“I’m thinking about ordering a drink.”She jutted her chin toward a man walking up the beach with a tray, a waiter from the Ritz-Carlton. “Though I’m still feeling those Pina Coladas from last night. How about you?”
“Hmmm, hair of the dog, eh?” Troy scratched his beard. “Yeah, why not. I’ll have a beer.”
Mindy stopped the waiter, ordered two Red Stripes with an orange slice, and then slid her denim shorts off. She stood and walked a couple of steps backward toward the ocean.
“You coming in?” she asked.
“Nah,” Troy said, “I get enough of that at work. I’m just gonna kick back right here and wait for that beer if it’s all the same to you.”
“Sure thing, cowboy,” she said, winked, and turned around.
“Good Gawd,” he muttered aloud this time.
“I heard that,” she called without looking back.
Troy tipped his hat forward to block his gaze but was only partially successful as he could still see a little of her through the straw… but only a little. He dozed off in the heat and dreamt of shipwrecks and gold… or maybe it wasn’t a dream, but a memory. He wasn’t sure.
He woke to the sound of two bottles clinking together and the sight of Mindy holding out a Red Stripe toward him. Stretching his arms up and groaning as he popped and cracked, he reached for the beer. It was ice cold. He took a long sip and sat all the way up.
“Why Red Stripe?” he asked. “I mean, I don’t mind, it’s just not my first choice.” He put the bottle to his lips.
“Reminds me of my honeymoon in Jamaica,” she said.
He spewed beer out of his mouth. “Your honeymoon??”
“Haha, easy big guy.” She held up a hand. “It didn’t work out. We were too young and within a week it was annulled.”
Troy wiped his dripping mouth with the back of his hand.
“But when we were there,” she continued, “I had my first Red Stripe ever. And for the entire awkward, argument-filled week, that’s all I drank… along with the occasional mojito.”
Troy sniffed and took another drink.
“All we did for the entire honeymoon was fight and drink. Good times, eh?”
He heard a tinge of sadness in her voice and wondered if she’d wanted it to end, or if it had been her ex-fiancé or ex-husband or whatever he’d be called after an annulment.
“Well,” he said, holding out his beer bottle, “here’s to the future.”
She smiled and clinked her bottle against his. A chirp came from her bag and she jumped at it frantically. Troy was taken aback for a second as she dug through the contents. Pulling out her phone, she clicked it and then frowned.
“Ugh, geez.” She tossed it back into the bag. “Taz again.”
“What’s wrong with that dude?” Troy sipped the last of his beer.
“He’s just annoying is all.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I was hoping it was Caroline. I still haven’t heard from her and I’m starting to get worried.”
“Have you called the police?”
Mindy inhaled. “No, not yet. She’s done this kind of thing before… disappear for a couple of days and then come back saying she’d been in the mountains for a weekend or on a cruise or something.”
Troy considered that for a second. “Who was the last person to see her or talk to her?”
“Taz, I think.”
Mindy’s eyes went wide as something seemed to click into place in her mind.
“You don’t think he would do anything… bad… to her?” Troy asked, “I mean, not like really bad… but…”
“I don’t think so.” Mindy shook her head. “She’s been taking tennis lessons from him since we were in high school. He adores her.”
Troy spotted the waiter and raised his hand. “That’s what I’m afraid of… you need another?”
“Sure,” she said and gulped the last of her beer, “but let’s get something else. I’ve had it with Red Stripe.”
“Coronas, my man,” —Troy held up two fingers— “with orange slices.”
“Orange slices?” she asked.
Troy grinned. “Giving you a new memory to chase off the old ones.”
“Sounds good,” she agreed, and winked at him.
No cavortin’, Troy thought to himself.
“And I really think you oughta call the police, or at least have your dad call,” he said, “just to put ‘em on alert. Might be nothin’, but my sixth sense is tellin’ me to watch this fella, Taz.”
“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, looking over his shoulder.
He threw himself in front of her, shielding her from whatever horror she had seen. It was an old instinct from his time back in Afghanistan. He sometimes wished he could’ve done something to shield old Harry Nedman from the I.E.D. that killed him.
“What is it?” he demanded, ready to take action.
“That man and woman over there.” She didn’t seem to take offense that Troy was now basically laying on top of her. “She’s washing his feet with bottled water and clipping his toenails.”
Troy spotted the couple. Uber blonde hair, tan skin with a yellow tone, and somehow very European looking features. The woman was indeed scrubbing the man’s feet, and intermittently, she would clip one of his toenails with a pair of chrome clippers.
“Now that’s gross.” Troy looked back at Mindy and realized he was leaning on her. He didn’t move immediately, and neither did she…
“Okay, here we go,” the waiter interrupted, and Troy jumped back over to his own beach chair, “two Coronas with orange. And how should I charge this?”
Mindy reached for the beers and handed one to Troy. “On my account, thank you.”
The waiter nodded. “Very good, Ms. Colpiller.”
“Here’s to new memories.” She held out her beer toward Troy and they clinked them again.
5
Rally Rally Rally
Senator Gil Dickerson waved to the crowd and fought off the urge to wipe the sweat trickling down from his forehead. Never let ‘em see you sweat, he thought, but goddamn this Florida heat.
As he read the super-scripted, poll-tested, generic crap written by the best speech writer in Florida teleprompter bull, he saw the faces in the crowd looking up at him in admiration. He’d always had this effect on people. From his days back at Harvard, he remembered commanding every room he’d ever walked into, and it was no different now. He finished his speech to thunderous applause as Sandy joined him on stage. She was dressed tastefully in a style that recalled Jackie O, as every first lady had worn since the days of Camelot. Barely looking at him, she put on her most photogenic smile, lightly holding his left elbow. He saw women in the throng of rally-goers staring at her with tears forming in their eyes—she would be key in securing the votes of mothers, wives, and daughters against his opponent, Anna Martinez.
Stepping down from the stage, she still had him by the elbow and finally looked him in the eye.
“Honey,” —she still had a slight Georgia drawl— “you okay? You seem distant.”
He faked a calm and quiet smile. “I am, dear. Just worked up about this whole damn thing.”
A gang of men in suits gathered around them, some of them secret service with dark glasses and ear microphones, some of them senators and local public officials trying to grab his attention for a smile and a handshake. Dogs, just a pack of dogs that smell an alpha getting ready to take the lead.
“Well, hello theyah, Sandy,” said Senator James Hardy as he pushed to the front of the fray and took her hand gently. He kissed her on one cheek then the other. “I am so glad you could come down and see our boy takin’ charge of this campaign today,” he said, grinning.
“Why, thank you, James.” She smiled without using her eyes. “Just doing my part.”
“Dear,” —Gil looked at her and put his hands on her shoulders— “You know I couldn’t do this without you, right?”
She tilted her head to the side and smiled, this time with her eyes.
“Yes, honey,” she said, motioning to James and the gaggle of suits, “come home to me later after you and your boys have your fun.”
James smiled and clapped a hand on Gil’s shoulders. “We just need a few minutes to go over the poll numbers and the next stop. We’ll have him home before ten.”
She started to say something, but she was whisked away by their driver. Gil watched as she waved over the crowd.
“Got yourself a good woman theyah.” James urged Gil away from the throng and toward a separate car. “We need to protect her from… all that’s goin’ on.”
They ducked into the car. When the door closed, James poured two bourbons with ice and handed one to Gil.
“Protect her?” Gil asked. “Shit, we gotta protect me, don’t we?”
James sipped his drink. “Now, don’t you worry about anything, Gil. I’ve had that boat steam cleaned and put in dry dock. She won’t see the light of day until after you take office.”
“Dammit, James.” Gil shook his hand sloshing liquid onto the floorboard. “I just murdered an intern for Christ sake!”
James threw a quick look at the driver and then whispered harshly to Gil. “Now, you just shut the hell up. You hear me? She was a damn floozie anyhow, and nobody will even notice she’s gone. It’s all been taken care of and you need to put that all behind you, Governor.”
“Senator,” Gil corrected him.
James pulled a sheet of paper out of his suit pocket. He handed it to Gil. “If these kinds of numbers keep up,” he said, snapping a finger on the page, “theyah ain’t no stoppin’ you from taking over the Governor’s mansion, my boy.”
“Geezus,” Gil said and looked up from the paper, “are these right?”
“Best numbers in the biz.” James sat back in his seat. “IBD/TIPP, Rasmussen… hell, you even got the local papers calling you Governor-elect already.”
Gil handed the sheet back to James. “Are you sure this… business… with the girl is—”
“Done, through, caput, finished.”
“God.” Gil inhaled deeply. “That was a bad thing.”
The car pulled through the toll gate at Key Biscayne without slowing down—a perk of being a public official in Florida. As they eased into the parking lot of the Grand Bay Resort, the current staging location of the campaign, a light drizzle began to ping the windshield.
“Come in for a drink?” James asked as he stepped out.
“Not tonight,” Gil said and waved him off, “Sandy’s waiting for me and I need to be home.”
“Hell, just one drink.” James looked at his ridiculously garish Rolex. “It’s only eight-thirty.”
“Ah, hell,” Gil said after a minute, “I guess it won’t hurt anything to have just one.”
“That’s the spirit old boy.” James helped him out of the car. “Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to spend with her when you move into that mansion on the hill, Governor.”
“I suppose I will.” Gil smiled and closed the door.
“Today, it’s Governor’s Mansion of Florida,” James Hardy said as he slapped him on the back, “ and tomorrow, the White House.”
Gil laughed. He hadn’t given that much thought… but why not? Hell, a lot of presidents had won elections by carrying Florida. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe this dreadful business with the intern really would go away forever.
Remington Hoyt Reginald drummed his fingers on his steering wheel sitting outside the one star rated Food Spot gas station on NW 154th street in Hialeah. He was charged up. He had just come from dropping the evidence off at the crime lab, and though he knew what the results of the tests would show, the excitement of waiting had his leg bouncing up and down wildly. The girl at the lab had said the nature of his evidence, inferring a homicide as it did, would push his blood and teeth samples to the top of the list. They would have something for him in two hours or less.
Rather than drive back to his less-than-posh accommodations in Liberty Square, he’d decided to wait it out near the lab. Fifteen minutes had passed and he couldn’t take it anymore… he’d need a diversion.
He watched the various customers of the Food Spot go in and out like ants. Some looked as if they might be homeless and in search of cool air conditioning, others looked like tourists on the way to Miami who’d taken a wrong turn, and almost all came out of the store with an alcoholic beverage of some sort stashed in a brown paper sack. None came out with any of the tubular, mystery ingredient, rotated-on-a-hot-dog-roller food. Remington waited for the store to empty and whisked inside. He knew what he was here for and didn’t want any lookie-loos around watching him make his purchase.
He walked as nonchalantly as he could through the store, picking up the items he needed as if he just happened to see them on the shelf.
Two packages of Mike and Ike candy, a single of the new limited release Zima, and a giant hot dog from the aforementioned heat rollers with mustard, ketchup, relish and chili. He sauntered up to the counter with a relaxed smile and placed his items carefully on the counter in order, from cheapest to most expensive. The Hispanic clerk looked as if he’d just come in from working on his car. His wife-beater tank was exposed behind a coral, short-sleeved linen shirt. The man was young, perhaps twenty-five, and muscled just enough to show he worked out, but not enough to take the stage at the Arnold Schwarzenegger International. Remington felt his pulse quicken.
He let his eyes wander up to the magazines stashed out of the purview of children and found what he wanted… he waited until the clerk was on the last item and spoke while he flipped through his wallet. “Oh, and… one of those too, please.” Remington felt his lips go dry as he pointed.
The clerk looked up at the dirty magazines, scanning across the lurid assortment. “Deez one?”
Remington didn’t look up. “Mmhmm, yeah, sure.”
The clerk shoved it into the paper sack and ticked out the total on the register.
“Thirteen dollars and thirty-five cents.”
Remington froze. Something was wrong. He always came here, he always got the same thing, and the total was always thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents. This wasn’t good… he always paid in cash, to make sure there was no trail of his… purchases.
“I don’t think that’s right,” he stammered, “can you check it again?”
The man tapped the keyboard a couple of times. “Ees right, señor. The owner raised zee price on zee hot dogs last week.”
Remington stared at the exact change he’d placed in his wallet for this purchase. He eyed his debit card but decided against it—too much of a trail. He twirled his fingers in the penny cup by the register; four pennies. He was still six cents short.
Dammit, he thought, maybe some change in the rental car.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to the clerk and turned toward the door.
A young man dressed from head to toe in white was standing at the door. Shit. Remington put his head down and bumped past the kid.
“Well, g’day ta you too, mate,” he blurted as Remington’s shirt pulled on something as he brushed him.
The kid let go of the door and entered the store in a huff. Remington’s eye caught the something that had fallen from the guy’s shirt and clicked on the ground. It was a name tag, from the Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden on Key Biscayne, with the name Adrian “Taz” Hull printed on it. Now that was some interesting kismet. What the heck was… Taz… doing out here in Hialeah? He tucked the name tag into his pocket and hurried to his car.
Taz brushed past the creepy dude at the door and wandered into the store. He had the munchies something fierce, which was normal, considering he’d just smoked the better part of a blunt with his buddy, Eduardo. He’d never smoked before coming to the states but was quickly introduced to the pastime by his local Miami buddies. He grabbed a full-sized bag of Bugles and a two-liter bottle of orange Fanta. He walked up to the counter, plopped the chips down, and started counting out pennies. As he counted, he noticed a b
ag next to the register with a magazine poking out the top. It read French Kittens across the top. Freaky-deeky, thought Taz, this guy’s a real creep show. He looked out the window and saw the guy rummaging around in his car. On the front bumper was a plate that said Biscayne Chariots. Odd, the dude has a rental car from Key Biscayne? Taz shrugged it off.
“Probly a damn tourist,” he muttered as he paid for his drink and chips.
“Nah, man,” the clerk startled him, “he’s been around before. Always buys zee same weird shit.”
Taz looked back at the man, who was now staring at him through the hazy storefront door.
“Fookin’ weirdo.” Taz looked away.
He grabbed his stuff and hurried out the store. He didn’t like being stared at by some freak of nature. He was sure to keep his eyes down and not make any more eye contact with the man. He stumbled onto his bike and started the long ride back to the island.
Sure enough, Remington found a quarter in the cup holder. He waited in the car until Taz had completed his purchase. Shit, shit, shit. The dude just looked right at him. He quickly looked away and pretended to play with the radio. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched him climb onto a bike that had been leaning outside the door. He hurried back into the Food Spot and tossed the quarter on the counter and grabbed his sack. The clerk started digging in his register for the change.
“Keep it,” Remington said and practically dove for his car.
He turned the key and cranked the engine. He flung the A/C knob all the way over; he was suddenly sweating bullets. Sticking out the top of the bag was his magazine. He felt the sudden urge to toss it out, but stopped himself.
“Ugh,” he muttered, putting his car into reverse. “Gram would be so disappointed.”
Being careful to travel in the opposite direction than the kid from the store, he pulled into traffic and looked for another place to stop and… take care of business. He glanced at his watch. Still had over an hour to burn before the lab would have anything.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 52