Below these notes, in blue and clearly more hurried, he’d obviously added to his previous observations:
CC car found—check Ted email
Voicemail from JC
check out Taz (?) at Tennis Garden on KB
boyfriend?
lesson scheduled 10:45 am
Under this last line, he had scribbled:
Taz—NO SHOW.
He’d circled Taz’s name several times in red ink.
“Shit,” Taz muttered, “this bloke’s on to me. Some kind of investigator or something.”
There were another couple of pages. One was an 8x10 photo of Caroline—probably a school yearbook picture. The second was a printout of the staff page of the Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden. Taz’s picture was circled in that same red pen.
Behind him, a car honked angrily. He hadn’t noticed that the light had turned green. He screeched out and flipped the bird at the driver behind him as he raced away. As he drove, he wondered if the private investigator’s body would fit in the trunk in the lighthouse with Caroline’s.
He reached up to turn on the radio and his eyes flitted to the time.
“Aw hell yeah,” he said as he sped up, his grin at last returning. There was still time to make his lesson with Mindy.
Maybe this day wasn’t going so badly after all.
10
Hedge Holes
Troy Clint Bodean, former Afghanistan Apache AH-64 chopper pilot, sat on the edge of his bed staring at the shoe box sitting in his lap. His shift had ended at the beach and he’d taken a long, cold shower. The sand, sunscreen, and windburn had done a number on his skin, so he preferred not to rinse in hot water. He wasn’t sure if he was shivering from the cold… or the fact that he’d just gotten tangled up into another crazy situation with a possible dead gir—
He made himself stop that line of thinking. They couldn’t be sure that Caroline Colpiller was dead—she might just be on some hippie road trip. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His black hair was turning gray at the temples.
In his best Danny Glover imitation, he said, “I’m getting’ too old for dis shit.”
Or wait, was it Mel Gibson who’d said that line? Maybe both. Either way, he felt the truth of it today.
He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He hadn’t opened this box since all the trouble back on Pawleys Island. Opening the lid slowly, he took the cleaning cloth off the Beretta M9. It was the same one he’d brought back from Afghanistan, an unusual thing to happen, but he’d asked for it in return for solving the case of the knucklebones. The powers-that-be had immediately denied his written request but two weeks later, when he was back stateside, an unmarked, no postage paid package arrived on his doorstep. It was his gun. Someone, somewhere in some clandestine agency, had apparently taken it upon themselves to grant his request. Troy decided not to ask any questions, and just accepted the mysterious gift.
He laid the gun back into the box and slid it under his bed. He wouldn’t need it just, yet but he knew the time would probably come when he would feel more secure with it tucked into his waistband.
Clicking open his cell phone, he tapped out a message to Mindy.
-I’m off. Ready to meet?
He waited a couple of minutes. No answer.
-You there?
Nothing.
Then it flashed into his memory… she’d said something about a tennis lesson with Taz. He jumped up and pulled his door open. Stopping short, he turned back to look at the box under his bed… not yet, he thought. But something nagged at him about not being prepared for the worst, and he knelt down to retrieve the box. He opened it, grabbed the gun, slid a magazine in, checked the safety, and shoved the gun into his waistband behind his back.
“In for a penny,” he muttered as he headed out the door, “in for a pound.”
He jogged all the way to the front gate at the Ritz-Carlton. The entrance was guarded by a row of huge palms that were obviously only recently planted. The guard at the gate recognized him and waved him in past the cross bar. Troy nodded at him and sped up.
The Tennis Garden was the first building on the right, a yellow, stucco job with a green metal roof and white awnings over every window. The entire perimeter of the building was a raised porch overlooking the ten immaculately groomed rubico clay courts. Troy had no idea what that was, but people claimed it was so much easier on the body to play on clay. The edges of the courts were not enclosed with the usual chain link fence, but rather a nine-foot-tall hedge, trimmed into a perfectly straight outer wall. Netting buried in the manicured bushes made entry into the courts impossible without going through the lobby. Troy jumped up the five stone steps in one bound and grabbed the door handle. Just as he was opening the door, a voice called out behind him.
“Whoa there!” the man said, “where are you headed in such a hurry?”
Troy turned and saw a Ritz-Carlton security officer walking toward him, hand on his holster. The holster held a terrifying can of pepper spray.
“Just lookin’ for a friend of mine,” Troy said and held his hands, letting the door swing closed. “There a problem, sir?”
The resort’s equivalent of a mall cop seemed to relax a little, seeing Troy hold up his hands. His belly was rotund, his armpits were slightly damp, and his forehead was sunburned up to a line where a hat must’ve shaded his face. In fact, his hair was slicked back on his head as if he’d been wearing a hat all morning. He had beady yet friendly eyes… not really a threatening character at all. After a second, a look of recognition flashed over the man’s face.
“Don’t I know you?”
“You might,” Troy said, lowering his hands a little, “I work down at the beach. You know, rentin’ sailboats and surfboards and such.”
“Ahhhhh, yeah,” the man said, nodding his head a little, but Troy guessed he didn’t really remember and was just being polite.
“Yup.” Troy took a step toward the tennis building. “So, I’m just hoppin’ in here to say hi to a friend on my way to work.”
“Huh,” said the security officer, whose name tag said Billy, “you don’t look like you’re dressed for work.”
Troy looked down at his cargo shorts and white t-shirt—definitely not a Ritz-Carlton approved work uniform. For employees who weren’t in-house staff, it was all white, all the time.
“Oh, um, yeah,” Troy stalled, “well, today is… it’s kind of um…”
Inside the building he spotted a maid spraying glass cleaner on some sort of display case. Inspiration hit.
“It’s a cleaning day,” Troy said suddenly, “you know, scrubbing the scum off of all the boats and boards.”
“Ahhhh yeah,” Billy said, still not quite fully understanding.
An awkward silence fell between them; Troy looking at Billy, Billy staring blankly back at Troy.
“Hey!” Billy said suddenly, startling Troy, “you wanna see something cool?”
Troy glanced back at the building, concern for Mindy trickling back into his mind.
“I dunno, man,” Troy said, trying to protest, “I really gotta get going.”
Billy pointed over toward one of the hedges. “Seriously, man, check this out. Just take a second.”
Troy inhaled slowly. “Okay, okay, just a second. Then I gotta go.”
Billy walked quickly toward the hedge wall and grabbed a branch. He pulled the branch to the side, exposing a small hole through the hedge. He beamed with pride.
“Nice,” Troy said, not sure what he was looking at.
“Go on,” Billy said, nodding toward the opening. “It’s Linda Morgenstern having her lesson.”
“Oh, uh… okay…”
“Wait,” Billy said, a wry smile spreading over his face, “you don’t know about Linda?”
Troy shook his head.
Billy laughed, and winked. “Just take a quick peek. Let’s just put it this way… tennis balls ain’t the only thing bouncin’ on that court.”
Troy leaned into t
he hedge and peered through the opening. Sure enough, a truly gifted lady was gyrating in all sorts of breast-bouncing maneuvers. Troy was certain she had practiced these attention-getting moves to ensure proper boob placement for maximum male enticement. It was quite a show. Troy could overhear snippets of the conversation.
“Right,” her tennis pro was saying as he put his hands around her waist, “be sure to put your shoulders back, left arm up, firm grip, and proper unit turn.”
Linda licked her lips and shoved her hips back into the young man teaching her.
“Oh, Josh,” she grinned, “you know I have a firm grip for your proper unit.”
Troy leaned back from the hedge. Dangit, that ain’t Taz, he thought, and that sure as heck ain’t Mindy.
“Cool,” he said, slapping Billy on the shoulder, “you enjoy that. I gotta get to work.”
Billy shrugged his shoulders and promptly stuck his head back into the hedge. As Troy walked away, he heard Billy muttering something about funbags and balloons.
He trotted up to the door of the Tennis Garden and hopped inside. The woman at the desk eyed him suspiciously.
“Hello ma’am,” Troy said, removing his hat, “I’m a friend of Taz’s. I work down at the beach and he told me I should come by and see him sometime.”
She softened a bit. “Oh, goodness, I just love that boy. He’s so friendly.”
Troy smiled and nodded. “A good dude, for sure.”
“But he left earlier this morning,” she said and looked down at a sheet showing the court reservations, “which is strange. He was supposed to hit with Mindy and then Linda. But he didn’t show up for either. Then again, neither did Mindy. But Linda did, and so we had to grab Josh out of another…”
Her voice faded away beneath the alarm bells now going off in Troy’s head. Dangit. He’d warned her not to get messed up with this guy, and now he feared something really bad had happened.
The woman at the counter was looking at him expectantly. Apparently, she had asked him a question.
“I’m sorry ma’am,” he said, “what did you ask me?”
“Did you want to leave a message for him?” she asked again.
“Can I just get his number and give him a ring?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, but company policy is that we can’t give out any numbers,” she apologized, “you understand.”
“Course, ma’am, thanks for your help.” Troy turned and walked away.
“Come back anytime,” she called to his back.
Troy clicked open his cell phone as he left the Tennis Garden. Still nothing from Mindy. Walking aimlessly away from the building, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Call the police? Call Mindy’s father? He clicked dial to try Mindy again—straight to voicemail. Dangit. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Mindy had simply gotten smart, canceled her lesson with Taz, and gone home. If she wasn’t answering her phone, there was only one way to find out.
He looked up at the massive Grand Bay Resort and Residences building in front of him—Mindy’s home, and the home of Mindy’s father, Jack Colpiller. Troy knew that if he went up there to see if she was home, and in doing so, also meet her father, there would be no turning back. He’d be caught up in yet another murder mystery. He wondered if he shouldn’t write all these stories down for a book. Nah, nobody’d believe ‘em anyhow, he thought.
He took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and walked toward the door of the giant yellow building.
“Here we go,” he muttered to himself.
Part II
What’s That Smell?
“And now I've got to explain the smell that was in there before I went in there.”
-Ellen DeGeneres
11
Blackmail For You, Sir
Gil Dickerson was shocked when his opponent, Anna Martinez, gracefully bowed out of the gubernatorial race. He’d missed the story buried in the Miami Herald on a back page in fine print, about a new investigation into the citizenship status of Anna’s husband. Gil had already gone down that rabbit hole,, when his campaign scraped the barrel for any dirt they could find on Anna and her family. He’d found nothing to suggest any citizenship issues, but apparently there was some date discrepancy on a few of the immigration documents that implied Anna’s husband had received a speedier-than-usual certification. It was most likely nothing, but her sudden withdrawal made it seem as if she’d influenced the immigration board in some way… and that was a no-no. Thus, he was left in an uncontested race for…
“Holy shit,” he said, and stared at the story’s headline, “I’m the damn governor of Florida.”
“What’s that, hun?” Sandy called from the other room.
“Anna Martinez,” he said over his shoulder, “she dropped out of the race today.”
“That’s nice, hun.”
Gil shrugged his shoulders. His wife obviously didn’t fully comprehend what had just happened, but that was okay for now. He’d let her know over a night out and a glass of champagne or three.
“Governor Gil Dickerson,” he said to himself. “Who’d have thought?”
And that’s when his desk phone rang. The phone on his desk was an official line, operated by an intern, acting as his secretary for official public business. Someone else had apparently just gotten the news. Three more lines lit up. Apparently, everyone had gotten the news.
He picked up the first line. “Senator Gil Dickerson.”
“Doncha mean Governor Gil Dickerson?” It was James Hardy.
“Ha, yes, I suppose so,” Gil said, laughing.
“It’s official, old buddy,” James said. “I knew you could do it.”
“Thank you, James.” Gil leaned back in his leather chair. “I had no idea about Anna’s husband.”
“Well, now,” James said in a conspiratorial tone, “tip-offs are in interesting business. Who knows who could’ve exposed such information?”
The implication was that James had made the discovery and leaked the damning information to the press. The implication that her husband was in the country illegally was all that was needed to push Anna over the edge and out of the race. Maybe there actually was something there, and Anna didn’t want it brought into the light of day.
“So, Governor Dickerson,” James started again, “how’s that shortlist of potential V.P.s comin’ along?”
Gil could almost hear the sneering grin in the man’s voice.
“Oh, come now, James,” Gil said, pulling a yellow pad on his desk closer to him, “it’s far too early for that.”
“Friend, I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet or not,” —James’ tone got a little more serious— “but the people have chosen their next leader. It all starts in Florida, ya know?”
Gil looked at the pad in front of him. It had a heading that simply said: VP.
It had three names on it. Friends from the senate that all shared similar political viewpoints. None excited him, and probably wouldn’t excite the public either. He hadn’t given it much thought, but the way things were going, he was clearly the party’s new pet. He would be groomed and prepared over the next few years to ascend to the highest office in the land. There would be deals and backroom handshakes, but if he could win the White House… maybe he really could change the world.
“Gil,” —the voice on the line became even more serious and quiet— “I want you to look at that list in front of you… I know it’s there. And I want you to think long and hard about what I’ve done for you.”
“I—” Gil opened his mouth to speak, but James Hardy interrupted him.
“It’s a damn shame that all that nasty business about Anna Martinez’s husband had to come to light,” he said quietly, “and it would be a damn shame if any other… nasty business came to light about anyone else involved in this race. Or the next race.”
Gil closed his mouth. A vision of Jackie, the intern he’d murdered on James Hardy’s boat, flashed into his mind. His hand shook slightly as he gripped the phone receiver tighter.
Gil inhaled slowly. He scratched out the three names he had scribbled on the yellow pad and wrote James Hardy underneath. He circled it so harshly that his pen ripped through the paper as it passed around.
“Why, James,” he said through gritted teeth, “you know I only ever had one choice in mind.”
A moment of silence passed.
“That’s good, Gil,” James said, “that’s real good. We make a good team, you and I.”
Another line flashed on the desk phone.
“James, I’ve got to take this call,” he said quickly, “be in touch soon.”
“You bette—”
Gil hung up the receiver, interrupting James. He sat back in his chair and stared at all of the flashing lines on the phone. He’d let the intern handle those.
Remington Hoyt Reginald sat in his apartment at the rickety kitchen table. He had gathered the papers that had been strewn in the floor of the hallway by the intruder. He hadn’t gotten a look at him, so he had no idea what had happened. Had Senator Gil Dickerson sent someone to steal the information he had on him? No, that wasn’t possible. No one knew he had anything on him yet. He hadn’t revealed that to anyone except the crime lab. Hmmm, maybe a lab tech had spilled the beans? Not likely, as they dealt with this kind of thing all the time. Surely their people were scrutinized, background checked, and routinely examined to ensure confidentiality and security. Okay, so if not a tech, then who? he mused.
Maybe just a fluke break-in? That didn’t seem likely either, but what else could it be? He stared at the papers laid out on the table. There was a crime lab report on the blood from Dickerson’s boat, a photograph of the teeth he’d recovered, and a D.N.A. scan showing them to belong to Jackie Ranchero-Doral. The third sheet from that file was an email printed out from Jackie’s husband, initiating the suspected adultery case. He hadn’t contacted the husband yet to confirm the adultery, because now it might actually be confirming her murder. He slid that pile to the side and decided to work out that particular mess later.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 48