As the doors slid open, Jack Colpiller’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “This is Jack.” His face went pale. “I’ll be right there.” He clicked his phone shut and looked over at Troy.
“It seems the Miami Police Department has found my daughter’s car. And they found blood in it.”
Troy stepped out of the elevator, his heart jumping in his throat.
“Blood? Which daughter?” he asked.
“Caroline.”
“Mr. Colpiller,” Troy said quietly, “I think we need to consider the real possibility that something very wrong is going on here. We need to move fast.”
Jack turned his glass of whiskey up and swallowed the rest. He reached into his pocket and tossed a jangling ring of keys to Troy, who caught them and raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll have to drive, Mr. Bodean,” Jack said, walking briskly to the elevator, “I’ve had a few too many drinks tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” Troy clicked through the keys. “Which car?”
“We’ll take the Lambo.” Jack punched the garage button as they entered the elevator. “The Ferrari’s in the shop.”
Troy raised his other eyebrow so they were both lifted in surprise. “You sure about that, Mr. Colpiller?”
“I’m certain,” he said as they doors slid closed, “the Jag is much too slow. And call me Jack.”
“You got it, Jack.”
Troy gunned the bright yellow Lamborghini’s accelerator and squealed out of the parking garage below the Grand Bay. The g-forces pushing him back in the driver’s seat reminded him of the rush of taking off in an Apache, and he said as much out loud.
“You used to fly Apaches?” Jack Colpiller asked him in apparent surprise.
“Yup,” Troy said, nodding, “back in Afghanistan.”
“You should’ve told me you were a soldier,” Jack said and clapped Troy’s knee.
“Would it have made any difference?”
“None.”
Troy smiled as they raced over the causeway toward Miami. The local police must’ve recognized Mr. Colpiller’s car, because no one even gave them a second glance. Privilege does indeed have its benefits, Troy thought.
Jack Colpiller tapped a button on the radio—which looked more like a computer than a sound system—and spoke to the car.
“Call Mindy,” he said.
The computer answered, “Calling Mindy.”
The sound of a ringing phone filled the car. It rang three times and went to voicemail. He repeated the process for Caroline. Same thing. Both phones were off.
“It would be quite odd for both girls to be off the grid at the same time, wouldn’t it, Troy?”
“Yes, sir,” Troy agreed, “I do believe it would.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re right about this whole situation,” Jack said, worry creeping into his voice.
“Whose blood did they find in the car?” Troy asked.
“Couldn’t tell me on the phone,” Jack answered, “but he said they got the hit from immigration.”
“Taz,” Troy said, “something’s up with Taz.”
“I do believe you’re right, Mr. Bodean…” Jack’s voice trailed off and he stared out the window at the street lights racing past.
“Call me Troy, Jack. And don’t worry about a thing. I’ve been through this all before and I think I know of a friend at the Miami P.D. who might be able to help out.”
“Well, then, Troy,” Jack said as he looked pointedly at him, “do you think you can stop driving like my mother?”
Troy turned back to the road and put the hammer down.
13
Scratch My Back
Adrian “Taz” Hull sat in the parking lot of the Liberty Square apartment building where he’d had the run-in with Mr. Smith… or whoever the guy was that had been following him around. He had the man’s briefcase open in the passenger’s seat of the Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck next to him. He sifted through the papers again and had pieced together that the man was a private investigator, hired by Jack Colpiller, to find out what had happened to his daughter, Caroline.
“Good luck with that,” Taz said, and grinned.
In return for finding out what happened to Caroline Colpiller, the investigator would receive a payment of two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. Not too shabby. It was also apparent from the man’s notes that he was on Taz’s trail… hence the reason for following him around. As far as he could tell, the man had no real evidence on his involvement with the disappearance of Caroline, just a bunch of hunches.
However, it was the other stack of papers in the folder that had sparked an idea in Taz’s mind. An idea that might make Mr. Smith’s investigation of him go away. From what he could tell, the man was investigating some senator who’d been having an affair with, and had possibly murdered, some poor intern. It was a stack of evidence that Taz thought the man would pay dearly to get back.
He wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed, but he knew he needed to get Mr. Smith off his back. The investigator knew who he was, but he didn’t think he knew Taz was the one who had stolen the briefcase. It seemed as if maybe the best thing to do was knock on his door and let him know.
He got out of the truck and was immediately hit by a strong odor. A pungent, disgusting odor. Skunk. Someone had probably hit one on the road nearby… very close, apparently, as it stunk to high heaven.
“Geezus Croist,” Taz said, pinching his nose as he stepped into the elevator.
Riding up three levels trapped with that stench was almost enough to make him throw up… and it got worse when he stepped into the hall where Mr. Smith’s apartment was. Okay, maybe the skunk had died in the building somehow…
Taz’s eyes watered as he approached the door where he’d fled from the man. The skunk had definitely died in Mr. Smith’s apartment. He could barely , and the urge to vomit grew progressively stronger. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing.
“Fookin’ A,” Taz said, knocking more urgently, “open a damn window or somethin’.”
His stomach churned hard and he couldn’t keep it down any longer, retching all over the door… three times. Vomit trailed down the door and onto the carpet. He knocked violently, until an old lady stuck her head out the door from across the hall. Her nose was literally held shut with a clothespin.
“He ain’t home, damn ya,” she growled. “Now get out of here.”
Taz opened his mouth to reply, but was afraid more vomit would spew forth. He flipped her the bird and jogged to the elevator. The smell grew progressively weaker as he rode down, and when he got back into his truck, he turned the air conditioner on high. He wiped his forehead and breathed slowly to gain his composure. He thought about simply waiting there until Mr. Smith returned, but he had to get away from the smell. He needed something to drink to wash the barf from his mouth, too. Over above the next building, he saw a sign that read, Pollo Tropical.
“Perfect.” He wiped his chin on his sleeve and pulled the truck out onto the road.
Slowly, the smell began to weaken enough that he felt better. He pictured himself smashing the old lady’s face and taking her clothespin next time. He couldn’t help but smile as the restaurant came into view.
Remington Hoyt Reginald sat in a booth sipping an ice-cold unsweetened mango tea. He chose a seat near the back of the restaurant, away from the bathroom and the front registers. He could see two of the doors where Dickerson might come in, but was sat behind a short wall covered in pictures of chickens; hard to spot, unless you were looking specifically for him. As he sat there contemplating exactly what he would ask for in return for burying this explosive evidence against Governor-elect Gil Dickerson, two haggard looking women stumbled into the restaurant with a two-year old child in tow. Cute kid, dark curly hair, blue eyes, but the two women looked like they’d been in the sun a little too long and perhaps had one too many cigarettes. Leathery was the best word he could think of to describe them.
“I’ll get whatever I dang w
ell please, Ellie Mae,” one of them shouted as they entered.
“Now, Daisy Mae, you know you cain’t get nothin’ with too much caffeine in it since yer still breast feedin’ little Troy,” the second girl said.
The little boy looked from one woman to the other, smiling, and oblivious to the fact they were clearly not interested in his opinion on the subject.
“Oh, c’mon now,” the girl called Daisy Mae protested, “he won’t care none at all.”
“You’re a terrible mother,” Ellie Mae said, and sneered at her.
As if on cue, the two women started smacking each other. Bleach blonde hair flew in all directions as they grunted and fought. The boy just stood by quietly as they pushed and shoved each other.
Remington wondered if there was a father figure in the boy’s life or if, God forbid, these two cackling hens were all he had. But then again, not all father figures were that great anyway. His own dad wasn’t exactly a saint… except to the tens of thousands of people who supported his ministry with tithes and offerings every single week. Good old Brant Reginald of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama. A son of God indeed, and father of Remington… the black sheep of the Reginald family.
Remington was snapped out of his daze when the two Daisy-Duke wearing women and their cute little boy plopped down into the booth right beside him.
“Ellie Mae!” Daisy Mae nearly shouted. “You farted!”
“Why, hell no, I did no such thing!” Daisy Mae shot back.
The first woman stuck her nose in the air, looking like a mangy yellow lab. She sniffed for a second and then shrugged her shoulders.
“Well,” she said, passing out bags of food, “you sho’ do smell like one.”
“Shut up, Ellie Mae.”
Remington gave a light sniff of his shoulder. He knew the women could smell the skunk on his clothes. He had doused himself in cologne and fabric refresher, hoping to control the odor. It didn’t take much to become desensitized when you’d been sitting in the strong rankness of his apartment. He shrugged it off.
At that exact moment, Senator—or rather, Governor-elect—Gil Dickerson walked into the Pollo Tropical.
Are you freakin’ kidding me, Remington thought, and shrugged as Gil shot him a questioning glance upon seeing the boisterous trio sitting in the next booth.
He quietly slid into the seat across from Remington, and steepled his hands in front of him on the table. He sniffed, adjusted his tie, and spoke softly.
“Okay, Mr. Reginald,” he said, “I’m here. I came alone. Let’s hear what you have to say.”
Remington leaned to one side, eyeing the group in the next booth. “Not yet,” he said and nodded toward the commotion.
Gil sniffed again. “I suppose I’ll get a drink then. What do you recommend?”
“Mango tea, unsweetened.”
“Fine,” he said, getting up and walking to the counter.
Remington had never seen a movie star or a rock star in person, but when Gil Dickerson walked up to order his tea, the response from the proletariat was insane. Workers, customers and loiterers were all scrambling around just to shake his hand and tell them how happy they were to vote for him. It was eye-opening. He kissed babies, he kissed grandmothers, he shook hands with veterans… the man had a gift. He wondered what kind of father Gil Dickerson was, but then he remembered the man was a murderer. After the manager of the store insisted Governor-elect Dickerson would absolutely not pay for tea in this store, he shooed his people back to work and told them to leave the man alone. He was obviously a man of the people to come down here and eat at the Pollo Tropical.
Gil slumped down into the booth. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the two women and child were still sitting in the booth behind them, and sipped his tea quietly.
“They love you,” Remington said.
“Mmhmm,” Gil replied.
“You could’ve had it all.”
The Governor-elect of Florida froze. Remington knew it was a passive threat, stated to imply that the man wouldn’t have it all.
He let the silence—or rather, the silence at their table—hang between them. He wanted Gil Dickerson to realize the power that he had over him. He could end the man. For the first time in his life, he was the one with the power.
“Mama, we go see Mickey?” said the child sitting in the next booth, breaking through the din.
Remington was absolutely certain an immediate rebuke would be coming from the two women he was unfortunately sitting with… but it didn’t.
“Oh, that’s a great idea, Lil T,” said Daisy Mae, “donchu think so Ellie Mae?”
“We would have so much fun!” Ellie Mae agreed.
“If you finish off them fries, we’ll go right now,” said Daisy Mae. “It’s a big place, and you’ll git hungry walkin’ round thar.”
“Yayyy, Mama!” The little boy was ecstatic, jumping up and down in his seat and shoving fries into his mouth.
Remington couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to go too. The great Brant Reginald would never take him to a place like Disney World. Too many sinful things happened there. Gram would’ve taken him… if his father would’ve allowed it… but no. He watched longingly as the three of them shoved their trash into a nearby can, filled their soda cups to the limit, and skipped out the door.
“Finally,” Gil Dickerson grunted. “Now, let’s get down to business. What exactly is it that you think you know and what the hell does it have to do with me?”
Remington inhaled deeply. Here we go. Crossing the Rubicon metaphorically.
“Chief of Staff,” he said simply and sipped his tea.
“Beg pardon?”
“When you’re elected, you will appoint me your chief of staff,” Remington said matter-of-factly.
Gil Dickerson leaned his head back and roared with laughter. Some of the patrons even glanced in his direction it was so loud.
“Now, that my boy, is a hoot,” Gil said and slapped the table. “I can’t even tell you how much I needed that laugh.”
Remington picked up a folder from the seat beside him and slid it across the table. Gil Dickerson sucked his teeth and opened it. His expression wavered a little, but then turned to stone as he looked over the papers inside the folder.
“Her name was Jackie Ranchero-Doral,” Remington said, as the Governor-elect flipped to an 8x10 photograph of the girl, “and her husband hired me to find out if she was having an affair, and if so, who with.”
“Okay,” Gil said slowly, “and what does this have to do with me?”
Remington slid a large envelope onto the table. Gil opened it and pulled the corner of some photographs out of the envelope a little, and then shoved them back in.
“These photographs, which, of course, are duplicated and stored in a safe location, show exactly what it has to do with you.” Remington felt his pulse quickening as his palms started sweating.
Gil Dickerson stiffened and blustered. “That girl is nothing but a whore and a liar,” he growled, “telling stories in the hopes that it will further her political career.”
“Seems nothing will be furthering her anything at this point,” Remington shot back, “since you left her at the bottom of Lake Okeechobee.”
A flicker of panic raced across the senator’s face, but disappeared as quickly as it came. His responses led Remington to believe he’d been coached on how to deal with this situation. Deny that the girl was dead… at least until there was actual proof of it… which technically, Remington didn’t have.
Gil leaned over the table and whispered harshly at Remington. “Mr. Reginald, you are playing in waters much deeper than those at Canal Point right now. You have nothing but pictures of a senator enjoying time with his intern. Okay, maybe call it an affair. I’ll still be elected. Hell, Clinton was a damn hero after fooling around with old what’s-her-name-inski.”
Remington inhaled deeply. He decided to go all in. He’d never been a good at poker, but he k
new the stakes had to be higher to have any shot at beating the best players.
He took a small baggie from his pocket. It contained two teeth and a white cloth with blood on it. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward the senator.
Gil Dickerson’s face went alabaster white, and the straw from his mango tea hung on his lower lip. His eyes went slack and his shoulders slumped. The lab had not been able to match the teeth or the blood to Jackie Ranchero-Doral, or anyone else for that matter. Remington had suggested that they check the results against anything they could find on her, but her records had been sealed… conveniently. He suspected that someone in the shady circle of power grooming Gil Dickerson for a presidential run had something to do with that. He decided to bluff that hand.
“We both know what you’ve done,” Remington said and leaned forward, matching the senator’s whisper. “Eventually, they’ll find her body. Might not be today, might not be tomorrow, but someday. Will you be in the White House when that happens? Who knows? Will a lowly little private investigator from Hialeah, Florida, leak photographs of you with her on a boat at Canal Point? Will that same P.I. come up with blood and teeth that will match the body that were found on the boat that you both were on at Canal Point?”
He paused to let all of that sink in. It was a damning trail. A trail that started with the body… a body that Remington never saw… she was alive and well in the last picture he took of them. But she never came back to shore, and Gil returned alone. Remington had pictures of that too.
“None of this ever has to come out,” he said, and leaned back and pulled the baggie off the table, shoving it into his pocket.
Gil’s hand shook slightly on his cup. He steadied it and sipped the last of his tea.
“It is really good tea, isn’t it?” he said.
Remington nodded and took a sip of his.
Gil Dickerson stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and extended his hand toward Remington.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 50