The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden

  Adrian “Taz” Hull.

  He made a mental note to run some background on this guy. As he took the exit toward his apartment in Liberty Square, his phone made another sound. Text tone. Looking at the screen, he read:

  -Got a line on that plate you had me run

  It was from Ted, his buddy at the Miami P.D.

  -Email it to me

  -10-4

  Nice, Remington thought, I’ll have this Colpiller deal wrapped up by tomorrow and be able to spend some quality time dealing with Senator Dickerson. He wondered if he should get a few new suits… maybe a little more conservative for his soon-to-come foray into politics. He looked down at his current crap and vomit-stained outfit. God, anything would be better than this. He pulled up next to the dumpster at his apartment complex. He stripped naked and threw all of the clothes in and hopped back into his car. A super-hot shower and a quick bite and then he’d organize all his new information from today.

  And then, he’d have a short visit with Gram.

  7

  Follow Me

  Troy Clint Bodean answered his phone, though against his better judgment. It was Mindy Colpiller. They’d texted back and forth last night for two hours and he’d successfully dodged any attempts to get him to meet her out. He was feeling a particularly strong urge to nip this whole thing in the bud.

  “Please, Troy,” she started abruptly, “I need your help to find Caroline. She’s still gone and I think something is wrong.”

  “Darlin’,” he protested, “the police and your daddy should be enough to get her back. I don’t have a clue what’s happened to her, but I’m sure she’ll be alright.”

  “Ugh,” she groaned, “but daddy doesn’t know what I know.”

  Troy stopped short. Dangit, this was gettin’ to sound so familiar. He stood his ground.

  “I’m tellin’ ya,” he said, “there’s not a thing I can do about it. Let the police do their job. Besides, I gotta get to work at two o’clock.”

  “Just meet me at Gino’s for lunch,” she said quickly, “I gotta go.”

  He heard her voice in the distance as she hung up the phone. “Hi Daddy…”

  Sitting on the edge of his bed, he inhaled deeply. Well, dang, here we go again, he thought. He slipped on a linen shirt, stuck his hat on his head, tapped his pocket to make sure his keys were still there, and walked out the door.

  The sun was hot, making the pavement shimmer with heat waves; the sand at work would be glittering white lava. Fannnntastic, Troy thought as he walked along, hopping beneath one shadowy tree to another. He edged his way through the gate up to the Sonesta and inhaled deeply as the icy air conditioning blasted him in the face as he walked into the lobby. He slowed his pace to soak up the chilly air.

  Pushing open the back door of the hotel’s tiled hallway, the heat hit him again like a full body hair dryer. Mindy Colpiller was sitting at the bar and twirling a straw around a glass of bubbling club soda. A plate with a sandwich without so much as a single bite taken out of it sat in front of her attracting a single fly. She didn’t bother to swat it away. Troy could see that her mood had swung drastically south from the fun they’d had at the beach and the flirtatious chatting they’d done last night.

  “Hey,” he said softly as he slid onto the stool next to her.

  “Hey.” She looked up, and the corners of her mouth perked up slightly and then fell back down again.

  “You okay?”

  “Not really.” She traced the straw around her glass again. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

  “But Mindy—” he started.

  “No, it’s different,” she interrupted him, “she’s my twin and I can usually feel a connection with her, even if we’re far apart. But now… I don’t feel anything.”

  Troy thought about this for a second. He’d had that feeling about his brother, Ryan Bodean, when he’d come back from Afghanistan, but it turned out that he was just fine.

  “I think that’s jus’ your mind playin’ tricks on you,” he said, “happens to siblings all the time.”

  “But we’re twins,” she protested, “it’s different. Something bad has happened.”

  Troy turned and raised his hand. “Gino, can I get a—”

  The bartender turned around. A moment of shock grabbed Troy. It wasn’t Gino. This was the first time he’d ever been to Sonesta and had a different bartender. This guy was dull and gray. His eyes were empty, and Troy got the feeling it was not his choice to be out here.

  “Sorry, um…” Troy glanced at his nametag, “Bill. Can I get a water?”

  “Comin’ right up, boss.”

  He turned back to Mindy. “Did you tell your dad? Is he going to have the police check out that tennis guy?”

  “Not exactly.” She took a small sip of her drink. “He’s got a private investigator checking it out. Creepy dude if you ask me.”

  “Private investigator?”

  “Yeah.”

  Troy nodded. “Okay, well, that’s good. Maybe he can find her faster than the police. Sometimes they can’t devote much time to a missing person case that isn’t very old yet.”

  “Troy,” she said and shrugged her shoulders, “we’re going on three days now and I haven’t heard a peep. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. If I know anything about my sister, it’s that her phone wouldn’t be off for three days straight.”

  “Hey now,” —Troy held up his hands— “I’m just tryin’ to be positive. Heck, she might be in the mountains camping and not have a signal or somethin’.”

  She considered this and inhaled deeply. “I guess so, but it’s still not like her to be off the grid for this long.”

  A long silence settled between them. Troy glanced at the clock over the bar. She noticed his look and slid her plate over in front of him.

  “Here, eat this,” she said, “I can’t.”

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks,” he said, picking up the sandwich.

  “So,” she started, “I think I’m gonna schedule a tennis lesson with Taz.”

  Troy coughed, choking on the bite of food in his mouth. “What?”

  “I’m going to hit with Taz.”

  “Darlin’,” Troy said, then wiped his mouth and shook his head, “that ain’t a good idea at all. What if this dude had something to do with… whatever happened to Caroline?”

  “Well,” she said, standing up, “I’m going to ask him. Don’t worry, I’ll do it during the day with plenty of people around. He’s harmless, just a creeper.”

  “No, you shouldn’t do this.”

  “I don’t have a choice,” she said as tears welled in her eyes. “Daddy won’t do anything to help, and now you won’t do anything to help either. I have to do this all by myself.”

  She turned and started walking away.

  Troy stood up. “Now, hold on just a minute.” He shoved the stool under the bar and walked after her. He touched her shoulder, and she stopped.

  “This is dangerous business you’re gettin’ into,” he said. “If you’re gonna do this, I’m gonna help.”

  She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Troy.”

  He glanced down at his watch. “I gotta go to work now, but I’ll be done by seven. Can you wait until then?”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, good. “He took a deep breath. “Then I’ll call you when I get off work and we’ll figure out what we want to do.”

  “Perfect,” she said, kissed him on the cheek, and walked away.

  Troy watched her go and wondered how in the world he’d gotten roped into this.

  “You done with this?” Bill called from the bar and tilting the plate toward him.

  “Yup.” Troy touched the brim of his hat and then thought of something. “Say, where’s Gino?”

  “Out with a bum knee,” Bill said, “torqued it pretty bad dancing on the bar last night.”


  Sounded like something Gino would do. He walked down the steps onto the beach. He was right, the sand was burning hot. He trotted as fast as he could toward the Ritz. Ten people were waiting in line at the tiki hut to rent boats and boards and floats. Don was trying frantically to help them and threw up his hands when he saw Troy.

  “’Bout damn time, Tony-boy,” he said through gritted teeth. “Get in here and help these people.”

  “It’s Troy, Don. And my shift hasn’t even started yet.”

  “Well, get your ass in here, Troy,” Don barked and jabbed his finger at his chest, “or you won’t have any more shifts to start.”

  Troy shook his head, walked behind the counter, and started helping the line of tourists.

  Taz pulled his bike up to the Tennis Garden and chained it to the rack out back. The first few nights after his encounter with Caroline Colpiller had been sleepless and long. He’d been sure that a knock would come at his door and a policeman would arrest him and drag him away. But the knock had never come, and the longer he got away from that day, the more comfortable he’d grown with believing he’d gotten away with it. He walked into the Tennis Garden lobby and waved to Betty.

  “Hiya, gal,” he said, beaming, “what’s on tap today?”

  “Oh, hi Taz,” she said and smiled back. “You’ve got three lined up for twelve o’clock, starting with some new guy.” She glanced down at a piece of paper. “Ummm… a Mr. Smith?”

  “Fantastic.” He shrugged his shoulders, turned, and strode into the locker room.

  Rounding the corner, he froze. A man was standing there, with one foot propped up on a bench and tying his tennis shoes. He was turned away from Taz, but his face was clear in the mirror across the room. It was the weird fetish magazine dude from the Food Spot. What gives, thought Taz, is this guy following me? He backed out of the room as quickly and quietly as he could, jogged out the front door and scanned the parking lot. Sure enough, there was a rental car—a different one—but the tag said Biscayne Chariots, just like the one he’d seen him in before.

  “Mr. Smith, my ass,” Taz muttered.

  Whatever this guy was up to, Taz wasn’t having any of it. He scooted around the outside of the building, unchained his bike, and hopped on. He dialed the tennis center.

  “Yeah, Betty.” he coughed loudly. “I’m gonna have to cancel m’lessons today. Just got sick in the locker room.”

  “Oh, Tazzie, that’s too bad,” she said in a grandmotherly voice, “that twenty-four-hour stomach bug has been going around. You’d better get home and get some chicken noodle soup in you.”

  “Ah, thanks, Betty,” he said and coughed again, “and can you have Nathan cover m’lessons?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, “don’t you worry about it.”

  “Alright, good,” he said. “Ah’ll most likely see you in the morning.”

  He hung up and pedaled hard without looking back. He wanted to get away fast before Mr. Smith came out and saw him. He got a block away before a thought occurred to him.

  “If this guy’s gonna be followin’ me,” —Taz stopped his bike— “ah’m gonna turn the tables and find out what’s up with this bloke.”

  He pedaled slowly back toward the Tennis Garden and eased around the corner. A Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck was idling in the grass as a worker watered some non-native bushes in the median.

  Peeking from behind a massive palm tree, he could see Mr. Smith getting into his rental car. He dropped his bike and snuck into the truck while the worker had his back turned. He eased down low in the driver’s seat so he could watch the rental car drive away without being seen.

  Mr. Smith turned right out of the Ritz, and Taz eased out to follow him. He could hear the worker yelling in the distance as they drove toward the island causeway.

  “Right, Smith,” he muttered as he drifted back a few cars to keep from being obvious, “let’s see what you’re up to.”

  8

  No Turning Back

  Thursday morning’s Miami Herald was the first paper to run with a story about the future of Senator Gil Dickerson’s political career. The glowing piece outlined how Dickerson had all but clinched the Florida gubernatorial race and that with a decent three or four-year run would easily be the Democratic Party’s front-runner for president. Gil’s phone rang and he saw it was James calling.

  “I guess you saw it too,” he smiled into the receiver.

  “What’d I tell you, old boy?” James Hardy asked. “Everyone in my office is talking about it.”

  “Well, that’s a long way off, James,” said Gil, and he stood up and walked to the kitchen window.

  Sandy was pruning a rose bush and tossing dead buds into a bucket. She loved that garden. Gil made a mental note to have his assistant pick up some kind of new plant for her.

  “Soonah than you think, my friend.” His accent started to take on a JFK tone. “You’re gonna need to start a short list.”

  “Oh, hell, now,” Gil protested, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  James laughed. “Ah’m just sayin’.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Gil, his smile getting a little wider, “I’ll get a yellow pad out and get started today.”

  A couple of seconds of silence followed. Gil could hear James sipping a cup of coffee… or maybe brandy… who knew what he’d be drinking at this hour.

  “So, um—” Gil started.

  James interrupted him. “All squared away, my friend. No need to talk about that anymore… not on this line.”

  Gil turned away from the window, as if he needed to shield his wife from the conversation. “The boat?”

  “I don’t know what boat you’re talking about, Gil,” James said, his tone darker. “There nevah was a boat.”

  Gil knew that the boat had been demolished or sunk or blown up or something. It had officially been disappeared. He breathed a sigh of relief… a small one. Without the boat, there was nothing to connect him to the girl, even if they did find her. He felt like a small glimmer of light was starting to shine at the end of the tunnel.

  “Hun?” Sandy’s voice echoed from the back door.

  “Gotta go, James,” Gil said and clicked his phone shut. “In the kitchen, dear.”

  She walked in, pulling her gloves off her hands. She leaned forward and kissed him, careful not to get any dirt on his freshly starched shirt. “Off to the office?” she asked, rinsing her hands in the sink.

  “Oh, uh, yeah,” he said and brushed his tie down, “just for a bit. Voting on the Saracen bill.”

  “Okay, dear,” she said and smiled blankly. “Would you like a sandwich or something to take with you?”

  “No, no,” he said, slipping on his suit jacket. “I’ll get something on the way.”

  She dried her hands and touched him on the cheek. “My hero. Saving the world, one bill at a time.”

  Gil shuddered. He certainly didn’t feel like a hero today… maybe he would tomorrow.

  “Will you be late?” she asked.

  “Not sure,” he said, walking for the door, “depends on how many nays we get. Could be in for a filibuster too.”

  “Oh, gee,” she said, frowning, “I’m sorry, hun. Well, don’t worry about me. I have my bridge club tonight.”

  Gil nodded and walked out. He started his car and turned on the radio. Talk Chat 101 was on and the caller was talking about how Gil Dickerson was going to be a fine governor and how he’d vote for him for president today if he were on the ballot. Gil turned it up and pulled out of the driveway.

  Maybe today he’d turn the corner, from looking back, to looking forward.

  Remington Hoyt Reginald pulled his rental car into the cramped garage under his apartment building. Liberty Square was no fancy neighborhood, and his place was no shimmering high-rise, but at least it came with parking. As he jogged toward the elevator and chirped his car alarm, he saw Myrtle Tomlinson was getting in too. Dammit, he thought. He was still in his tennis clothes from the busted lesson with Ta
z at the Ritz. She was older, maybe seventy-five, and very frail, but she was nothing like Gram. Crotchety and angry at all times, she was the kind of person you didn’t ask if everything was okay, you asked if anything was okay. Remington pursed his lips together as he stepped in.

  “Hard to play tennis with a briefcase,” she said, glaring at him through one slitted eye.

  “Yeah,” he said, “tough day at the courts. Up, please.”

  “What floor?” she practically growled.

  “Mrs. Tomlinson,” he said flatly, “I have lived on the third floor for the past five years.”

  She punched the number five angrily and scowled at him.

  “Someday when you get older,” she said, jabbing a finger at him, “you’ll start forgetting things too. Like what you had for breakfast, or how to button a shirt, or maybe whether or not you’ve crapped your pants—if you even wore pants, that is.”

  “Doubtful,” he said. The elevator dinged and he got off. “Have a wonderful day,” he called sarcastically.

  “Screw you,” came her muffled reply from behind the closing doors.

  He inhaled slowly as he trotted down the dingy hall to his door. He looked left then right, waiting to see if anyone was watching him. When you watched others, you started wondering if they were watching you back. He clicked the key into the lock, rushed inside, and shut the door quietly behind him. The air inside the apartment smelled faintly of mothballs and old people. The memories came at him as they always did.

  “Gram, I’m home,” he called into the room.

  There would be no answer, but he still liked to announce himself. He dropped his briefcase by the door and tossed his keys into a bowl on the antique table beneath the mirror. He noticed he was still wearing the tennis whites he’d worn for the lesson. Ugh, he thought, disgusting, white after Labor Day.