6
Daddy Dearest
Mindy Colpiller sat at the massive grand piano tapping out the notes to chopsticks while her father, Jack Colpiller, spoke into his phone to the island police department. His voice was agitated, but not nearly agitated enough. His daughter was missing for Christ’s sake… didn’t he care? She could feel the buzz wearing off from the couple—or was it three?—Red Stripes with Troy on the beach. Any other time she would’ve been buzzing with the excitement of meeting an interesting man like Troy, but she still hadn’t heard from Caroline and it was approaching two days now. She had come in and demanded that her dad call the police.
After reluctantly telling her he had a private investigator on it and that they should have some answers soon, he agreed to get the cops involved as long as he could keep the P.I. on the case too.
“That’s fine, Daddy,” Mindy said, “do whatever you want, but we need to find Caroline!”
Jack Colpiller poured what might’ve been his third bourbon and swirled it around his crystal highball glass.
“Ah, hell, honey,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders and took a sip, “she’s probably off on some damn granola-munching road trip to drop acid and listen to a music festival in the mud.”
Mindy glared at him. “She doesn’t do that anymore, Daddy. Not since she got rid of Chester… or whatever that dude’s name was.”
“Well, hell,” he said and threw his arm up to the side, “if we don’t even know who her current man is, how in the world could we know where she might be?”
Mindy thought for a second; her dad did have a point. Maybe Caroline was off on a joy ride somewhere. No, that didn’t make sense. She’d been trying to text and call for the last two days, and got no texts back and her calls went straight to voicemail. Her phone was either off or dead, one of the two.
As if he was reading her mind, her dad said, “Remington tried to track the G.P.S. on her phone and got nothing. It must have died, and she’s out at Bonnaroo with no way to charge it or something. He’ll find her though. He’s the best in the business.”
“Remington?” She arched an eyebrow.
“The P.I.” he answered.
“I know that, but… Remington? As in Steele?”
“Remington Hoyt Reginald,” he said, “best in the biz. Does a lot of work for the office.”
“Right.”
Jack set his glass down and sat beside Mindy on the piano bench. He wrapped his arm around her and tapped a key.
“Look, sweetie,” he said, “your sister’s going to be just fine. I have the best man in the business on her trail. She’s only been gone since… what… Friday night at, I don’t know, maybe six or seven o’ clock? So, it’s barely been two days.”
Mindy nodded her head. An awkward silence fell between them.
“Have you called mom?”
Jack Colpiller inhaled, stood, and walked to the bar to fill his glass to the top with more bourbon.
“I left a message at her office,” —he gulped his drink— “and told them it was an emergency. They said she told them I would say that.”
“Ugh,” Mindy said, “what a bitch.”
“Now, honey—” Jack started.
Mindy’s cell phone chirped and she jumped, frantically clicking it on.
“Caroline?” her father asked.
She shook her head. “No, it’s Taz.”
“Taz?”
“Her tennis pro, Daddy.” Mindy rolled her eyes. “Don’t you know anything about your daughter at all?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Mindy, you know she does her own thing. I just pay the bills.”
She shoved her phone into her back pocket.
“Well, aren’t you going to answer him?” Jack asked. “Why’s he calling you?”
“I do tennis lessons with him sometimes,” Mindy answered, “but he’s annoying as hell. He hasn’t stopped calling me since Saturday morning after…”
Her voice trailed off. Something Troy had said drifted back into her mind. Taz was the last person to see Caroline before she went missing.
“Daddy,” she blinked, “I think maybe Remington Steele should talk to Taz.”
“It’s Remington Hoyt Reginald, honey.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she said, “but Taz may know something. She might’ve told him where she was going or whatever.”
She didn’t say that Taz might’ve actually done something to her twin sister… something awful. She shivered at the thought.
“Okay, honey,” Jack said, furrowing his brow, “I’ll call him in the morning.”
Her phone chirped again. She pulled it out of her pocket. “What now, Taz? Geez!”
The text wasn’t from Taz though, it was from Troy. Despite everything, she felt her heart flip. It was that buzz, that exhilaration, that thrill of excitement that came from meeting a new boy. But, God, this was no boy. Troy was a man. A beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed, strong—
“Hun?” her dad interrupted her thought. “Everything okay?”
“Yes, Daddy.” She jumped up from the piano and pecked him on the cheek. “I’m gonna head to bed.”
She skipped off to her room, leaving him standing alone.
He looked down at his watch.
“But it’s only eight o’clock,” he called out to no one.
“Oh, dear God, please kill me,” groaned Remington Hoyt Reginald.
His stomach growled and bubbled. Pain shot from his throat all the way down to his colon. He’d just picked up his evidence reports from the lab and was headed home. Traffic was at a standstill on the 112. There had been a massive accident on the Dolphin Expressway, and all the traffic heading into and out of the Miami International Airport had been rerouted. It felt like it had all been rerouted in front of him. And of all times to experience serious intestinal distress…
“And to think,” —he cranked the air conditioning as high as it would go— “I paid extra for that damn hot dog.”
His stomach lurched violently, causing him to squeeze his butt cheeks together as hard as he could.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” He rocked back and forth, breathing as slowly as he could.
I’m going to shit my pants, he thought.
“Damn you, Food Spot!” he yelled, making his stomach lurch again… this time lower in his belly.
That hot dog was trying its hardest to escape. Remington had already rolled down the window to vomit once and the streaks of goo were crusting on the outside of the car. Sweat trickled down his forehead. The car in front of him eased forward and teased him that they might be moving a little faster again, but suddenly, it braked hard. He slammed on his brakes and the pressure from leaning into the seatbelt caused him to retch. He jerked his hand down for the window control, but he missed and got the rear window down just in time for him to vomit all on the inside of the driver door.
“Dammit!” he yelled, causing his bowels to threaten to empty.
He looked over at his bag from the Food Spot, searching for something to save him. His French Kittens magazine was peeking out of the top of the bag. A tiny seep of putrid air escaped his clenched buttocks and he knew what was coming next. The pain was so intense that he wasn’t sure if he could do what he was planning without making an awful mess of himself.
He slowly opened his door as vomit dripped down onto the pavement. He eased his legs over the sill of the door, careful not to separate the cheeks. Unbuckling his belt, he began to shimmy his hideous cargo shorts down on his thighs out the door. Truth be known, he didn’t care if they did get crap all over them, but he didn’t have anything else to wear in the meantime. He’d picked a really bad day to go commando.
Another sharp pain, and he was standing in the road, horns blaring all around him in the traffic jam, half exposed to God and everybody, holding a French Kittens porno and with gunk and vomit all over his hand.
He crouched, and let go, and felt blessed relief as his bowels spurted all over the road. The driver behind h
im was suddenly aghast at the scene, struggling to cover the eyes of the child in the back seat. Remington didn’t care. All he knew was that the liquid lava in his stomach was coming out… and coming out… and coming out. Good grief, it was only one hot dog. Why was there so much?
He didn’t care. It felt soooo good to let it go. When he was finally certain he was finished, he wiped his soiled bottom with the fetish porn magazine and shoved it under his car. Pulling up his pants and waving apologies to the driver behind him, he slid back into the car.
The cool air conditioning was amazing. He breathed out as traffic began to move faster.
“Thank you, Jesus,” he wheezed.
The inside of the car smelled awful, so he rode with the windows down. Thank the Lord and Gram he’d splurged on the rental car insurance.
That’s when his phone dinged. New voicemail. He recognized the number and clicked to listen to the message.
“Remi,” the message started.
His hackles rose. Remi was a shortened version of his name that he despised. His Gram called him Remi and she was the only person allowed to call him that.
“Jack Colpiller here,” it continued, “pertaining to my daughter’s disappearance. It has come to my attention that you may want to check out a fella named Taz or Tazzie. He’s a pro down at the Ritz’s tennis center. Okay, well, I know you’re busy and all, but update me when you can.”
Remington’s memory tickled at the mention of the name. Taz? He’d seen that somewhere… The name tag. He tucked his hand into his pocket and pulled out the tag he’d picked up after that kid had so rudely bumped into him at the Food Spot.
Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden
Adrian “Taz” Hull.
He made a mental note to run some background on this guy. As he took the exit toward his apartment in Liberty Square, his phone made another sound. Text tone. Looking at the screen, he read:
-Got a line on that plate you had me run
It was from Ted, his buddy at the Miami P.D.
-Email it to me
-10-4
Nice, Remington thought, I’ll have this Colpiller deal wrapped up by tomorrow and be able to spend some quality time dealing with Senator Dickerson. He wondered if he should get a few new suits… maybe a little more conservative for his soon-to-come foray into politics. He looked down at his current crap and vomit-stained outfit. God, anything would be better than this. He pulled up next to the dumpster at his apartment complex. He stripped naked and threw all of the clothes in and hopped back into his car. A super-hot shower and a quick bite and then he’d organize all his new information from today.
And then, he’d have a short visit with Gram.
7
Follow Me
Troy Clint Bodean answered his phone, though against his better judgment. It was Mindy Colpiller. They’d texted back and forth last night for two hours and he’d successfully dodged any attempts to get him to meet her out. He was feeling a particularly strong urge to nip this whole thing in the bud.
“Please, Troy,” she started abruptly, “I need your help to find Caroline. She’s still gone and I think something is wrong.”
“Darlin’,” he protested, “the police and your daddy should be enough to get her back. I don’t have a clue what’s happened to her, but I’m sure she’ll be alright.”
“Ugh,” she groaned, “but daddy doesn’t know what I know.”
Troy stopped short. Dangit, this was gettin’ to sound so familiar. He stood his ground.
“I’m tellin’ ya,” he said, “there’s not a thing I can do about it. Let the police do their job. Besides, I gotta get to work at two o’clock.”
“Just meet me at Gino’s for lunch,” she said quickly, “I gotta go.”
He heard her voice in the distance as she hung up the phone. “Hi Daddy…”
Sitting on the edge of his bed, he inhaled deeply. Well, dang, here we go again, he thought. He slipped on a linen shirt, stuck his hat on his head, tapped his pocket to make sure his keys were still there, and walked out the door.
The sun was hot, making the pavement shimmer with heat waves; the sand at work would be glittering white lava. Fannnntastic, Troy thought as he walked along, hopping beneath one shadowy tree to another. He edged his way through the gate up to the Sonesta and inhaled deeply as the icy air conditioning blasted him in the face as he walked into the lobby. He slowed his pace to soak up the chilly air.
Pushing open the back door of the hotel’s tiled hallway, the heat hit him again like a full body hair dryer. Mindy Colpiller was sitting at the bar and twirling a straw around a glass of bubbling club soda. A plate with a sandwich without so much as a single bite taken out of it sat in front of her attracting a single fly. She didn’t bother to swat it away. Troy could see that her mood had swung drastically south from the fun they’d had at the beach and the flirtatious chatting they’d done last night.
“Hey,” he said softly as he slid onto the stool next to her.
“Hey.” She looked up, and the corners of her mouth perked up slightly and then fell back down again.
“You okay?”
“Not really.” She traced the straw around her glass again. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”
“But Mindy—” he started.
“No, it’s different,” she interrupted him, “she’s my twin and I can usually feel a connection with her, even if we’re far apart. But now… I don’t feel anything.”
Troy thought about this for a second. He’d had that feeling about his brother, Ryan Bodean, when he’d come back from Afghanistan, but it turned out that he was just fine.
“I think that’s jus’ your mind playin’ tricks on you,” he said, “happens to siblings all the time.”
“But we’re twins,” she protested, “it’s different. Something bad has happened.”
Troy turned and raised his hand. “Gino, can I get a—”
The bartender turned around. A moment of shock grabbed Troy. It wasn’t Gino. This was the first time he’d ever been to Sonesta and had a different bartender. This guy was dull and gray. His eyes were empty, and Troy got the feeling it was not his choice to be out here.
“Sorry, um…” Troy glanced at his nametag, “Bill. Can I get a water?”
“Comin’ right up, boss.”
He turned back to Mindy. “Did you tell your dad? Is he going to have the police check out that tennis guy?”
“Not exactly.” She took a small sip of her drink. “He’s got a private investigator checking it out. Creepy dude if you ask me.”
“Private investigator?”
“Yeah.”
Troy nodded. “Okay, well, that’s good. Maybe he can find her faster than the police. Sometimes they can’t devote much time to a missing person case that isn’t very old yet.”
“Troy,” she said and shrugged her shoulders, “we’re going on three days now and I haven’t heard a peep. Her phone goes straight to voicemail. If I know anything about my sister, it’s that her phone wouldn’t be off for three days straight.”
“Hey now,” —Troy held up his hands— “I’m just tryin’ to be positive. Heck, she might be in the mountains camping and not have a signal or somethin’.”
She considered this and inhaled deeply. “I guess so, but it’s still not like her to be off the grid for this long.”
A long silence settled between them. Troy glanced at the clock over the bar. She noticed his look and slid her plate over in front of him.
“Here, eat this,” she said, “I can’t.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Thanks,” he said, picking up the sandwich.
“So,” she started, “I think I’m gonna schedule a tennis lesson with Taz.”
Troy coughed, choking on the bite of food in his mouth. “What?”
“I’m going to hit with Taz.”
“Darlin’,” Troy said, then wiped his mouth and shook his head, “that ain’t a good idea at all
. What if this dude had something to do with… whatever happened to Caroline?”
“Well,” she said, standing up, “I’m going to ask him. Don’t worry, I’ll do it during the day with plenty of people around. He’s harmless, just a creeper.”
“No, you shouldn’t do this.”
“I don’t have a choice,” she said as tears welled in her eyes. “Daddy won’t do anything to help, and now you won’t do anything to help either. I have to do this all by myself.”
She turned and started walking away.
Troy stood up. “Now, hold on just a minute.” He shoved the stool under the bar and walked after her. He touched her shoulder, and she stopped.
“This is dangerous business you’re gettin’ into,” he said. “If you’re gonna do this, I’m gonna help.”
She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Troy.”
He glanced down at his watch. “I gotta go to work now, but I’ll be done by seven. Can you wait until then?”
She nodded.
“Okay, good. “He took a deep breath. “Then I’ll call you when I get off work and we’ll figure out what we want to do.”
“Perfect,” she said, kissed him on the cheek, and walked away.
Troy watched her go and wondered how in the world he’d gotten roped into this.
“You done with this?” Bill called from the bar and tilting the plate toward him.
“Yup.” Troy touched the brim of his hat and then thought of something. “Say, where’s Gino?”
“Out with a bum knee,” Bill said, “torqued it pretty bad dancing on the bar last night.”
Sounded like something Gino would do. He walked down the steps onto the beach. He was right, the sand was burning hot. He trotted as fast as he could toward the Ritz. Ten people were waiting in line at the tiki hut to rent boats and boards and floats. Don was trying frantically to help them and threw up his hands when he saw Troy.
“’Bout damn time, Tony-boy,” he said through gritted teeth. “Get in here and help these people.”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 53