The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  Natasha tried for the next few minutes to find out what Troy was up to, but James had clamped up his mouth tight… except for the intake of more beer.

  She shrugged as if to say, eh, no big deal. Then she snapped her fingers and raised her eyebrows. “You know what would really be good right now?”

  James’ drunken eyes took on a mischievous glint and he leaned over the desk closer to her. “What’s that, kitty cat?”

  She almost rolled her eyes. “Not that, silly,” she said, and smiled playfully. “Some tequila!”

  James’ eyes returned to being a drunken, happy glint. “Aha,” he said, standing up unsteadily and opening the freezer door, “I just happen to have some fresh Patron from our mutual friend, Nate. Will that do?”

  “Absolutely!” She thought it would be a perfect information lubricant.

  Five or six shots later, Natasha was glad she’d been dumping them into a nearby plant. James’ eyes were bloodshot and half closed and he was reeling on the edge of passing out.

  “So, tell me,” —Natasha stood up and faked a stumble— “what’s all this about a boat?”

  “Oh yeah,” James said, rocking a bit, “Troy says he’s gonna find a big boat, a wrecked one…”

  He listed so far to his right that Natasha had to catch him and prop him back up in his chair.

  “What boat is he looking for?”

  “Ummmm… I dunno, he said somethin’ like Senorita De Murray.”

  He was drunk and slurring so badly she couldn’t be sure it was what he’d said.

  “Senorita De Murray?” She didn’t even have to pretend to be drunk anymore.

  “No, no… uh…” He scratched his scruffy chin and a bit of drool dribbled down it. “It’s the Señora, yeah, the Señora De somethin’. Somethin’ like Marta.”

  Her heart began to beat normally again. It didn’t sound like this was going to be a problem. Troy was apparently on some foolish treasure hunt. Typical, she thought to herself. She let James slump forward and pass out on his desk. He began snoring loudly and gurgling noises were echoing around his stomach.

  Natasha quickly turned and walked out the door, heading toward her bunkhouse. As she turned the key in her front door lock, her phone beeped again.

  “Oh hell, the report,” she whispered, turning on her light and booting up her laptop. She tapped out a quick report form with her ID number and message.

  -Things are moving slowly. Just received key info. Will follow up with details tomorrow.

  She hit the send button, and not thirty seconds later the reply simultaneously hit her phone and her inbox.

  -Good.

  She leaned back in her desk chair and rolled her neck around. She picked up her phone and texted Troy.

  -Flying tomorrow?

  -Yup.

  -See you then.

  -You bet.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re up to, Troy, but it better not be what I think it is,” she muttered to herself. She turned back to her computer and opened up an encrypted file. A chart of Key West and its surrounding waters slowly filled her screen. An accompanying document showed records of hurricane patterns for the last several hundred years and ocean current patterns as documented by the National Weather Archives. It was so up-to-date it even had a storm track of the impending Hurricane Daniel.

  Natasha tapped her computer screen with a pen. “If I was a top secret wreck at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico… where would I be?”

  It was the beginning of a long night and, unbeknownst to her, the beginning of an even longer week.

  10

  We Need A Better Boat

  Troy Bodean studied Megan Simons’ shivering form as she slept restlessly on his garage sale southwestern design foldout couch. He couldn’t help but remember a very similar scene playing out in his former Pawleys Island beach house with… um… Sarah? Kelly? He couldn’t quite recall her name. Eh, another lifetime ago.

  The houseboat was rocking more intensely with the harsh waves that preceded the incoming bad weather. He wondered idly how much of his home would be left if Hurricane Daniel got a hold of it.

  Megan had been frantic when she came out of the water; a bull shark had bumped her and put her in a panic. She kept rambling on about the crumpled magnetometer and how the center was going to kill her, but she also said she’d seen the object in the coral. Her air supply had run out before she could get a closer look. Troy was pacing back and forth, knowing he had to let her get some sleep but wanting to dive again as quickly as possible.

  Julie Matthews, the anchorwoman on Channel 7, was droning on in the background about the hurricane’s path and evacuation reports. The Keys were now under a tourist evacuation; a full evacuation was probably only a day behind.

  Troy walked over to the kitchen and pulled a small bottle of Jagermeister out of the freezer. He quickly raced two shots down his throat and grimaced with the cold burn. He glanced at the television with tinfoil rabbit ears. Even in the snowy picture, he saw that the storm track put the hurricane directly over the location of his find. He poured another shot. He sat down on the edge of his bed and waited until the liquor finally put him out.

  In the predawn early morning haze, he could just make out someone sitting at his small folding dining room table. His eyes wouldn’t yet adjust to the light.

  “Who’s there?” he said, realizing he still had a shot glass in one hand and an empty Jager bottle in the other.

  The figure stood up and walked toward him. Megan’s form slowly came into focus. She had a coffee cup in one hand and a computer printout in the other.

  “Here,” she said, handing him the steaming cup of coffee and taking the shot glass and bottle from him. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself.”

  Troy blew across the top of the mug and took a temperature-testing sip. The warmth of the coffee slid down his throat, mildly burning the tip of his tongue.

  “I’m a pirate, pirates drink rum,” he said and mock toasted with his mug.

  Megan just shook her head and dumped the bottle and shot glass both in the trash can by the front door. Troy didn’t have the strength to protest, but he made a mental note to rescue the shot glass later when she wasn’t looking. He groaned as he rose to his feet, stuck his hat on his head, and walked over to the table where she was again sitting.

  She had a map spread out with a few markings on it, and a computer printout with a jagged line running through it that looked like an EEG graph.

  “Look at this,” she said as she pointed to the map. “Here’s where we stopped the boat.”

  She traced a line to the west with several circles drawn in red.

  “As I swam this direction, the magnetometer flashed each time something registered.”

  “Mmkay.” Troy nodded and sipped his coffee. “I have no idea what that means.”

  “It means that it was probably seeing some things that weren’t just ocean junk,” she said and turned toward him. “I can’t know for sure without checking the readings, but it means I think we’ve found your ship.”

  A surge of emotion hit him and his stomach tightened. In his excitement he grabbed Megan by both arms and kissed her. Her eyes went wide and she stared at him, mouth gaping.

  “Hot Dang!” he exclaimed.

  She was staring wide-eyed at him, and he realized what he’d done.

  “Oh, um… I uh…” he stammered. “I’m sorry I got so excited.”

  For a few seconds, she turned and looked at the map.

  Oops, Troy thought, I royally screwed that up. “Okay, um, so, what do we do now,” he said and quickly changed the subject.

  “Well, don’t get your hopes up just yet,” she said as she brushed a stray hair back from her forehead. “I need a computer to download and check this data. And, we really need to dive it again, but this time we need a better boat and some more accurate readings. And a camera might be good, too.”

  Troy stripped off his dirty shirt and replaced it with a fresh Tort
uga Adventures shirt.

  “We could really use some help, too,” she continued, “as I’m not really keen on going into shark infested waters alone again… and is that the only kind of shirt you own?”

  He looked down at his work polo. “Why, what’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing,” she said, standing up from the table. “I was just hoping to borrow some clean clothes.”

  Troy finally realized she’d long since removed her soaking clothes and been in his robe since yesterday. He rummaged through his closet and pulled out a long sleeved, blue button down and some khaki cargo shorts.

  “I think that’s all I have that’s clean.”

  “It’ll do just fine.” She paused, holding the clothes and staring at him blankly.

  “What?”

  She nodded toward the front door. “I just need a minute.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” he said, quickly stepping outside.

  She exited the rocking houseboat to see Troy in the driver’s seat of her Honda. She sat down in the passenger’s seat and began rolling up the sleeves of the button down, it too sporting the Tortuga Adventures logo.

  “We going somewhere?” she asked, pulling her ponytail through the back of her baseball cap.

  “I think I know where I can get us a better boat.”

  Troy glanced at the magnetometer printout in Megan’s lap.

  “And a computer to find out more about those readings.”

  Vince Pinzioni woke up to the sloshing of waves against the side of his boat. He put his hand to his forehead and massaged his aching brow.

  “Oh hell,” he muttered.

  He looked around the cabin of his boat. Empty. Troy and Megan must’ve brought her in when he passed out. He dragged himself out of bed and climbed the steps up to the deck. The weather was turning harsh and he thought about calling the dock to get his boat lifted up out of the water. Lying sideways between the dashboard and the windshield was Megan’s bottle of rum, also empty.

  He rolled his stiff neck and tossed the bottle idly into the water. He sat down heavily in the captain’s chair and closed his eyes.

  “Hell, how much did I drink?” he said aloud.

  A quiet ping opened his eyes. The G.P.S. unit was flashing on his dash. He thumbed through the coordinates they had traveled and was surprised to see that they had veered away from the course he’d remembered taking before the rum. Apparently, Troy and Megan had a destination of their own in mind when they had departed.

  He clicked open his cellphone.

  “Yes?” the voice asked.

  “You ain’t gonna believe dis,” Vince said into the receiver.

  11

  Sunset Pier

  Former NYPD Detective Joe Bond was on the phone with an angry Miami socialite trying to explain why her sugar daddy was sitting in the processing cell of Key West’s police department. Apparently, sniffing a line of blow right in front of God and everybody at Club Opium is okay on South Beach. Things were definitely relaxed here in Key West, but you don’t just do your coke on the bar at the Hog’s Breath Saloon.

  Joe’s partner, Steve Haney, rapped lightly on the glass office door and popped his head in around it. He was a relatively new detective with just over two years of service in the Keys following his five years of uniformed service in Coconut Grove. He was a big man with a predilection for short-sleeved Tommy Bahama shirts. The only problem with being a big man was that he perspired quite readily in the island heat and his expensive silk shirts did nothing to contain the sweat… or the smell. As it was, he presently had a tiny beading of sweat under his eyes and was beginning to form a glistening sheen on his shaved bald scalp.

  “You’re not gonna believe this!” he mouthed silently.

  Joe held up a hang on a second finger.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said into the receiver. “He will be able to post bond. Yes ma’am, you can come and get him this afternoon. I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.”

  He hung up the phone.

  “Geezus, man,” he shook his head at Steve, “these people think they can get away with anything.”

  “Dude, you gotta come check this out. You’re not gonna believe what some guy fished up off of Sunset Pier.”

  Joe and Steve rode down to the pier in the station’s newest patrol car, a fully electric Toyota Highlander. Joe hated it; he wanted to hear something when he turned the key, a rumble, a knock, a screech, anything. The electric just booted up.

  When they reached the world famous Sunset Pier, a small crowd had gathered… just five or six people. With the tourist evacuation, Key West had become a virtual ghost town. A crusty old fisherman was talking with two uniformed police officers. His beard was silver and scruffy; his face was leathered and gaunt.

  “It’s all I caught all damn day,” Joe heard the old man saying.

  One of the officers saw the detectives approaching and held out the man’s catch of the day. Joe pulled on a surgical glove and took what simply appeared to be a small black box from the officer. A pang of excitement gripped him as he turned it over and inspected it. Though it was covered in many months’ worth of ocean sludge and grime, it was obviously a broken G.P.S. device.

  Joe looked at the fisherman. “Sir, we thank you for calling us about this.”

  “Nothin’ to me,” he said, “I almost threw it away; I don’t want the damn thing. Can’t eat it.”

  Steve stepped around Joe and pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. He held it out to the fisherman.

  “Here ya go, Gerald.”

  “I don’t want your damn charity,” he growled.

  “Gerald, take it,” Steve said, shoving the money in the old man’s shirt pocket. “Consider it a reward.”

  He grimaced but made no move to give the money back. He nodded and walked back toward the pier.

  Joe shot a puzzled look at Steve. “You know that guy?”

  “He’s local, no place to go really,” Steve said quietly. “Came down to the Keys looking for escape and all he got was the cage-less prison of homelessness.”

  “Poetic, Steve.” Joe turned his attention back to the G.P.S.

  He pushed the power button, and it seemed to spark to life, but just for an instant before it fizzled back into silence.

  “We have to get this back to the lab,” he said. “You have a bag?”

  “Got one in the car.”

  “Okay, let’s go.” Joe turned to the officers. “Guys, let me know if you have any more info here, and I’ll get a statement from each of you back at the office.”

  They both nodded and walked away. As he stepped into the cruiser, Joe radioed the station. “Jill, get me the Johnson file. I need to know if we had any details about the G.P.S. the boys had on their boat.”

  “Roger that.”

  “You think this is linked to Skipper’s boys?” Steve asked as they booted up the electric car.

  “I dunno,” —Joe pulled out of the parking lot and headed back to the office— “but it’s pretty coincidental if you ask me. When was the last time someone pulled a G.P.S. unit out of the water?”

  “Good point, but that was months ago.”

  “Almost a year, but it’s the only link we have right now. Maybe the lab will turn something up.”

  In the original findings, the investigators had discovered that Skipper Johnson’s boys, Randy and Mark, had rented the boat from a local deep sea fishing outfit. Joe made a few calls and traced the unit back to Captain Mark’s Maritime Marlin Expeditions. Captain Mark claimed that there was only one type of G.P.S. unit in all of his boats, a Northstar 952DW Chartplotter. They were top of the line and recorded up to ten of the most recent trips plotted on them. That way, they could remember and return to the best fishing grounds of the season.

  Joe picked up the phone and dialed the lab. Lisa Carlson, the FSU lab intern, answered the phone.

  “Whadda ya got for me?” Joe asked her.

  It had only been a couple of hours, but Lisa had turned out t
o be a whiz with such things and produced results in a flash.

  “I was able to salvage the hard drive. It seems to be dry and in working order. I would guess that we can put it into a new unit and it should work just fine.”

  “Nice,” Joe said. “I’ll get Steve to run down to the marina and pick one up from Captain Mark.”

  “Who’s Captain Mark?” Lisa asked.

  “Just a boat owner who might belong to this unit. Got anything else?”

  “Well, I did find a partial print on one of the batteries inside, but it probably just belongs to Captain Mark,” she said. “I’m checking against the C.I.A. and local databases to see if we can get a match.”

  “Excellent,” Joe said. “Let me know when you have anything else.”

  “Will do.”

  He clicked the receiver button once to hang up with Lisa and dialed Steve’s extension.

  “Yello?”

  “Steve, I need you to go down and talk to Captain Mark. We need to borrow one of his Northstars.”

  12

  Black Depth

  George Wyatt sat on the southeast corner of the waterline catwalk of his oil rig, Wyatt 1. The walk down the hundred-plus stairs had taken just long enough that his coffee had cooled to a drinkable level. He had taken off his shoes to let his feet dangle in the warm waters of the gulf.

  The full moon reflected off the unusually calm surface of the Gulf of Mexico. The calm before the storm, he thought, both literally and figuratively. The only sound he could hear was the lap of waves against the massive pylons supporting the superstructure. Even the late-night radios of the skeleton crew had been silenced as they drifted off to sleep several stories above. Wyatt was utterly alone.

  Unable to sleep, he could barely drink his coffee his stomach was that knotted. Despite having made this rendezvous several times before, it had never gotten any easier, or any more palatable. He thought of unknown kids in the projects of Houston and Dallas and Fort Worth and Baton Rouge and New Orleans strung out on the crap that was about to pass through his rig. He thought of promising young men dying in a hail of gunfire over a few ounces of the drugs that were about to be on the Wyatt 1. He thought of mothers abandoning their children so they could get their next dose of the poison that was about to pass through his hands. His hands.