The next stack of papers dealt with the Colpiller missing daughter case. One was a small high-school picture of Caroline Colpiller—horribly out-of-date. The second was a D.M.V. report from Ted at Miami P.D. on the plate he’d run for Caroline’s car. It had been found in the parking lot of some South Beach club and impounded. Remington made a mental note to check out the car later today. He thought twice about returning the money he’d been paid for that case and shutting it down. He had bigger plans for the Dickerson case… if he still had enough to work with. He opened a new manila folder and shoved the papers in it. Scribbling Colpiller on the tab, he laid it aside.
Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and tried to think. He was brought out of his meditation when someone knocked on his door. Who the hell could that be? He walked across the room and jerked the door open.
“What is it?” he demanded.
Myrtle Tomlinson was standing at the door, crotchety as ever. She looked him up and down with an arched eyebrow. He realized he was still wearing his Gram’s nightgown.
He wrapped his arms around his chest in an effort to cover some of the gown.
“Yes, Mrs. Tomlinson, what is it?” he asked.
“Aincha glad I remembered where you live?” she almost growled.
She had several crumpled papers clutched in her left hand; her right was on her cane. She shook them at him.
“Don’t be leavin’ yer trash all over the place, young man,” she said and practically threw the paper at him.
He scrambled to grab them all, and could tell at a glance they were from his briefcase.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tomlinson,” he said, smiling, but she was already waddling down the hall.
He turned around and closed the door behind him. Christ, what else could possibly go wrong tod—
His thought was cut short by the sound of scratching in Gram’s room. Someone was in there. Was it the intruder, coming back for more? He tiptoed over to the table and laid the papers down as quietly as he could. He pulled the skeleton key from his pocket and eased it into the lock. The scratching continued. It sounded like he was trying to dig a hole… what the hell?
The lock clicked and he threw the door open, calling out, “Stop where you are!”
There wasn’t much that scared Remington, but he stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting in the small wooden rocking cradle with dolls strewn out on the floor around it, and scratching at the blanket trying to climb underneath it… was a skunk, a real live skunk, black and white stripes all over it.
He backed toward the door and eased into the living room. The skunk resumed his digging into the blanket.
“Stop,” he said before he could help himself.
It was a special blanket he’d had made for his Gram doll, and he didn’t want the skunk to rip it up. Surprisingly, the skunk stopped, then sat up and looked at him. It raised a paw to its mouth and licked it… cleaning itself like a cat. Remington didn’t dare startle it for fear it might spray all over his things.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that he’d left his cell phone on the kitchen table. He eased back out of his Gram doll room and laid down the random scraps of paper that Mrs. Tomlinson had brought to him, then picked up his phone. Searching for the number for Animal Control, he glanced back at the doorway to see the skunk waddling into his living room. He froze, not wanting to upset the creature. It walked toward him and hopped up on the table.
As tame as it was, he wondered if it was one of those exotic pets that people took in, pot-bellied pig, or possum… or skunk. If so, it was likely its scent glands had been removed. It took a couple of steps closer to him, inched its nose up, and sniffed the air. Then it rolled onto its back, much like a cat, and mewed. This had to be a pet. Tentatively, Remington reached his hand out and gently touched the skunk’s belly. It smacked its lips together and arched its back. He petted it a couple of times and it seemed to enjoy it. He smiled; definitely a pet.
And that’s when his phone rang. The noise startled the skunk, who abruptly jumped up and sank his teeth into the fleshy skin between Remington’s thumb and forefinger. When he yelped in pain, the skunk hissed at him, jumped down from the table, and ran back into the Gram doll room. But not before unloading a massive spray into the air, all over Remington and trailing behind him as he scurried away.
“Geezzus Christ!” Remington yelled, and squeezed his hand.
Blood was seeping from the wounds and he was sure he would probably get rabies now. Stupid freaking skunk. He ran to the kitchen, eyes burning from the acrid smell filling the apartment and gagging as it overwhelmed the air in the tiny living room. The stench was all around him like a noxious fog of acrid odor. He jerked the kitchen taps on and shoved his injured hand under the cold water. It stung as it ran over the puncture wounds from the skunk bite. With his other hand, he found and dialed a local animal control company.
“Can you hold, please?” asked the voice on the other line, and then clicked over to bland elevator music.
“No, no, no…” Remington tried to interrupt, but the operator was gone.
He hung up the phone. “Dammit.”
The pain throbbed in his hand, but wounds didn’t look too serious, just a couple of small holes, like someone had tried to sew a button to his hand. But the smell… God, the smell. He stumbled over to the sliding glass balcony door and yanked it open. He stepped out and inhaled the fresh air deep into his lungs. Looking back into the apartment, he saw no sign of the skunk. He grabbed the corner of his robe and put it over his nose and mouth. Quietly, he tiptoed his way back in and toward the Gram doll room. The door was still open. He peeked around the edge of the jamb and saw the skunk, curled up in the cradle… holding a doll. It was his Gram doll! The skunk looked up at him, hissed, then laid its head down and closed its eyes.
You’ve got to be kidding me, thought Remington. He backed out of the room and closed the door. He opened his phone and redialed the animal control company. He got a recorded message that the operating hours of the company were over for the day and that he could leave a message.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
The smell was insane and he wondered if anyone else could smell it on his floor. He stuck his head into the hall. It wasn’t as harsh, but he was sure his nostrils had become desensitized to the odor by now. Closing his door, he slipped off his ruined robe and laid it down to block the opening beneath the door… hopefully preventing the smell seeping into the hall. He grabbed a small box fan from the closet and propped it up in the doorway, blowing to waft the smell outside. He couldn’t tell if it was helping or not, but it seemed better to his assaulted nose.
He cranked the fan to high and papers went flying off the kitchen table, sucked out with the odor. He scrambled to catch them, dropping heavy coasters on them to hold them in place. Exhausted from the ordeal, he slumped down into one of the chairs and leaned his head back. He would be glad when this week was over.
A few minutes later, he opened his eyes and glanced down at the fluttering pages on the table. Disorganized as they were, he saw the one on top of the nearest pile was something he hadn’t read yet. It was a new email from Ted at Miami P.D. that he’d printed to check out at a later time. He figured now was a later time, so he picked it up. It read:
Rem, found blood on Colpiller girl’s steering wheel. Crime lab test shows one match in immigration to Adrian Hull. Secondary blood, no match in database, but tests shows female—maybe the Colpiller girls? Could be you’ve got a homicide on your hands. Had to report to command. Your case has an officer assigned to it now. Thought you might want to contact him. Det. Joe Bond.
The officer’s phone number was listed below his name. Okay, Taz, what did you do? Remington punched a number into his phone and waited.
“Senator Dickerson’s office, how may I help you?” asked a girl on the other end of the line.
“I need to speak with the senator,” Remington said calmly.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, “but he
’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed at this time. Can I take a message for him?”
“Oh, you’re going to need to go get him,” —Remington opened the file labeled Gil Dickerson Case— “this is an emergency.”
“I’m sorry sir—”
“Get his ass on the phone now!”
“Hold, please,” the girl said, a tinge of fear in her voice.
The line clicked and the bland elevator music came on. Remington waited thirty seconds before the line was answered.
“This is Gil Dickerson,” the senator said angrily. “Who’s this?”
“Hello, Governor Dickerson.” Remington emphasized the new title. “We have some things to discuss. Some very important things about your little trip to Canal Point.”
The line went quiet. After a few long seconds, the senator cleared his throat. “Not on this line,” he said.
“Understood,” Remington replied. “Come to the Pollo Tropical on 27th in one hour. Come alone. I’ll know if you’re followed.”
“Done.”
Remington hung up his phone. He heard a light scratching noise on the door to Gram’s room.
“Screw you, skunk,” he said to the closed door.
12
Tied Up At The Moment
Mindy Colpiller felt the tears streaming down her face trickle over the edge of the duct tape covering her mouth. Her hair was stuck beneath the tape in places and pulled harshly on her scalp. It was dark, but a faint light filtered in from what appeared to be windows above her. They circled the room, which was completely circular. No corners, no doors… just the high apertures all the way around. She was lying on her side with her hands tied behind her back with a shoelace. No matter how much she tried to wriggle free, she was bound tight.
She squirmed toward the wall behind her and was gradually able to work her way into an upright sitting position. As her eyes adjusted, she could definitely make out windows above letting in what appeared to be moonlight. The room was empty, except for an old trunk in the center next to a platform with a massive glass ball on top. The air was thick with some sort of foul odor. It smelled like the inside of a restaurant dumpster. Looking around more, she noticed the outline of a hatch in the floor. Since there were no doors, she guessed that must be the way out.
As her vision increased, she made out a stenciled label on the trunk: OIL. And suddenly it came to her. The lighthouse. She was in the Cape Florida Lighthouse. And, since it was closed to the public and no one ever came up here… she was highly unlikely to be discovered. She inched her way toward the trap door in the floor and found it impossible to budge with her feet or her fingers behind her back. She screamed behind the tape, but the sound was muffled and quiet. Panic began to set in.
Why, Taz, why? she thought. He had tried to deny that he knew anything about Caroline’s whereabouts, but she pressed him on it. Grilling him about their last lesson, he snapped, and told her to shut the hell up if she knew what was good for her. She didn’t know why she’d said she was going to the police, but it had been the last straw. He’d grabbed her by the neck, shoved her into a Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck, tied her hands with his shoelaces, and blindfolded her with his tennis headband.
After what seemed like an hour on the bumpiest road known to man, he’d picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Metal stairs clanged as he carried her up and up and up. He dropped her on the floor and left her. She’d been able to slip the blindfold off by rubbing her knee up and down on it. And now she was stuck here until he came back… if he came back. And God, the smell… the awful smell.
The tears came again.
Troy Bodean clicked the button on the express elevator to the penthouse. It dinged open and he stepped inside. An attendant in a getup that could only be described as a monkey grinder outfit, complete with a red vest lined in gold ribbon and a red fez hat with a gold tassel, ushered Troy inside.
“Good evening, sir,” he said and eyed Troy up and down.
He probably didn’t look like the typical visitor to the penthouse, but at this point he didn’t care.
“Floor?” asked the monkey grinder.
Troy looked at the buttons on the panel. It didn’t have numbers one or two, and instead had names; Sheringham at the bottom, Colpiller on top.
“Colpiller please.”
“Very good, sir,” the attendant said and pushed the button and the doors slid closed.
The inside of the elevator was burnished brass, and Troy could see his reflection. Khaki cargo shorts, white t-shirt, straw cowboy hat… basic beach bum attire. He saw the elevator attendant’s eyes flash over to look at him, then back up to the glowing buttons.
“I’m a friend of Mindy’s,” Troy blurted, then immediately regretted it.
The attendant pursed his lips disapprovingly.
“A concerned friend of the family,” Troy added, trying to amend his story. “We met at the Sonesta bar and—”
The man cleared his throat. “I’m quite sure it’s none of my business, sir.”
Thankfully, the elevator whooshed to a stop and the doors slid open. Unlike most elevators, this one didn’t empty into a hallway or lobby; it opened right into the penthouse apartment.
Troy stuffed his hand into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, and shoved it into the monkey grinder’s gloved hand.
“Thanks for the lift, brother,” Troy said, and smiled.
The man held the dollar in between two fingers like a dirty tissue. “Quite unnecessary, sir.”
“I insist,” Troy said, beaming as the doors began to slide closed.
He turned around and stepped into the impressive residence. The floor was ridiculously shiny terrazzo marble that clicked slightly even under his sandaled feet. The expanse was unbelievably open. To his right sat a grouping of white leather couches and an immense flat screen television. The chachkies all looked like they’d been ordered to match from some ocean cottage catalog and the artwork looked original and expensive. Directly in front of him was a massive grand piano, glossy and black, and without a single fingerprint to be seen. There was an empty glass, still coated in condensation, sitting on the bench, and to the left of the piano was a small bar with a couple of bottles of brown liquor, a silver ice bucket with tongs sticking out of it, and a white towel with blue stripes folded and hanging from a hook on the side.
Farther left of that was a modern, open-plan kitchen with stainless appliances that looked like they belonged in a gourmet restaurant.
A glass wall behind completed the airy space, affording a darkening ocean view that was spectacular, almost dizzying.
Somewhere down the hall, Troy heard a toilet flush. He removed his hat and slicked his hair back with his hand.
The man, who had to be Jack Colpiller, strolled into the room, wringing his hands lightly to dry them. He wore a v-neck t-shirt, a pair of island red shorts, and Birkenstock sandals. He looked Troy up and down.
“Well,” Jack asked, “what is it this time? Alternator? Fuel pump?”
Troy raised his eyebrows. “Beg your pardon, sir?”
“The Ferrari,” Jack said as he walked toward the piano, “what’s wrong with it?”
“Danged if I know, sir,” Troy said, “I don’t know anything about any Ferrari.”
“You’re not here about the car?”
“No, sir.”
Jack Colpiller stopped rubbing his hands together and turned toward Troy. “Well, then,” he asked, “who the hell are you?”
Troy inhaled deeply, mulling over the best way to put this whole situation into words. He decided on the straight-forward, simple approach. “I know your daughter, Mindy,” he said, “and she has expressed a concern about the well-being of your other daughter, Caroline. And now, I’m worried that something has happened to Mindy.”
Jack Colpiller sniffed and walked toward the piano where his drink was sitting. “Listen, Mr. um…?”
“Bodean,” Troy said, “but most of my friends just call me Troy.�
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“Listen, Mr. Bodean,” —Jack emphasized the fact he wasn’t going to call him Troy— “my daughters, whom you say you know…”
“Well, I don’t know Caroline, exactly.”
“Of course you don’t,” Jack said, eyeing Troy up and down, and continued, “My daughters, good girls as they are, are given to flights of fancy from time to time.” He took his empty glass to the bar and filled it with some sort of brown whiskey. “Drink, Mr. Bodean?”
Troy shrugged. “Beer, if you got it.”
Jack nodded and pulled a bottle of Sam Adams from under the bar. He handed it to Troy with a bottle opener. “It isn’t chilled, but there are pint glasses in the freezer,” he said and gestured toward the refrigerator.
Troy walked into the kitchen. “Jack, I know that you—”
“Mr. Colpiller,” Jack corrected him.
Troy cleared his throat as he poured the beer into a cold glass. “Right, Mr. Colpiller,” he continued, “I know that you know your daughters better than I do, but I’m afraid that they’ve run afoul of a certain not-so-nice character named Taz.”
“Pfftt, the tennis pro?” Jack scoffed. “Nothing but a harmless flirt. They all are, you know?”
“Well, sir,” —Troy took a sip of his beer— “I don’t know about that, but I have run across several characters like him and it has never turned out well.”
Jack fell silent for a long moment, then said, “Mr. Bodean, I have things well in hand. I have the best investigator on the case and I’m sure things will be just fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Troy drank the last of his beer in a big gulp. This wasn’t getting anywhere. He turned toward the elevator, mentally switching gears. He figured he would have to take care of this on his own.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 49