The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  The crunch of gravel was satisfying under the wheels of his new Mercedes as he pulled into his new beach home. The outside of the house was broad and covered four side-by-side parking spaces beneath. The green metal roof covered two stories of window after window winged by green storm shutters, all of which overlooked creek-side and beachside wraparound porches. Stately square columns held charcoal grey railings and offered foot rests to at least twenty white rocking chairs. Victor was looking forward to resting his travel-aching body in one of those chairs while sipping on a beautiful Pinot Noir he’d brought for just that purpose.

  Again, feeling generous, he shut off the car and tapped the horn twice and waited. Everyone deserved at least a little warning. He pulled the driver’s side sun visor down and adjusted the mirror so he could see himself. He had the smooth tan that came from perfectly even man-made tanning lotions and clear, crystal blue eyes. The lines around his eyes had deepened in the past few years, more from stress than laughter, but he’d had a few Botox treatments to slow that down. He ran his tongue over the new perfectly white caps on his front teeth; coffee, wine and cigars had yellowed his own until he’d decided to get them fixed. Finger combing his hair straight back revealed a hairline that had also been surgically augmented, but only a very close inspection would reveal that to any observer. He’d kept it salt and pepper though; it looked distinguished and age-appropriate, even if his smooth skin did not.

  He glanced down at his Junghans Meister Handaufzug watch, a timepiece that equaled the Mercedes in craftsmanship and elegance, and decided that he’d given them enough time. He wondered if the children would come up from the beach to meet him. Often when they did, he felt very much like Captain Georg von Trapp from the sound of music, interviewing his offspring about their recent behavior and escapades. He didn’t have the whistle to blow to send them scampering to and fro, but he thought he might acquire one soon.

  As he closed the door of his SUV, a stray beach ball floated in and bounced off the hood. He grabbed it quickly before it could bounce again and squeezed it until it popped. Pushing the button to call the elevator to the ground floor, he idly threw the busted ball into a nearby trash container. I vill devinitely be getting a vhistle, he thought to himself.

  Laura Starlington yawned as she clicked through the first few pages of a new book on her Kindle, trying desperately to become attached to the new characters, but it just wasn’t happening. The first book in the series had been amazing, but this one just hadn’t caught any steam yet. She had gotten up and dragged her chair down to the beach to watch the sunrise. It was a good one this morning; Pawleys never disappointed in the sunrise department.

  Her toes were digging in the crunchy bits of shell that had washed up with the tide as her right hand traced the condensation on her mimosa. Her cousin, Karah Campobello, was still in the bed after their crazy late night at Drunken Jack’s.

  Frat boy bar fights and weird foreign dudes barfing all over and creepy, psycho wrestler looking guys using stolen credit cards; it had been a circus. In fact, thinking back about the night, she realized all those characters were more interesting than the ones in her new paperback. If this book didn’t get any better, Laura thought she’d run to Starbuck’s for a couple of coffees to help pep things up around her Pawleys Island cabana.

  A couple of houses to the North, four cute little kids were digging in the sand, throwing a beach ball around and splashing in the gentle surf. They looked to range from about five-years-old all the way up to ten. They all had shockingly blonde hair, and matching teal swimsuits with matching teal beach towels. She thought if she ever had kids, she wanted them to look like these kids. They looked like kids from a Parenting magazine ad. A horn honked twice and the kids froze, all of them looking up like a group of meerkats scanning the beach for a predator. Nobody moved.

  Suddenly, running down from the house was an older boy. He ran like he was trying to warn the others of a boulder chasing him out of a cave like Indiana Jones. He stumbled and fell to his hands and knees in a splash of sand.

  “D.A.D.!!! Repeat, we’ve got a DAD alert!!” he yelled. “Did you hear me? D.A.D.!!”

  The kids playing in the sand scrambled to pick up belongings; towels, beach balls, sand castle building tools, paddle balls and paddles, bocce balls and Frisbees. They looked like the victims of Pompeii, furiously—but futilely—trying to escape some impending doom.

  The older boy looked almost in tears as he cried. “Hurry guys! He’s coming!”

  In a whirlwind of dropping toys, picking up towels, running, falling and stumbling, the children made their way up the beach collecting their fallen comrades along the run like the soldiers storming Normandy on D-Day. And suddenly it was quiet again.

  Laura tipped her hat back on her head and looked at her watch: 6:48am. Mmmm, Starbucks will be open by the time I get there! She dragged her chair up toward the dune, and plopped it down on the deck, not bothering to spray it off (they’d be back out on the beach in a little while anyway).

  She dipped her feet into a tub of cool water to wash the sand from between her toes and slipped her flip flops on. Entering the house always felt like stepping into a refrigerator, and she wrapped the towel around her shivering body. She listened for Karah and heard her soft snoring coming from the upstairs bedroom. Lazy thing won’t be up for at least another hour, plenty of time to grab a couple of lattes.

  She jotted out a quick note and grabbed Karah’s keys, since her cousin’s Land Rover was parked behind her Jetta. No need to get dressed; she’d be hitting the drive-through anyway. She clicked the door shut and padded down to the car.

  Karah’s cell phone was lying in the console compartment between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s seat. Idly, Laura picked it up and clicked it on. One missed message from Troy early this morning:

  -“In cab, on way.”

  Laura clicked out a reply:

  -“Hey it’s Laura, Karah still sleeping. Heading to Starbucks, you’ll probably beat me back. You want something?”

  -“Yeah, get me that white chocolate thingy they have.”

  Laura couldn’t help but smile—that had to be Karah’s doing.

  -“You got it. See you in a bit.”

  She dropped the phone into the passenger’s seat and headed north to the causeway.

  Victor Böhring paced back and forth as his children dripped on the marble floor. They were shivering in the air conditioning, all in various states of dampness and sandiness from the beach. The maid stood at the end of the line, lips pursed and looking as if she were guilty of the children’s current disheveled state. Victor preferred everything to be in very precise, neat order, including his offspring.

  The shock on their faces resembled those of an audience watching Harry Houdini perform an incredible escape, when he said, “one hour. Zat eez your beach time today.”

  The youngest girl, Eliza, said, “Yayyy, thank you, Daddy!!”

  “Shhhhh!” the others scolded her.

  “You are velcome,” he said and ruffled her nearly white hair. “Off vit you. Enjoy your day.”

  The children jumped for joy and laughed hysterically as if Christmas had come in the summer. Within seconds, they were back on the beach and the maid was standing alone, dumbstruck by the generosity of her employer.

  “Meester Böhring,” she started to say, “thees ees wonderf—”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “I did not tell you to speak.” He motioned to the sandy, wet aftermath of the children. “Clean it up, now.”

  She bowed and meekly replied. “Yes, Meester Böhring.”

  “Where is Mrs. Böhring?” he asked derisively, knowing the likely answer.

  “She ees in da bed, Meester Böhring.”

  “Wake her ven you hev zis cleaned up.” He waved a hand. “I need her out ov here as vell.”

  “Yes, Meester Böhring.”

  Victor checked his watch. Man’ti and Darren would be here soon and he needed time alone with them to di
scuss their next move. They had proved to be bungling idiots, and he felt like they needed a little more motivation. He sat down heavily into the plush leather recliner facing the ocean-side windows. As he watched the kids playing in the sand, he opened the cigar humidor sitting on the coffee table and took out a pristine, unsmoked Montecristo #2 cigar. From his pocket, he produced the razor-sharp cigar cutters engraved with the initials VB, and snipped the ends of the cigar. He prided himself on keeping his cutters so sharp that he barely felt the resistance as he squeezed them through his cigars.

  He put the popular Cuban smoke in his mouth and rolled it around on his tongue to moisten the end. He quickly clicked the cutters open and shut to remove any debris from them, and grinned around his teeth. Motivation comes in all different shapes and sizes, he thought, picturing the damage his snippers could do to a finger. He didn’t light the cigar, he just sucked the end ... waiting.

  23

  Bad Timing

  Karah Campobello rolled out of bed with a pounding headache. One too many margaritas, she thought.

  “Hey, I’m just gonna take a quick shower,” she called down the stairs, “and then we can hit the beach, k?”

  She waited for the response from her cousin. None came.

  “Laura?”

  Strange ... maybe she went down to the beach already. Karah walked down the stairs calling out again. She found a note on the kitchen counter:

  Gone to the bucks, brb. Taking your car.

  She rummaged around in the junk drawer of the kitchen and finally found an old, out-of-date packet containing two ibuprofen capsules and swallowed them whole, downing an entire glass of water in the process. Hydrate, gotta hydrate and rally, she thought. Troy will be here soon and I can’t be all hungover.

  She filled her glass again and headed back upstairs to get going on the shower and beach prep. “I hope Laura’s gettin’ me a double shot of espresso and something,’” she muttered .

  Her shower steamed up the mirror in the bathroom and she almost fell asleep under the hot stream of water. After a few minutes, she began to feel human again. Rummaging through her bag, she found a new bikini she’d bought from Venus along with her new dress that Troy had only seen in a pic. It was a little racier than the one he’d seen her in before. She grinned at the thought of seeing his reaction to her tan lines that were exposed, because this suit was much smaller than her other bikini. She felt a thrill at the thought and was excited to see him.

  Wonder where he is anyway ... he should be here by now.

  She ran downstairs to check her phone and realized Laura had it with her. Crap. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror hanging in the living room. Dayummm, girl, she said and winked at her own reflection, he doesn’t stand a chance when he gets here. She filled a tumbler with a little leftover sangria and ice, grabbed a towel, her book, a straw hat (that she idly thought matched Troy’s cowboy hat) and her sunglasses, and headed down to the beach.

  It was still quiet, except for those weird kids next door; they were all running around splashing in the surf, kicking a soccer ball and building sand castles. Laura must’ve been out earlier, as there was a chair sitting down on the dune by the bottom of the steps. She grabbed it and dragged it to a spot at the edge of the surf.

  After a few pages in her book and a few sips of Sangria, she nodded off into a warm nap.

  Darren dropped himself down into a recliner after Man’ti had helped him up the stairs into the Böhring’s beach house. He froze when Victor inhaled heavily.

  “Not zee recliner,” he said, and flicked his eyes to a small couch across from the chair.

  “Right.” Darren pushed himself up, groaning with the effort, and limped over to the couch to sit beside Man’ti.

  For a long moment, Victor did not speak. The only sound was the clink of ice cubes in his scotch. Darren couldn’t help but lick his lips at seeing the drink, but Victor didn’t offer him or Man’ti any.

  “You,” he finally said, placing his drink down on a small cocktail napkin on the side table next to what looked like a cigar box, “look like shit.”

  “Boss, ah know that,” Darren began, “but ah—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Right.”

  Darren massaged his leg, the fire burning down into his foot and his head hurt like hell. He wondered if they’d done enough for him at the hospital. He felt better than he had, but had a long way to go to reach one hundred percent.

  “Tell me vat you hev discovered,” Victor said, turning to Man’ti.

  The giant man held out a cell phone to Victor. He put a pair of reading glasses on, then took it and swiped a few times.

  “Vat am I looking at?”

  “Thet man theya,” —Man’ti pointed to a picture— “is out in front of ya neighbor’s house.”

  Victor looked up over his glasses at Darren. Darren nodded, having absolutely no idea where this was going, but decided it was in his best interest to play along.

  “Und, I give a shit about dis because?”

  “Thet girl he’s with must be stayin’ next door.”

  Victor placed the phone down on the coffee table and slid it back toward Man’ti.

  “Und you think she has my check?”

  “Not exactly.” Man’ti picked up the phone and scrolled until he found another picture.

  Darren could see it was a picture of the man he’d met in the hospital ... the man wearing the cowboy hat. He watched Man’ti pinch out on the photograph, enlarging the hat and turning the phone back toward Victor.

  “Thet theya,” —he pointed toward the back of the phone— “is Rick Hairre’s hat.”

  Darren’s brain finally broke through the haze he’d been in and he remembered the epiphany he’d had seeing Troy at the hospital.

  “Thet fooka put the check in ‘is hat!” he exclaimed.

  Man’ti looked over at Darren with what might’ve been suspicion and repeated what he’d said. “Thet fooka put the check in ‘is hat—”

  “You know we nevah found it on Rick, but we nevah thought ta check ‘is hat,” Man’ti added.

  Victor rolled a wet cigar around in his mouth. “Und zees man has zee hat now?”

  “Right,” Man’ti said and nodded.

  “Und, vere is zees man now?”

  Darren touched the right side of his head gingerly. “He was at the hospital ... but then he left.”

  Victor turned toward Darren and glared. Darren looked at Man’ti, seeking a little help with the rest of the story. Man’ti said nothing. Prick.

  “I’m vaiting.”

  Man’ti finally said, “Like ah said, thet man theya, wearin’ Rick Hairre’s hat, is the boyfriend of the girl in the otha picture outside thet house ova theya.”

  Man’ti motioned toward the house next door through a beach side window.

  Victor took a long look at the house. “Zat house belongs to Rick Hairre.”

  Darren did a double take. “Well, then, the girl must be his daughta.”

  “No,” —Victor swiped a couple of times on the phone, looking at the girl in the phone’s plethora of selfies— “zees girl eez not his daughter. I hev seen his daughter many times. I do not recognize zees girl.”

  “Then who the fook is she?” Darren grabbed the phone out of Victor’s hand and suddenly regretted it.

  “I do not know,” Victor said and pulled his cigar cutters from out of his pocket and tossed them to Man’ti, “but she eez valking down to zee beach as we speak.”

  “Crikey!” Darren jumped up and regretted that too as a shot of fiery pain seared up his ruined leg. “He might be in thet house right now!”

  “Vie don’t zee two of you check zee house,” Victor said, then nodded to the razor-sharp cigar cutter in Man’ti’s hand. “If he eez there, bring me zee hat. If he eez not, ask her vere he eez. Cut off one of her fingers every time she refuses.”

  Darren shuddered at the thought of fingers being cut off. He was a few digits short on his right foot and h
and himself.

  “Und ven she tells you,” —Victor paused and struck a match to light the end of his cigar, sucking in the flame and rolling it between his fingers— “make her disappear. Und do it better zan you did vit Mr. Hairre.”

  Victor opened a drawer in the table next to his chair. With a white handkerchief, he picked up a small .38 caliber pistol and handed it to Man’ti. He reached back into the drawer and pulled out an exact match. He paused a minute before handing it to Darren. Darren snatched the gun and spun the chamber around checking for bullets. He noticed that the serial number was filed off, clean and ready for business.

  He grinned. “Got it, boss.”

  24

  Where The Hell Is Troy?

  Karah Campobello was awakened by the sound of a whistle or something shrilling in the air. It was apparently coming from next door. Whatever it was, the kids all scrambled frantically to scoop up their beach toys and towels and ran toward the house. She yawned and stretched. Wonder how long I was asleep? she pondered. The tide hadn’t moved too much and she assumed it had been less than an hour.

  Where the hell is Laura? And where the hell is Troy? She glanced back up at her cousin’s beach house. No sign of anyone there. She stretched again and stood up. She didn’t bother to fold the chair up or bring her book with her as she trudged through the sand, but she did carry her tumbler. A little more sangria, and she’d thought she’d be ready to rock. Tromping up the stairs to knock the sand off her feet, she glanced over at the next-door neighbor’s house. It was gorgeous. Surrounded on all sides by a screened in porch, a massive sunning deck on the flat roof extending toward the ocean, and at least twenty rocking chairs sprawled all around. A strange looking old man smoking a cigar was rocking back and forth in one of the chairs. Oops. She jerked her glance away as she noticed he was looking in her direction. Creepy, she thought and wished she’d brought her cover-up.