Dusting for prints had also been a bust; the only partials they found belonged to Rick. Picking up the second evidence bag on his desk that contained Rick Hairre’s wallet for the one-hundredth time seemed like a lost cause, but something new occurred to him as he pulled out its contents. Could there be a password clue in these things?
One at a time, he laid the cards and scraps of paper out on his desk. Studying them carefully, again, he made notes on his yellow pad bought solely for this investigation.
Georgetown Kraft Credit Union Debit Card
BankAmericard Rewards Visa – Expired
Driver’s License – Issued to one Rickard Bertram Hairre. Rickard? Must be a family name.
Hair Club of Georgetown membership card, ID #4747
Humana Medical Insurance Card issued by city council of Murrell’s Inlet.
Five city council business cards
Post-It Note with address: 700 S. Kawasaki – googled for SC, no match. Closest match JFK Auto in NC.
Receipt from Lee’s Inlet Kitchen
Nothing here, Chesney thought to himself. No thoughtful password scrawled on the back of anything.
“Wait a sec ... ” he mumbled to no one while picking up his phone. Flipping over the GKCU Debit Card, he dialed the number of the main office.
“Georgetown Kraft Credit Union, this is Tammy-Anne speaking, how may I direct your call?”
“Tammy-Anne, this is Deputy Biggins, could I—”
“Oh, just terrible isn’t it, Ches? I just can’t get over what happened to that poor man. Why, Laura Kate was in here just a few minutes ago and she looks devastated.”
Interesting, Chesney thought. “Well, Tammy-Anne, that’s kind of what I’m calling about. I need to get some information from Rick Hairre’s account.” The line went quiet. He could tell she was still there from the background bank noise of teller drawers opening and microphone chatter from the drive-through. “Tammy-Anne?”
“Now, you know I can’t give you any personal information over the phone.”
“You realize I can get a warrant for what I need, but Boonesborough is gone to the Hampton’s for a week and I really need to—”
“Mmhhmm,” she interrupted him, “over the phone would be big trouble for everyone.”
Over the phone? Huh? Ohhhh, probably a recorded line.
“Understood, Tammy-Anne,” he said and felt himself nodding. “10-98, 10-17.”
Tammy-Anne had once been married to a police officer many years ago, and he hoped she’d know the code as his indication that he understood and was en route. He shut his laptop and slid it and his yellow pad of notes into a duffle bag. He slid the evidence bag in with them, careful not to put his prints on anything inside.
“10-4,” she answered.
Fifteen minutes later, he pulled up to the drive-through at the Georgetown Kraft Credit Union. Tammy-Anne came to the window and pulled over the Burger King style microphone.
“Well, helloooo, Deputy Biggins,” she gushed as if they hadn’t spoken in ages, “what can I do for you today?”
“Hi Tammy-Anne,” he said and touched the bill of his hat, “workin’ late tonight I see.”
It was nearing 7 o’clock; closing time for the credit union was 5.
“End of the month,” she said, smiling, “and folks need extra time to get their checks in before the weekend.”
He slid Rick Hairre’s debit card into the drawer, and said, “I need to make a withdrawal.”
“Certainly.” She took the card and walked away from the window.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for, but he guessed there was enough information in Rick’s bank file to get him farther along than he was currently.
“Here ya go, darlin’.” She placed a manila folder in the drawer along with the debit card. “Be sure to deposit that back soon.”
“10-4.”
He put his cruiser in drive and flopped the folder down into the passenger seat. Suddenly, his personal cell blared out the scream and guitar riff from Won’t Get Fooled Again by The Who.
Random number, someone who wasn’t in his contacts. Voicemail can get that one, he thought while clicking the reject button.
“Really?” Laura Kate said into her phone as she listened to the voicemail message.
“This is Chesney Biggins. I can’t answer your call right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Chesney, this is—”
The voicemail message interrupted her. “If you have an emergency or if this is official police business, please call the Garden City Police Department at 911.”
Really?? she thought again as she waited for the beep.
Chesney’s phone chirped to alert him to the voicemail. He hit the button and listened.
“Ok, Mr. Call Me anytime. This is Laura Kate Starlington,” her voice sassed just below sarcastic. “Hey, I’m working tonight at Drunken Jack’s and there’s a really strange guy in here. I think he’s using a stolen credit card.”
He smiled to himself, a pretty clever fake setup to get to see him again.
“I don’t know if you can, like, run the name or whatever,” she continued, “but this guy doesn’t look like a Victor Böhring to me.”
Victor Böhring, Chesney thought, why does that sound so familiar?
“So, if you’re ready to protect and serve or whatever, give me a call. Later.”
He saved the message and put the phone back into his pocket. Before pulling out of the bank parking lot, he tapped the name into his laptop search. Google reported: About 24,500 results (0.31 seconds).
None of the results jogged anything in his memory. Dead end.
Guess I’ll just have to go see what Mr. Böhring is up to at Drunken Jack’s.
He picked up his radio. “Todd, I got a 10-21 on a 10-83 at Drunken Jack’s. Gonna check it out.”
His radio squelched. “Sounds hard, Dick! Slip on in there and see if you can get your hands on the situation.”
He put his radio down without answering. It never stops, does it? I’m working with juveniles. As he drove toward the bar, he wondered if it was time for a career change.
Laura Kate dropped her phone into her purse as the stranger yelled from across the bar. “Wheya the fook ah them beeyahs?”
“Coming right up,” she yelled as she pulled her shirt tail out of her skirt and tied it up in a knot, exposing her midriff. Okay, abs do your thing. Gotta keep ‘em here long enough for the cavalry to ride in.
15
Zig Zag
Troy Clint Bodean couldn’t remember the last time he’d darkened the doors of Drunken Jack’s Restaurant and Lounge. After a few months in Pawleys, the allure of the touristy places had worn off.
He stood in his bathroom studying his ruddy reflection. A rumpled white linen shirt (the one with no stains), his cleanest pair of Columbia brand khaki shorts and his LSU ball cap made up his best going out outfit. His reflection shrugged.
He didn’t know if this was what people wore out, but it was the best he had. He scrubbed his hand through his more than stubbly chin and wondered if he should shave. He hadn’t seen his face clean shaven in so long, he was afraid he wouldn’t recognize what he saw ... so he left it.
He picked up a bottle of Old Spice cologne that sat on his bathroom counter. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that either. A tiny splash of it behind his ears ... he guessed that was what he was supposed to do with it.
“Okay,” he said and clapped his hands together. “Let’s do this.”
As he walked into the living room, he noticed the cowboy hat laying up-ended on the futon. He smiled to himself as he took off old faithful and put on the new straw beauty. It was the last time the Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat would ever leave his head.
He locked his door and carefully placed the key above the porch light behind a slightly loose board; thinking ahead to any guests he might have later tonight. He strolled acr
oss the road to the creek-side dock where he’d lost his fishing rod earlier to wait for his ride. Uber was a wonderful thing, and he figured he might not be in a condition to drive after a night of Drunken Jack’s signature Margaritas.
The moon glistened off the gentle current and the breeze was soft and warm. He eased down into the hammock and was almost sound asleep when the beep beep of his chariot-for-hire broke the calm. A long black Lincoln Town Car sat in front of his modest cabana. Whoa, he thought, seems a bit fancy for Pawleys. The car’s windows were too dark to penetrate, but the windshield did have the familiar Uber logo and looked pretty legit.
Suddenly, the driver’s door opened and a black man dressed in a black suit wearing a black driver’s hat and black leather gloves jumped out and hurried to the back to open the door for Troy.
“Good even’, Mista Troy,” said a familiar voice from behind a gleaming white smile.
Recognition dawned. “Willie?”
“Yessa,” said the one-eyed ice cream truck driver as he tipped his cap to his passenger.
“You drive for Uber? How is that even possible for someone with only one ey—” He stopped short, realizing Willie was glaring at him (out of one eye, obviously).
He ignored the remark about his eye and ushered Troy into the back of the Town Car. “Only fo’ coupla days now. Ma’ otha car’s in da shop.” The man’s eye squinted angrily and looked off in the distance. “But da man ain’t gon’ keep me down, no sir.”
He closed the door and Troy watched as he limped around the car and slid inside. Willie punched a few buttons on his phone and turned around to speak to Troy.
“You inna hurry, Mista Troy? Gotta stop or two ta make if ya don’ mind. Don’t worry, I won’t start da trip til we get goin’ yo way.”
Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Works for me.”
“Grand, Mista Troy, grand,” he said, beaming, “Got a few bottled wata’s in da cooler if ya get thirsty.”
“Much obliged.” Troy opened the top of the small Yeti cooler and grinned. “Can I have one of these Orange Crème Push-Ups?”
“Why, a’ course, Mista Troy,” Willie tipped his cap at him in the rear-view mirror and they headed back for the causeway. Troy took in the beautiful car’s appointed leather, and the expensive cooler filled with Evian and ice cream.
As he pushed up his popsicle, he asked, “So, Willie, what gives? How’s an ice cream man afford all of this?”
The old, one-eyed ice cream man winked at him—which was an odd sight for a one-eyed man. “I got dem trucks in every neighborhood and beach town from here to da Keys. Ice cream bidness is good.”
“I can see that,” Troy said, finished his push-pop, and carefully placed the sticky wrapper in a small trash can between the seats. He washed it down with a cool bottle of Evian and after a second, finished that off too. Stay hydrated, he thought.
“Got one on da way up from Islamorada that’ll put me back in da ice cream bidness by tomorrah,” Willie said and winked at him.
“Gotcha,” Troy said, tossing the empty bottle into the trash.
No more than a mile later, they pulled into the Pawleys Pier Village—the only condos on the island. Odd, Troy thought to himself as One-Eyed Willie punched in the code to the security gate, but he had no idea just how odd it was about to get.
Forty-five minutes later, a loud bang startled Troy. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock on the dashboard. The luxurious Lincoln Town Car was still idling, but there was no sign of his driver. Troy stretched and peered out the windshield toward the courtyard between the buildings. It was dark, but he thought he could make out someone running away from the pool. Probably some kids swimming after hours. Suddenly, another bang shattered the silence.
It clearly wasn’t a gunshot; it was more like a trash can lid being slammed shut. Troy clicked the button on his door and the window slid down. Murmurs floated to his ears across the darkness.
“Git mah jeans, git the chair and git back in here!” he heard a woman’s voice call into the dark. “That gall-dang guard’s comin’ back.”
Troy shook his head and laughed. Pawleys Pier Village sometimes attracted the rougher, more touristy crowd from up and around Myrtle Beach.
Another voice entered the fray. “Drop the butcher’s knife and put your hands up!”
It was an old man, but not Willie.
“You girls are out here runnin’ around like a couple of crazy people givin’ everyone the heebie-jeebies!”
Troy could stand no more; he had to see what this was all about. He gently opened the car door and hunched his way through the walkway to the courtyard. When he got to the corner, he peered around the edge.
About ten feet apart from each other stood the hundred-year-old man (presumably the security guard) and a naked blonde girl holding a butcher knife and a pile of clothes in front of her bare body. On top of all that ... she looked vaguely familiar. He’d seen her before, but couldn’t place where.
“Don’t git no closer, old man!” she said and pointed the knife at him menacingly. “I knows what yer after! Ain’t nobody gits to see this without payin’.”
Troy almost laughed when the man shrugged his shoulders.
“You girls are trespassing and I just need you to leave.”
Another voice called out from the balcony right up behind Troy. He hit the deck as she called out, “We ain’t causin’ no trouble old man. That gate was open and she’s jus’ gittin’ a bath!”
“Lady, you can’t be bathing in our swimming pool. Now, look, you just get your things and go and I won’t call the cops.”
Ignoring him, the naked girl called up to her friend on the balcony. “Daisy Mae, how’n the hell’d you git up ‘ar?”
“I climbed the gutter, dumbass.”
“Oh, well, git on down. I found you some clothes hangin’ out by the pool.”
Troy couldn’t see it, but apparently the young lady on the balcony was climbing down again.
“Be careful, Daisy Mae. Don’t hurt ‘at baby, now.”
Baby? What the hell? Troy could see that the security guard was obviously concerned about the woman scaling the gutter.
“I got dis, Ellie Mae,” called the voice, grunting with effort, “I ain’t gon’ hurt little T.C.”
T.C.? That’s weird, Troy thought, that’s what dad used to call me. When she finally thudded to the ground, Troy could see she was also naked and dripping wet and more than eight months pregnant!
“Now, listen you two,” the security guard said, his hands up in front of him. They were shaking wildly with fear—or maybe a palsy of some sort.
“Just leave that,” —he pointed to the knife— “in there, —he motioned to a trash can nearby— “and get your dirty jalopy and trailer out of here.”
The first girl (Ellie Mae?) started handing clothes to the pregnant girl (Daisy Mae?).
“Let’s blow ‘is joint,” Ellie Mae said as she tossed the knife into the trash can. “We got what we need.”
“If you call ‘em cops, old man,” Daisy Mae spat at the security guard, “we gon’ come back’n gut ya.”
“Whatever,” he said, still holding his hands out in front of him. “Just go.”
The two girls, who had to be twins, started toward the walkway that Troy was laying down next to. He froze, hoping the darkness would hide him. Suddenly, One-Eyed Willie came down a set of nearby stairs singing, Zip-a-dee-doo-da ...
Every head turned. Willie froze.
“What de hell ... ” he mouthed into the night.
The oldest security guard in the world turned toward Willie. “Who in the hell is this now, your pimp?”
Ellie Mae’s face twisted in rage. “We ain’t no ho’s, ya old bastert!”
Daisy Mae agreed whole-heartedly. “Yeah, stupid. There ain’t no sex in the champagne room!”
“Just cuz we strip don’t mean we do nothin’ else!”
“Yeah, loser,” Daisy Mae laughed as she sang out, “if ya ain’t got no
twenty, you ain’t gettin’ any!”
Troy froze. Oh, shit, he thought, it’s Cinnamon and Starr from the Peppermint Hippo back in Vegas! He never knew their real names, but it was definitely them. Starr (or Daisy Mae) was always trying to get with Troy after getting all coked up on stage, claimed she wanted to have his babies.
“What in God’s name are they doing here?” he mumbled to himself.
There was a moment of silence as everyone suddenly realized no one was moving to leave.
“Okay, well, it’s been real nice meetin’ y’all, but I got ta go,” Willie suddenly said and started walking away from the group.
The cacophony rose again with all the parties yelling at each other, no one seeming ready to give in.
Troy took this as his cue and jumped up as quietly as he could and ran back to the car.
He ducked into the back of the Lincoln, but he could still see the chaos erupting in between the buildings of the Pawleys Pier Village. A set of naked, blonde twins (one of whom was busting out pregnant), Methuselah the security guard, and a black, one-eyed ice cream truck/Uber driver all scrambled in different directions. Troy could almost hear the theme song from The Benny Hill show playing, or maybe it was the Keystone Cops song—either way, it was hilarious.
As Willie jumped into the car, he jerked it into reverse and said, “We getting’ outta dis crazy place!” He slung the long black car out of the parking spot so fast that Troy slid across the slick leather back seat and went tumbling to the floorboard. His cowboy hat flew off and he reached down to get it.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 15