “You coming in?” she asked.

  “Nah,” Troy said, “I get enough of that at work. I’m just gonna kick back right here and wait for that beer if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Sure thing, cowboy,” she said, winked, and turned around.

  “Good Gawd,” he muttered aloud this time.

  “I heard that,” she called without looking back.

  Troy tipped his hat forward to block his gaze but was only partially successful as he could still see a little of her through the straw… but only a little. He dozed off in the heat and dreamt of shipwrecks and gold… or maybe it wasn’t a dream, but a memory. He wasn’t sure.

  He woke to the sound of two bottles clinking together and the sight of Mindy holding out a Red Stripe toward him. Stretching his arms up and groaning as he popped and cracked, he reached for the beer. It was ice cold. He took a long sip and sat all the way up.

  “Why Red Stripe?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t mind, it’s just not my first choice.” He put the bottle to his lips.

  “Reminds me of my honeymoon in Jamaica,” she said.

  He spewed beer out of his mouth. “Your honeymoon??”

  “Haha, easy big guy.” She held up a hand. “It didn’t work out. We were too young and within a week it was annulled.”

  Troy wiped his dripping mouth with the back of his hand.

  “But when we were there,” she continued, “I had my first Red Stripe ever. And for the entire awkward, argument-filled week, that’s all I drank… along with the occasional mojito.”

  Troy sniffed and took another drink.

  “All we did for the entire honeymoon was fight and drink. Good times, eh?”

  He heard a tinge of sadness in her voice and wondered if she’d wanted it to end, or if it had been her ex-fiancé or ex-husband or whatever he’d be called after an annulment.

  “Well,” he said, holding out his beer bottle, “here’s to the future.”

  She smiled and clinked her bottle against his. A chirp came from her bag and she jumped at it frantically. Troy was taken aback for a second as she dug through the contents. Pulling out her phone, she clicked it and then frowned.

  “Ugh, geez.” She tossed it back into the bag. “Taz again.”

  “What’s wrong with that dude?” Troy sipped the last of his beer.

  “He’s just annoying is all.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was hoping it was Caroline. I still haven’t heard from her and I’m starting to get worried.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  Mindy inhaled. “No, not yet. She’s done this kind of thing before… disappear for a couple of days and then come back saying she’d been in the mountains for a weekend or on a cruise or something.”

  Troy considered that for a second. “Who was the last person to see her or talk to her?”

  “Taz, I think.”

  Mindy’s eyes went wide as something seemed to click into place in her mind.

  “You don’t think he would do anything… bad… to her?” Troy asked, “I mean, not like really bad… but…”

  “I don’t think so.” Mindy shook her head. “She’s been taking tennis lessons from him since we were in high school. He adores her.”

  Troy spotted the waiter and raised his hand. “That’s what I’m afraid of… you need another?”

  “Sure,” she said and gulped the last of her beer, “but let’s get something else. I’ve had it with Red Stripe.”

  “Coronas, my man,” —Troy held up two fingers— “with orange slices.”

  “Orange slices?” she asked.

  Troy grinned. “Giving you a new memory to chase off the old ones.”

  “Sounds good,” she agreed, and winked at him.

  No cavortin’, Troy thought to himself.

  “And I really think you oughta call the police, or at least have your dad call,” he said, “just to put ‘em on alert. Might be nothin’, but my sixth sense is tellin’ me to watch this fella, Taz.”

  “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, looking over his shoulder.

  He threw himself in front of her, shielding her from whatever horror she had seen. It was an old instinct from his time back in Afghanistan. He sometimes wished he could’ve done something to shield old Harry Nedman from the I.E.D. that killed him.

  “What is it?” he demanded, ready to take action.

  “That man and woman over there.” She didn’t seem to take offense that Troy was now basically laying on top of her. “She’s washing his feet with bottled water and clipping his toenails.”

  Troy spotted the couple. Uber blonde hair, tan skin with a yellow tone, and somehow very European looking features. The woman was indeed scrubbing the man’s feet, and intermittently, she would clip one of his toenails with a pair of chrome clippers.

  “Now that’s gross.” Troy looked back at Mindy and realized he was leaning on her. He didn’t move immediately, and neither did she…

  “Okay, here we go,” the waiter interrupted, and Troy jumped back over to his own beach chair, “two Coronas with orange. And how should I charge this?”

  Mindy reached for the beers and handed one to Troy. “On my account, thank you.”

  The waiter nodded. “Very good, Ms. Colpiller.”

  “Here’s to new memories.” She held out her beer toward Troy and they clinked them again.

  5

  Rally Rally Rally

  Senator Gil Dickerson waved to the crowd and fought off the urge to wipe the sweat trickling down from his forehead. Never let ‘em see you sweat, he thought, but goddamn this Florida heat.

  As he read the super-scripted, poll-tested, generic crap written by the best speech writer in Florida teleprompter bull, he saw the faces in the crowd looking up at him in admiration. He’d always had this effect on people. From his days back at Harvard, he remembered commanding every room he’d ever walked into, and it was no different now. He finished his speech to thunderous applause as Sandy joined him on stage. She was dressed tastefully in a style that recalled Jackie O, as every first lady had worn since the days of Camelot. Barely looking at him, she put on her most photogenic smile, lightly holding his left elbow. He saw women in the throng of rally-goers staring at her with tears forming in their eyes—she would be key in securing the votes of mothers, wives, and daughters against his opponent, Anna Martinez.

  Stepping down from the stage, she still had him by the elbow and finally looked him in the eye.

  “Honey,” —she still had a slight Georgia drawl— “you okay? You seem distant.”

  He faked a calm and quiet smile. “I am, dear. Just worked up about this whole damn thing.”

  A gang of men in suits gathered around them, some of them secret service with dark glasses and ear microphones, some of them senators and local public officials trying to grab his attention for a smile and a handshake. Dogs, just a pack of dogs that smell an alpha getting ready to take the lead.

  “Well, hello theyah, Sandy,” said Senator James Hardy as he pushed to the front of the fray and took her hand gently. He kissed her on one cheek then the other. “I am so glad you could come down and s
ee our boy takin’ charge of this campaign today,” he said, grinning.

  “Why, thank you, James.” She smiled without using her eyes. “Just doing my part.”

  “Dear,” —Gil looked at her and put his hands on her shoulders— “You know I couldn’t do this without you, right?”

  She tilted her head to the side and smiled, this time with her eyes.

  “Yes, honey,” she said, motioning to James and the gaggle of suits, “come home to me later after you and your boys have your fun.”

  James smiled and clapped a hand on Gil’s shoulders. “We just need a few minutes to go over the poll numbers and the next stop. We’ll have him home before ten.”

  She started to say something, but she was whisked away by their driver. Gil watched as she waved over the crowd.

  “Got yourself a good woman theyah.” James urged Gil away from the throng and toward a separate car. “We need to protect her from… all that’s goin’ on.”

  They ducked into the car. When the door closed, James poured two bourbons with ice and handed one to Gil.

  “Protect her?” Gil asked. “Shit, we gotta protect me, don’t we?”

  James sipped his drink. “Now, don’t you worry about anything, Gil. I’ve had that boat steam cleaned and put in dry dock. She won’t see the light of day until after you take office.”

  “Dammit, James.” Gil shook his hand sloshing liquid onto the floorboard. “I just murdered an intern for Christ sake!”

  James threw a quick look at the driver and then whispered harshly to Gil. “Now, you just shut the hell up. You hear me? She was a damn floozie anyhow, and nobody will even notice she’s gone. It’s all been taken care of and you need to put that all behind you, Governor.”

  “Senator,” Gil corrected him.

  James pulled a sheet of paper out of his suit pocket. He handed it to Gil. “If these kinds of numbers keep up,” he said, snapping a finger on the page, “theyah ain’t no stoppin’ you from taking over the Governor’s mansion, my boy.”