The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  The door of the Toyota Corolla suddenly slamming shut and the quick firing of the engine drew his attention. The car jerked out of the driveway, but it was too far away to see who was driving.

  Chesney stuck his head inside the house and said to the police officers, “Something is up at the Böhring house. Sit tight. Lock the door.”

  He ran out onto the deck, down the stairs to the sand, and started the best waddling run he could manage on the soft white sand. He had one hand on his pistol and kept his eyes glued to the back door of the Böhring house. The door suddenly flew open and he froze, crouching down and drawing his pistol.

  A woman came running down the stairs of the house. She was wearing a teal blue one-piece bathing suit and a white cover up draped over her shoulders. In her hand, she held an empty glass. She was crying hysterically as she ran. Chesney quickly figured out that she didn’t see him as her gaze was cast down toward the sand.

  “Ma’am,” he called, holding up his hand, “stop right there.”

  Mrs. Böhring? She was middle-aged, but very pretty. She had the look of someone who used to be trim and fit, but the toll of children and a life of luxury had left her worn out and a little soft.

  She stuttered to a stop, surprised to see him, but then suddenly relaxed. “Oh, thank God, officer,” she said and motioned to the house. “My husband’s been shot!”

  Chesney grabbed the radio mic strapped to his shoulder. “This is unit 47, I need a bus over at—”

  She interrupted him. “No need for an ambulance. He’s dead.”

  “Check that,” he said into the mic, “and gimme a second to assess the situation.” He clicked the mic back to his shoulder and holstered his gun. “You’re sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes, very,” she said and sniffed back tears. “Some crazy man that works for him came in and shot him.”

  “Crazy man that works for him?”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “I don’t know, Darrel or Darren, or something like that.”

  “Is he still in the house?”

  “No, he’s gone.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, he took the maid’s keys and I guess her car.” A questioning look flitted across her eyes. “The maid ... I have no idea where she is.”

  Chesney put his hand on her shoulder and pointed the other back at Troy’s house. “Mrs. Böhring, listen to me. There are two uniformed police officers in that house right there. Get your children and go knock on the door. I will call them and tell them to let you in.”

  She nodded and started walking toward the group of children. They seemed not to have noticed that anything strange was going on, but when she spoke to them, they all dropped everything and ran toward her. She herded them together and they all jogged toward Troy’s house.

  “I’m going to check out your place,” he called to her as they passed by. “I’ll still need an ambulance out here for the ... ”

  He stopped short, realizing the kids could hear him.

  “Let’s go, kids,” she said and grabbed the nearest two and shouldered them around toward Troy’s place.

  “Why are we leaving, Mommy?”

  “What’s the ambulance for?”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” she reassured them, “everything’s going to be just fine. Let’s go.”

  Chesney watched them walk away and turned back toward the Böhring house.

  The scene inside was gruesome. Victor was indeed dead, there was no doubt about that. He’d been shot three times, including a head shot that had splattered gore and blood all over the expensive, white linen couch. He radioed the two officers in Troy’s beach house and the station. All hands on deck for the crime scene.

  While he waited for the backup to arrive, he ticked off each room of the house; empty, no sign of any further violence in any of the other rooms. Nobody home ... no sign of the maid. That’s odd, he thought. Then he recalled the Toyota Corolla speeding away from the house. He decided to walk down the steps to the carport and check it out. There might be some dropped scrap of paper or cigarette butt or something like that to help him find the shooter.

  As he reached for the knob leading to the stairs, he saw it turn, slowly and quietly. It squeaked, and whoever was turning it froze. After a second they resumed twisting the brushed chrome knob. Chesney backed away softly and edged himself behind a nearby chair. He drew his gun and pointed it at the door.

  With a soft click, the door creaked open. Chesney watched as the barrel of a gun peeked through. Shit, did the killer come back? He crouched and prepared to fill the guy with as many holes as he could. With a sudden jerk, the door swung open. Chesney’s finger tightened on the trigger and he suddenly gasped, dropping his weapon to his side.

  “Officer present,” he called to the two Litchfield policemen coming in the doorway. “All clear.”

  They stood from their own crouches and holstered their guns.

  “The house is empty,” —Chesney motioned toward the gore in the living room— “except for Victor. Backup?”

  “On the island, be here in seconds,” the first officer said, “and there’s another body downstairs in a storage closet. An older woman, possibly Latino.”

  “The maid,” Chesney said. “Did Mrs. Böhring and her children make it to the house safely?”

  “They did,” the second officer said, nodding from behind the first.

  “Good.” Chesney put his hands on his hips. “Okay, let’s get this scene secured. Don’t touch anything.” He pointed to one of the officers. “Front door.” Turning toward the second officer, he nodded toward the sliding glass door facing the beach. “Back door.”

  “Got it.”

  Chesney walked into the kitchen and found the refrigerator door open and a carton of orange juice sitting open on the counter, which explained the empty glass Mrs. Böhring was carrying. He didn’t touch it, but he did look inside the fridge. It was an odd collection of children’s food—American cheese, hot dogs, fruit juice pouches—and food from another completely different social station—caviar, escargot and ... well, he didn’t recognize the other dish.

  Welcome to the Brady Bunch, he thought.

  33

  Behind The Balls

  Troy Clint Bodean sat on the futon in his rented beach house, The Turtle House, and studied the sharpie-scribbled initials inside his hat. Ownership of the hat being what it currently was, new information had come to light, making it look like it might not be his hat much longer, since the initials R. H. were scrawled inside. It looked like it might’ve been Rick Hairre’s hat.

  Just seconds ago, the cops had stormed out of the house without much explanation and leaving the two of them alone ... waiting ... for what, he didn’t know. He traced the initials on the inner headband of the hat again and looked at Laura Kate Starlington.

  She was wringing her hands and staring at her phone. Obviously worried about Karah, she hadn’t said much when they found out she was no longer in Laura’s beach house.

  “Laura,” he started, “I think I’ve figured something out.”

  She looked up at him, clearly puzzled.

  “A few hours ago, you asked me where I got my hat.” He turned it right side up and sat it on the coffee table in front of her. “Do you remember asking me that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, as the case may be, I um ... ” He stood up and started to pace, his fingers steepled together. “You see, dangit all ... I found this hat.”

  Confusion spread across her face again.

  “See, I was fishin’ out in the creek,” —he motioned through the window to the winding water on that side— “tryin’ to catch a big ‘ole red drum. And, well, I did. It jerked my brand-new rod into the water, so I dove in after it, and that’s when the jon boat hit me in the head.”

  “Troy,” she said, squinting her eyes, “what in the hell are you talking about?”

  “That’s just it,” he said and opened his hands, palms to the ceiling, “I found
your dad’s hat in the boat.”

  Her mouth opened a little.

  “I don’t have a clue how it got there,” he said, and sat back down next to her and flipped the hat upside down, “but that’s where it came to me.” He pointed to the initials.

  Tears formed in her eyes. She thought back to the first time she’d seen a picture of Troy on Karah’s phone. Something about the hat had registered with her, but with so much on her mind, she hadn’t figured it out. She remembered buying the hat for her stepdad for his birthday. She was only six, or maybe seven, at the time, but she’d loved the peacock plume and hoped he would too. She’d forgotten all about it, like you forget what color someone’s eyes are or what kind of shoes they wear. It was too familiar. And now, here it was, sitting on the table in front of her, with her dad’s writing, his last message to her in the faded initials. Her cheeks were wet as she picked up the hat and traced the letters, R.H.

  As Troy watched her study the lasting reminder of her stepfather, he noticed the corner of a piece of paper showing inside the band. He pointed to it.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  Laura’s nose crinkled. “I have no idea.

  She pulled the folded note out of the hat, which she handed to Troy.

  “Why don’t you keep it?” she said. “It really looks good on you.”

  Troy nodded, his attention still on the paper she held in her hand. She noticed his gaze as he unfolded it.

  Her mouth fell open.“Seven ... million ...,” —she paused— “dollars ... ”

  “Uh huh,” Troy said. “Ches was right. We had the check the whole time.”

  She threw the check down on the table like it had burned her hand. “Rick died for that. I don’t want it anymore. Get rid of it. Burn it!”

  “Now, hold on just a second, little lady.” Troy picked up the check. “The cops are gonna need this as evidence. I can void it if you want, but we can’t burn it.”

  “I don’t care what you do with it,” she nearly growled, “I want it out of my sight, now!”

  “Okay, okay,” he said and held up his left hand, “settle down, Laura.” With his right hand, he tucked the check into his shirt pocket.

  “We’ll give it to Ches when he gets back,” —Troy looked up at the sliding glass door— “which should be soon.”

  He was startled to see Debby Böhring standing at the door with a whole mess of children hanging on and around her. She raised her hand and knocked frantically on the glass.

  Troy shoved the hat on his head and jumped up. He reached the door in two long strides.

  Debby stuck her head in as if she was coming up for air. “The girl. I know where the girl is!”

  “Huh?” Troy asked, as kids started to pour into his living room.

  “The girl you’re missing,” She held her hands out, palms up. “I know where they’ve taken her!”

  “Aw, dangit,” he said, looking back at Laura. “I need a car.”

  Laura shook her head slowly and then snapped her eyes up to look at him. “Karah’s Rover. The keys are probably at my place next door. I think I dropped them when I was running away from the crazy guy with all the bandages!”

  Debby spoke up. “I think that’s the guy who shot Victor. He was covered in blood-soaked bandages and smelled like shit. He called him Darren or Darrell or something like that.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Laura said, nodding vigorously, “that’s the guy.”

  “Where did they take her?” Troy asked, putting both hands on Debby’s shoulders.

  She licked her lips. “Do you know where Balls is?”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “You know, Balls,” —she held her hand up motioning vaguely north— “that cheesy beach t-shirt shop up the road.”

  “Oh yeah.” Troy snapped his fingers. “The one with the two beach balls and the surfboard on the front in the shape of a—”

  “Yes,” she interrupted him, “that’s the one. Victor owns a small self-storage building behind it. He calls it the apartments ... I have no idea why. That’s where he said the girl was taken before he was shot.”

  “Got it,” Troy said. He took a deep breath and exhaled as he stood. “Okay, you two sit tight.” He held up a hand to stop Laura as her mouth flew open. “No, you can’t go.”

  “But—”

  “Not a chance, little darlin’.” He shook his head as he moved to the door. “This is gonna get real dangerous and I don’t want you in harm’s way.”

  “But she’s my cousin!”

  “Yup, she is,” he said and opened the door, “and her parents are on their way. They’re gonna need you here. And Debby and the kids need you here.”

  Laura slumped back down on the couch and crossed her arms.

  “This here part of the story is mine,” he said. “Your part is to wait on the cops and the feds to get here and tell ‘em everything you know.”

  He waited for her to retort, but she didn’t. She uncrossed her arms.

  “Just be careful, Troy,” she said through her tears, not knowing what else to say. “And bring my cousin back to me.”

  “That’s the plan,” Troy said.

  “Hey.” Laura must’ve thought of something suddenly. “Take her phone. That other dude has mine. He’s probably got it turned off, but you never know.”

  He tipped the cowboy hat toward them and closed the door.

  Troy jogged/limped the short distance down Myrtle Avenue and headed into the carport where Karah’s Land Rover sat behind a green Volkswagen Jetta. He’d been too preoccupied to notice his gun bounce out of the waistband of his shorts and fall to the soft, pea gravel of the driveway. After just a few seconds, he found the Rover keys lying on the stairs leading up under Laura’s beach house. The SUV fired up in the smooth, powerful way that only a Land Rover can, and he urged it quickly out onto the road. Once he got off the island, he gunned the car, and it leaped forward hungrily. He didn’t care much how fast he was going as all the cops in the area were probably at Victor’s house right now. The wheels ate up Ocean Highway swiftly as he raced toward the Balls beach shop, a touristy dive selling t-shirts, magnets, conch shells and a whole raft of other crap. He barely noticed the ding trying to inform him that he was dangerously low on gas.

  Man’ti sucked a toothpick as he stared at the girl sitting in the broken recliner. A crusty pool of blood under the chair reminded him of how that dumb-arse Darren had cut off his damn toes in this storage unit. Fookin’ idiot, he thought, grinning.

  Her wrists and ankles were bound tightly with heavy, plastic zip-ties and her mouth was covered with a piece of duct tape that wrapped around her whole head. She was crying, and muffled sounds came through the tape as she tried to yell.

  He was at a mild crossroads here. He wasn’t really a rapist, but this girl was fine. She was only wearing a tiny little bikini and looked to be college aged. Her body was the body of a girl who hadn’t been through any shit yet to screw it up. Not like the girls he’d been with before. The only girls who’d pay him any mind were the kind that worked for twenty-five or fifty bucks an hour.

  The way she looked at him turned him on. It was fear, or more accurately, terror. She knew he was going to kill her, but right now, she might be realizing that he was going to play with her before he did it.

  He stood up and walked toward her. She flinched back and he was more turned on than ever. He grinned. Grabbing the back of her hair to keep her head still, he jerked the duct tape off her face.

  She screamed, and he slapped her hard on the cheek.

  Her scream turned into gasps of pain. “Don’t kill me,” she cried, “please, God, don’t kill me.”

  Man’ti licked his lips. “If ya can’t find me this Troy fella, I got no use fa ya.” He laughed and tugged on his belt. “Actually, I do have one use ah’m gonna try out real soon.”

  Her eyes went wide as she realized what he meant. She scooted back into the chair as much as she could, shrinking away from him. “No, no, no ... �
�� she whimpered.

  He unbuttoned his pants and slid the zipper down.

  Karah started screaming again.

  “Shit,” he muttered. He leaned down beside the recliner and picked up the duct tape. He stretched off a piece and stuck it over her mouth. “Shut the fook up,” he barked and smacked her hard again on the same cheek.

  She whimpered, but she stopped screaming. He went back to undoing his pants and slid them down around his ankles. As his pants hit the ground, a cell phone popped out of the back pocket.

  The girl’s eyes went even wider. She struggled and tried to speak from behind the tape. Her head bobbed quickly in the direction of the phone.

  “What?” Man’ti picked it up. “This? Yeah, it’s ya cousin’s, so fookin’ what?”

  She tried desperately to say something again. Man’ti peeled the tape off her mouth.

  “Call Laura!” Karah yelled, “she’s got my phone and I’m sure she’s with Troy!”

  Man’ti considered this for a second. The girl had a point. If he could get to Troy, he could blackmail him with the girl. He’d have the check before nightfall. He turned the phone on and waited for it to boot up. “What’s her number?”

  “She’s in the contacts under SexiCuz2.”

  Man’ti slapped the tape back over her mouth. He clicked the number and waited for the dial tone. It rang twice and someone picked up.

  “Yeah?” the voice said on the other end.

  It wasn’t a girl’s voice. It was a man. Could it be? “Troy?” Man’ti asked.

  “Speakin’.”

  34

  Break A Leg

  The metal room they were in suddenly became a cacophony of banging and clanging. Karah jumped uncontrollably and the huge man who’d been hovering over her about to rape her was startled too. The cell phone he’d been holding to his ear popped out of his hand like a bar of wet soap and crashed to the ground. The decorative case with the picture of Laura’s dog, Tyson, cracked on the corner and the phone’s screen shattered and went dark.