He dragged her body into the bathroom and shoved her into a stall. He’d have plenty of time to get the car up to South Beach. So many beautiful girls disappeared up there, she’d be just one more of a thousand cases. The connection with him would end when they found her car.
He screamed through traffic, admiring the three-hundred horsepower beast of a car, and parked it in a public lot near Club Opium. He didn’t bother to pay the attendant; he just jumped out of the car and jogged to the nearest bus stop. An hour and a half later he was back on Key Biscayne hauling her body down the beach. It had taken him longer than he planned, most of the night actually. But as dawn broke, he felt he’d done all he could to distance himself from the unfortunate incident.
He unlocked the clubhouse door and let himself in. Betty hadn’t gotten in yet, so he had time to grab a new pair of shoes from the stock room, jump in the shower, and change into a new set of tennis whites. He dumped the old ones into the laundry and walked out into the lobby.
Betty was here now and scribbling some notes on the court reservation sheets.
“Good morning, Taz,” she said, smiling. “Linda’s here. Can you believe it? Early for once.”
“Crikey, that’s a first,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“How’d it go last night with Caroline?”
“Aah, ya know,” he said, sounding as casual as possible, “same as always. Workin’ on that ridiculous two-handed backhand.”
She laughed. “Good, good. I have a message here that her sister wants to get a lesson in tonight. You’re a popular man!”
Sister. Caroline had a twin sister—Mindy. She was never as good at tennis as Caroline had been, but she was just as cute. Maybe cuter.
Taz felt his mood lift. He was back in the game.
“Ah reckon that’s alright,” he said and winked at Betty. “Get her in at seven, then.”
“You got it, Taz,” she said as he grabbed his racket from his desk.
With horror, he spotted blood all over the top of it. He quickly grabbed a guest towel from the counter and wiped it clean before the kindly desk clerk looked up.
“Linda’s out on court five,” she said and waved toward the door, “and don’t get caught staring at her chest again, young man.” She was smirking and shaking her head.
“Me? Ha! Ah nevah get caught,” —he winked at her and lowered sunglasses over his eyes— “got me shades!”
Walking out to the court, he caught a glimpse of Linda. She was wearing an insanely small and tight sports bra stretched to its limit over massive fake boobs. And thank the gods… it was white. Her shorts were skin-tight over what the Miami boys called a glorious booty. She was jumping up and down, swinging her arms back and forth in a ridiculous routine to prepare for her lesson. Taz felt his excitement growing. Today was going to be a great day after all.
He headed out into the sunshine feeling like a new man.
1
Life’s A Beach
Troy Clint Bodean tilted his Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat back on his head, took his Costa Del Mar Pescador sunglasses off his blue eyes, and wiped the sweat from his forehead and face with his red bandana. The sun was scorching and the pristine white sand burned his feet and the seat of his trunks. He could feel the salt from the ocean and the sweat drying on his skin. The air was briny and thick, reminding him of the hottest days back in Louisiana. Offshore, in the distance, a black cloud skirted the horizon. Sometimes the afternoon storms would come in and sometimes they wouldn’t. The tinny sound of his old-school antenna radio bleated out the local Danger Dave Radio show. Ol’ Dave was in rare form today, playing plenty of Stones, Beatles and Zeppelin. Troy turned it up and slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes.
Children were laughing and screaming and running and swimming in every direction. The cacophony didn’t bother him though. As long as the ocean waves kept crashing, he was doin’ fine. A girl of about twelve was floundering in a two-person sailboat and Troy knew the call would come soon enough… but he decided to wait it out.
“Hey, Tony-boy!” called a man’s whiny voice from the garish tiki hut up by the pool.
Troy didn’t look back at the man. “It’s Troy, Don. Troy.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatevah,” Don said. “You gonna get out theyah and help that girl bring our boat back?”
Don Henderson, the manager of The Ritz-Carlton’s beach services, was not Australian, but for some reason he affected an Australian accent. He had thinning red hair, transparently white skin, and at least one-hundred freckles per square inch on his face. He was definitely not the type of person who should spend more than ten minutes on the beach for fear of dramatic sunburn. Troy hated him… but he was the boss.
“Yup.” Troy stood slowly, working out the cricks in his back. “I’ll get ‘er in.”
He half-waded, half-swam out to where the girl was drifting around, and grabbed the rope on the front of the boat. It took him the better part of fifteen minutes and a pretty good gash on his right hand to tow her back to the shore. Her mother, who hadn’t realized the girl was in any distress, tucked a dollar bill into Troy’s hand and thanked him for his trouble.
“No trouble at all, ma’am,” he said, and tipped his hat and shoved the money into his pocket.
He’d collected a whopping total of eight dollars today. It wasn’t much, but it would pay for at least two nights of bar tabs at the Sonesta if Gino was working, maybe three.
The black cloud offshore had rolled in closer, and suddenly a crack of lightning danced down to the water. A loud boom of thunder followed seconds later. Looked like this one was rolling in.
“Get ‘em in, Troy!” called Don, “I’m outta heyah.”
Troy nodded and grabbed an air horn from the nearest sailboat. He raised it into the air and blasted it three times—the universal signal for all of the Ritz-Carlton’s boats, surf boards, canoes, jet skis, and paddle boards to come back to shore. It would be up to him to get all the riders safely back to the beach. Don wouldn’t be helping, that was for sure.
People were starting to shake the sand from their towels and stuff belongings into expensive designer beach bags as the wind began to blow. Huge drops of rain suddenly pelted down on the sand, nearly causing it to sizzle.
Troy dragged boat after boat and board after board up onto the sand and chained them together to secure them for the night. The drops turned to sheets of rain and Troy let it wash the salt from his skin. When he dragged the last board up the beach, he found a white shoe tangled up in the tow-line. It looked fairly new, so he shrugged and tossed it into the plastic bin by the door that held his belongings during his shift—someone might claim it.
Tugging on his old Tortuga Adventures t-shirt, he locked the tiki hut door and started down the beach toward the Sonesta. Gino would be working tonight and he had eight dollars in his pocket. Life was good.
The Sonesta Resort on Key Biscayne was one of the last holdovers from the seventies construction boom on the island. It had tiered landings on the ends that staggered all the way to the top floor, making it look as if a cruise ship had been parked on the beach. Its tenure on the island was going to be cut short by new construction, starting whenever the funding was approved. Troy hated that thought. It was a groovy place tucked in with all the pastel Miami crap that had gone up recently. The best part was the pool bar. It was tiny. Eight people could sit around the bar on shiny chrome stools with red leather cushioned tops—if they were okay with their elbows touching. The bar itself was just a crappy white laminate counter on a base wrapped with straw. Someone had decided it would be a tiki bar at some point, and the effect was less than tropical. And unless you knew the bartender, the drinks were more expensive than the ones sloshed out on South Beach. Good for Troy, he knew the bartender.
Troy could hear Gino’s music blaring out on the sand as he got closer to the Sonesta’s beachside entrance. Lola, by the Kinks. He played it at least five times a night and paraded around the bar thumping his chest
and belting out the quasi-transgender lyrics with gusto as his tourist guests laughed, sang along, and stuffed money in his tip jar. He emptied his jar more than five times a night.
Taking the steps up to the pool deck three at a time, Troy ducked under the cover of the bar’s tin roof. He took off his hat and shook the rain out of his hair.
“Troy, my friend!” Gino shouted over the tops of the tourists crowded around his bar, “you made it.”
“Yup,” —Troy tilted his bearded chin back at the bartender— “was a good day on the beach, until the squall hit.”
“Squall?” Gino laughed. “That was hardly a whimper!”
A particularly amorous couple got up from the bar. The man was salt and pepper gray and the girl was South Beach plastic blonde. Troy figured he knew exactly what was going on there and tipped his head to them as they walked past him toward the Oceana. That room is probably rented by the hour, he thought.
Gino rushed over and mopped the bar in front of Troy. He was wearing his trademark navy blue Hawaiian shirt with giant orange flowers all over it tucked into ridiculously tight white shorts. His mustache was another holdover from the seventies and his hair was a mop of loose, wavy auburn curls. Some of the older ladies who frequented his bar thought he was a dead ringer for Tom Selleck.
“The usual, my friend?” Gino grinned, holding up a bottle of one-hundred fifty-one proof rum.
“You know me too well,” Troy said and smiled, “but I’ll just go with a Corona tonight.”
“Absolutely.” Gino slid the bottle of rum back onto its shelf.
“Let’s make that two,” a girl said from behind Troy.
He turned toward her and arched his eyebrow. The voice belonged to a cute young girl who couldn’t possibly have been older than twenty… ish. Her hair was streaked with blonde, but it looked natural, like the sun had bleached it. Her skin matched that too; brown and smooth. Her nose was freckled, but not obnoxiously so, and her eyes were green… forest green. Deep and dark, but clear and iridescent—did I just think the word iridescent, Troy thought? She wore a tight white tank top and dark denim shorts. Both were clearly expensive designer pieces, designed to look worn in just the right way.
“Darlin’,” Troy started, “I’m happy to buy you a beer, but does your mama know you’re out and about cavortin’ with strangers?”
She laughed and winked at Gino. He exchanged a friendly smile with her and popped the top off two Coronas and shoved a lime into each.
“This one is on me,” Gino said, and walked away to tend to other patrons.
She squeezed the lime into the beer and slid onto the barstool next to Troy.
“Strangers, eh?” she asked. “Guess you haven’t been around the Oceana much. And my mother has been gone for years.”
“Dangit, sorry about your mom.” Troy winced.
“Oh, she’s not dead. Don’t be sorry.” The girl shook her head. “But she was a conniving bitch that ran off with my dad’s lawyer.”
“I see. Well, I’ve only been here a coupla months,” Troy said, squinting. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”
“My dad owns the top floor.” She pointed toward the penthouse.
Aw, hell, thought Troy. He remembered a long-forgotten line from a David Lee Roth song about messin’ with the mayor’s daughter, or something along those lines.
“Mindy?” he asked. “As in, Mindy—my father created Mortgage-Finder.com—Colpiller?”
“Yours truly,” she said and smiled.
“Pleasure to meet you.” Troy held up a finger toward Gino. “Check, please?”
“Oh, come on now,” she said, tugging his arm down, “you can’t just buy me a beer and then bug out ‘cause you know who my dad is.”
“Number one, I didn’t buy you a beer. Gino did.” He eased up off the stool. “And number two, yes, I can.”
She sighed heavily. “Just like all the rest. I’m never going to meet any guys who aren’t afraid of my father.”
Gino swooped in and sat two fresh Coronas on the bar, even though they had barely taken a sip of the first couple he’d served them. He whirled away before Troy could protest.
“I bought you that one,” she said, “so you might as well stay long enough to drink it. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Well, I didn’t mean…” Troy started.
She stood up, clinked her beer against his with a sad look in her eyes, and walked around to the other side of the bar.
Dangit, Troy thought.
He took a sip of beer and noticed Gino looking at him, shaking his head.
“What?” he said with a shrug.
The bartender leaned in to speak softly. “She has no friends, amigo. She’s sheltered and protected in a way you and I will never understand.”
“Yeah, but I don’t need no friends,” Troy protested.
“You may not,” —Gino wiped the already-clean bar— “but she does. She’s harmless. Just wants company.”
“Dangit,” Troy muttered and jerked his thumb toward the blender behind the bar, “gimme two of those one fifty-one piña coladas.”
“Aha!” Gino slapped his chest. “That’s the spirit!”
He clicked a button on his radio and Lola blared out again. The blender whizzed as the crowd woke up and started singing along. Gino slid the drinks to Troy.
I’m gon’ regret this, Troy thought. He held up the two drinks toward Mindy and inclined his head back as if to say, come on over. She laughed and nodded.
She sat down and held out her hand. “Hi, I’m Mindy.”
“Troy,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“You too.” She pulled out her phone and clicked out a text.
Then she looked in his eyes. “I promise, no cavorting.”
“Ha!” he blurted out, “deal.”
He took a sip of his drink. It was exquisite. Gino made the best piña coladas in the world as far as Troy was concerned. Fresh coconut cream, pineapple juice straight from the fruit, and one-fifty-one rum for a straight up kick in the pants. Dang good.
“Damn, that’s good!” Mindy said.
“Yup,” Troy agreed, “never had better.”
She took another sip and her phone chirped. Looking at the screen she pursed her lips.
“Leave me alone, Taz,” she muttered.
“Taz?”
“My sister’s tennis pro,” she said, “he’s a little weird and totally obsessed with her.”
“Yikes,” Troy said.
“Yeah, I was supposed to have a lesson with him tonight, but then the rain came.” She glanced at her phone. “Now he won’t stop texting me.”
Troy raised his eyebrows as Gino leaned in to check their drinks.
“How is Caroline, by the way?” the bartender asked.
“Caroline?” Troy asked.
“Actually, I haven’t heard from her all day,” she said to Gino.
“My twin sister,” she said and turned to Troy.
“Twin… sisters...?” Troy stumbled over his words.
“Yeah,” she winked at him, “there’s two of me.”
“Check, please,” he joked to Gino.
Mindy laughed and Troy thought it was incredibly infectious.
“Just remember,” she said with a wink, “no cavorting.”
Regrettin’ this already.
2
Ain’t Missin’ You
Private investigator, Remington Hoyt Reginald, dabbed his upper lip with a pristine white, monogrammed handkerchief. The lingering taste of his morning mint julep kept his tongue a bit dry and thirsty. His purple ascot was tucked to perfection into his highly-starched, blush-pink Hilditch And Key dress shirt. The cufflinks were in the shape of handcuffs—one cuff on his right sleeve, one cuff on his left—just above the monogram. Salvatore Ferragamo cap toe oxford shoes finished his outfit in splendid burgundy. He looked amazing, if he did say so himself.
All this was likely wasted on his client, Jack Colpiller, who was wearing a white V-ne
ck t-shirt—it looked to be Fruit of the Loom brand—and a pair of light blue swim trunks—at least those were Ralph Lauren. His flip-flops proudly bore no visible logo. Probably bought from one of the ridiculous tourist shops down by South Beach, Balls or Wings or Eagles. Ugh, thought Remington, no accounting for taste.
“Her mother probably has her brainwashed against me,” Jack said as Remington scribbled in a small moleskin notebook. “After her part of the will too, I’m sure.”
“Mmhmm,” said Remington, who didn’t look up.
“Hell, I just want to know where she is,” he said and threw up his hands. “Damn women.”
“Not to worry, sir.” Remington closed his notebook and slid it into his briefcase. “I’ll let you know before tonight.”
Jack Colpiller stood up and flip-flopped his way over to the massive black grand piano that stood next to the nine-foot high solid glass wall looking out over the beach. He grabbed an envelope from the top of the piano and opened it. He flipped through it and handed it to Remington.
“Your downpayment,” he said to the private investigator, “count it if you like. The rest when she’s back home.”
Remington slid the envelope into his case without opening it. He hid his disdain for the implication that he would count the money in front of a client—even a client with the status of Colpiller—even if it was seventy-five grand.
If the money was short, he would be issued an invoice for the remainder. He already had an idea that the daughter had, in fact, run off with a boy, or maybe she had run off to her mother. He knew this because he’d located her car near the club district on South Beach. Typical rich bitch-leaving-daddy scenario. All he had to do was get her tag run at Miami P.D., verify her whereabouts, take a few high-resolution photos of her, and the rest of the two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars would be briefcased over to him. All of this was chump change compared to what his other case could lead to, but he hadn’t discovered that yet. He had no idea what he was about to get into.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 50