The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “Cool,” he said, slapping Billy on the shoulder, “you enjoy that. I gotta get to work.”

  Billy shrugged his shoulders and promptly stuck his head back into the hedge. As Troy walked away, he heard Billy muttering something about funbags and balloons.

  He trotted up to the door of the Tennis Garden and hopped inside. The woman at the desk eyed him suspiciously.

  “Hello ma’am,” Troy said, removing his hat, “I’m a friend of Taz’s. I work down at the beach and he told me I should come by and see him sometime.”

  She softened a bit. “Oh, goodness, I just love that boy. He’s so friendly.”

  Troy smiled and nodded. “A good dude, for sure.”

  “But he left earlier this morning,” she said and looked down at a sheet showing the court reservations, “which is strange. He was supposed to hit with Mindy and then Linda. But he didn’t show up for either. Then again, neither did Mindy. But Linda did, and so we had to grab Josh out of another…”

  Her voice faded away beneath the alarm bells now going off in Troy’s head. Dangit. He’d warned her not to get messed up with this guy, and now he feared something really bad had happened.

  The woman at the counter was looking at him expectantly. Apparently, she had asked him a question.

  “I’m sorry ma’am,” he said, “what did you ask me?”

  “Did you want to leave a message for him?” she asked again.

  “Can I just get his number and give him a ring?”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, but company policy is that we can’t give out any numbers,” she apologized, “you understand.”

  “Course, ma’am, thanks for your help.” Troy turned and walked away.

  “Come back anytime,” she called to his back.

  Troy clicked open his cell phone as he left the Tennis Garden. Still nothing from Mindy. Walking aimlessly away from the building, he wasn’t sure what to do next. Call the police? Call Mindy’s father? He clicked dial to try Mindy again—straight to voicemail. Dangit. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Mindy had simply gotten smart, canceled her lesson with Taz, and gone home. If she wasn’t answering her phone, there was only one way to find out.

  He looked up at the massive Grand Bay Resort and Residences building in front of him—Mindy’s home, and the home of Mindy’s father, Jack Colpiller. Troy knew that if he went up there to see if she was home, and in doing so, also met her father, there would be no turning back. He’d be caught up in yet another murder mystery. He wondered if he shouldn’t write all these stories down for a book. Nah, nobody’d believe ‘em anyhow, he thought.

  He took a deep breath, adjusted his hat, and walked toward the door of the giant yellow building.

  “Here we go,” he muttered to himself.

  Part II

  What’s That Smell?

  “And now I've got to explain the smell that was in there before I went in there.”

  -Ellen DeGeneres

  11

  Blackmail For You, Sir

  Gil Dickerson was shocked when his opponent, Anna Martinez, gracefully bowed out of the gubernatorial race. He’d missed the story buried in the Miami Herald on a back page in fine print, about a new investigation into the citizenship status of Anna’s husband. Gil had already gone down that rabbit hole,, when his campaign scraped the barrel for any dirt they could find on Anna and her family. He’d found nothing to suggest any citizenship issues, but apparently there was some date discrepancy on a few of the immigration documents that implied Anna’s husband had received a speedier-than-usual certification. It was most likely nothing, but her sudden withdrawal made it seem as if she’d influenced the immigration board in some way… and that was a no-no. Thus, he was left in an uncontested race for…

  “Holy shit,” he said, and stared at the story’s headline, “I’m the damn governor of Florida.”

  “What’s that, hun?” Sandy called from the other room.

  “Anna Martinez,” he said over his shoulder, “she dropped out of the race today.”

  “That’s nice, hun.”

  Gil shrugged his shoulders. His wife obviously didn’t fully comprehend what had just happened, but that was okay for now. He’d let her know over a night out and a glass of champagne or three.

  “Governor Gil Dickerson,” he said to himself. “Who’d have thought?”

  And that’s when his desk phone rang. The phone on his desk was an official line, operated by an intern, acting as his secretary for official public business. Someone else had apparently just gotten the news. Three more lines lit up. Apparently, everyone had gotten the news.

  He picked up the first line. “Senator Gil Dickerson.”

  “Doncha mean Governor Gil Dickerson?” It was James Hardy.

  “Ha, yes, I suppose so,” Gil said, laughing.

  “It’s official, old buddy,” James said. “I knew you could do it.”

  “Thank you, James.” Gil leaned back in his leather chair. “I had no idea about Anna’s husband.”

  “Well, now,” James said in a conspiratorial tone, “tip-offs are in interesting business. Who knows who could’ve exposed such information?”

  The implication was that James had made the discovery and leaked the damning information to the press. The implication that her husband was in the country illegally was all that was needed to push Anna over the edge and out of the race. Maybe there actually was something there, and Anna didn’t want it brought into the light of day.

  “So, Governor Dickerson,” James started again, “how’s that shortlist of potential V.P.s comin’ along?”

  Gil could almost hear the sneering grin in the man’s voice.

  “Oh, come now, James,” Gil said, pulling a yellow pad on his desk closer to him, “it’s far too early for that.”

  “Friend, I don’t know if you’ve figured it out yet or not,” —James’ tone got a little more serious— “but the people have chosen their next leader. It all starts in Florida, ya know?”

  Gil looked at the pad in front of him. It had a heading that simply said: VP.

  It had three names on it. Friends from the senate that all shared similar political viewpoints. None excited him, and probably wouldn’t excite the public either. He hadn’t given it much thought, but the way things were going, he was clearly the party’s new pet. He would be groomed and prepared over the next few years to ascend to the highest office in the land. There would be deals and backroom handshakes, but if he could win the White House… maybe he really could change the world.

  “Gil,” —the voice on the line became even more serious and quiet— “I want you to look at that list in front of you… I know it’s there. And I want you to think long and hard about what I’ve done for you.”

  “I—” Gil opened his mouth to speak, but James Hardy interrupted him.

  “It’s a damn shame that all that nasty business about Anna Martinez’s husband had to come to light,” he said quietly, “and it would be a damn shame if any other… nasty business came to light about anyone else involved in this race. Or the next race.”

  Gil closed his mouth. A vision of Jackie, the intern he’d murdered on James Hardy’s boat, flashed into his mind. His hand shook slightly as he gripped the phone receiver tighter.

  James Hardy would be his pick for Vice President. That was the clear message. There would be no other choices, no vetting of any other senators, no background checks on any other governors. No, it would be Gil Dickerson and James Hardy.

  Gil inhaled slowly. He scratched out the three names he had scribbled on the yellow pad and wrote James Hardy underneath. He circled it so harshly that his pen ripped through the paper as it passed around.

  “Why, James,” he said through gritted teeth, “you know I only ever had one choice in mind.”

  A moment of silence passed.

  “That’s good, Gil,” James said, “that’s real good. We make a good team, you and I.”

  Another line flashed on the desk phone.

  “James,
I’ve got to take this call,” he said quickly, “be in touch soon.”

  “You bette—”

  Gil hung up the receiver, interrupting James. He sat back in his chair and stared at all of the flashing lines on the phone. He’d let the intern handle those.

  Remington Hoyt Reginald sat in his apartment at the rickety kitchen table. He had gathered the papers that had been strewn in the floor of the hallway by the intruder. He hadn’t gotten a look at him, so he had no idea what had happened. Had Senator Gil Dickerson sent someone to steal the information he had on him? No, that wasn’t possible. No one knew he had anything on him yet. He hadn’t revealed that to anyone except the crime lab. Hmmm, maybe a lab tech had spilled the beans? Not likely, as they dealt with this kind of thing all the time. Surely their people were scrutinized, background checked, and routinely examined to ensure confidentiality and security. Okay, so if not a tech, then who? he mused.

  Maybe just a fluke break-in? That didn’t seem likely either, but what else could it be? He stared at the papers laid out on the table. There was a crime lab report on the blood from Dickerson’s boat, a photograph of the teeth he’d recovered, and a D.N.A. scan showing them to belong to Jackie Ranchero-Doral. The third sheet from that file was an email printed out from Jackie’s husband, initiating the suspected adultery case. He hadn’t contacted the husband yet to confirm the adultery, because now it might actually be confirming her murder. He slid that pile to the side and decided to work out that particular mess later.

  The next stack of papers dealt with the Colpiller missing daughter case. One was a small high-school picture of Caroline Colpiller—horribly out-of-date. The second was a D.M.V. report from Ted at Miami P.D. on the plate he’d run for Caroline’s car. It had been found in the parking lot of some South Beach club and impounded. Remington made a mental note to check out the car later today. He thought twice about returning the money he’d been paid for that case and shutting it down. He had bigger plans for the Dickerson case… if he still had enough to work with. He opened a new manila folder and shoved the papers in it. Scribbling Colpiller on the tab, he laid it aside.

  Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and tried to think. He was brought out of his meditation when someone knocked on his door. Who the hell could that be? He walked across the room and jerked the door open.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  Myrtle Tomlinson was standing at the door, crotchety as ever. She looked him up and down with an arched eyebrow. He realized he was still wearing his Gram’s nightgown.

  He wrapped his arms around his chest in an effort to cover some of the gown.

  “Yes, Mrs. Tomlinson, what is it?” he asked.

  “Aincha glad I remembered where you live?” she almost growled.

  She had several crumpled papers clutched in her left hand; her right was on her cane. She shook them at him.

  “Don’t be leavin’ yer trash all over the place, young man,” she said and practically threw the paper at him.

  He scrambled to grab them all, and could tell at a glance they were from his briefcase.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tomlinson,” he said, smiling, but she was already waddling down the hall.

  He turned around and closed the door behind him. Christ, what else could possibly go wrong tod—

  His thought was cut short by the sound of scratching in Gram’s room. Someone was in there. Was it the intruder, coming back for more? He tiptoed over to the table and laid the papers down as quietly as he could. He pulled the skeleton key from his pocket and eased it into the lock. The scratching continued. It sounded like he was trying to dig a hole… what the hell?

  The lock clicked and he threw the door open, calling out, “Stop where you are!”

  There wasn’t much that scared Remington, but he stopped dead in his tracks. Sitting in the small wooden rocking cradle with dolls strewn out on the floor around it, and scratching at the blanket trying to climb underneath it… was a skunk, a real live skunk, black and white stripes all over it.

  He backed toward the door and eased into the living room. The skunk resumed his digging into the blanket.

  “Stop,” he said before he could help himself.

  It was a special blanket he’d had made for his Gram doll, and he didn’t want the skunk to rip it up. Surprisingly, the skunk stopped, then sat up and looked at him. It raised a paw to its mouth and licked it… cleaning itself like a cat. Remington didn’t dare startle it for fear it might spray all over his things.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw that he’d left his cell phone on the kitchen table. He eased back out of his Gram doll room and laid down the random scraps of paper that Mrs. Tomlinson had brought to him, then picked up his phone. Searching for the number for Animal Control, he glanced back at the doorway to see the skunk waddling into his living room. He froze, not wanting to upset the creature. It walked toward him and hopped up on the table.

  As tame as it was, he wondered if it was one of those exotic pets that people took in, pot-bellied pig, or possum… or skunk. If so, it was likely its scent glands had been removed. It took a couple of steps closer to him, inched its nose up, and sniffed the air. Then it rolled onto its back, much like a cat, and mewed. This had to be a pet. Tentatively, Remington reached his hand out and gently touched the skunk’s belly. It smacked its lips together and arched its back. He petted it a couple of times and it seemed to enjoy it. He smiled; definitely a pet.

  And that’s when his phone rang. The noise startled the skunk, who abruptly jumped up and sank his teeth into the fleshy skin between Remington’s thumb and forefinger. When he yelped in pain, the skunk hissed at him, jumped down from the table, and ran back into the Gram doll room. But not before unloading a massive spray into the air, all over Remington and trailing behind him as he scurried away.

  “Geezzus Christ!” Remington yelled, and squeezed his hand.

  Blood was seeping from the wounds and he was sure he would probably get rabies now. Stupid freaking skunk. He ran to the kitchen, eyes burning from the acrid smell filling the apartment and gagging as it overwhelmed the air in the tiny living room. The stench was all around him like a noxious fog of acrid odor. He jerked the kitchen taps on and shoved his injured hand under the cold water. It stung as it ran over the puncture wounds from the skunk bite. With his other hand, he found and dialed a local animal control company.

  “Can you hold, please?” asked the voice on the other line, and then clicked over to bland elevator music.

  “No, no, no…” Remington tried to interrupt, but the operator was gone.

  He hung up the phone. “Dammit.”

  The pain throbbed in his hand, but wounds didn’t look too serious, just a couple of small holes, like someone had tried to sew a button to his hand. But the smell… God, the smell. He stumbled over to the sliding glass balcony door and yanked it open. He stepped out and inhaled the fresh air deep into his lungs. Looking back into the apartment, he saw no sign of the skunk. He grabbed the corner of his robe and put it over his nose and mouth. Quietly, he tiptoed his way back in and toward the Gram doll room. The door was still open. He peeked around the edge of the jamb and saw the skunk, curled up in the cradle… holding a doll. It was his Gram doll! The skunk looked up at him, hissed, then laid its head down and closed its eyes.

  You’ve got to be kidding me, thought Remington. He backed out of the room and closed the door. He opened his phone and redialed the animal control company. He got a recorded message that the operating hours of the company were over for the day and that he could leave a message.

  “Shit,” he mumbled.

  The smell was insane and he wondered if anyone else could smell it on his floor. He stuck his head into the hall. It wasn’t as harsh, but he was sure his nostrils had become desensitized to the odor by now. Closing his door, he slipped off his ruined robe and laid it down to block the opening beneath the door… hopefully preventing the smell seeping into the hall. He grabbed a small box fan from the closet
and propped it up in the doorway, blowing to waft the smell outside. He couldn’t tell if it was helping or not, but it seemed better to his assaulted nose.

  He cranked the fan to high and papers went flying off the kitchen table, sucked out with the odor. He scrambled to catch them, dropping heavy coasters on them to hold them in place. Exhausted from the ordeal, he slumped down into one of the chairs and leaned his head back. He would be glad when this week was over.

  A few minutes later, he opened his eyes and glanced down at the fluttering pages on the table. Disorganized as they were, he saw the one on top of the nearest pile was something he hadn’t read yet. It was a new email from Ted at Miami P.D. that he’d printed to check out at a later time. He figured now was a later time, so he picked it up. It read:

  Rem, found blood on Colpiller girl’s steering wheel. Crime lab test shows one match in immigration to Adrian Hull. Secondary blood, no match in database, but tests shows female—maybe the Colpiller girls? Could be you’ve got a homicide on your hands. Had to report to command. Your case has an officer assigned to it now. Thought you might want to contact him. Det. Joe Bond.

  The officer’s phone number was listed below his name. Okay, Taz, what did you do? Remington punched a number into his phone and waited.

  “Senator Dickerson’s office, how may I help you?” asked a girl on the other end of the line.

  “I need to speak with the senator,” Remington said calmly.

  “I’m sorry,” she apologized, “but he’s in a meeting and can’t be disturbed at this time. Can I take a message for him?”

  “Oh, you’re going to need to go get him,” —Remington opened the file labeled Gil Dickerson Case— “this is an emergency.”

  “I’m sorry sir—”

  “Get his ass on the phone now!”

  “Hold, please,” the girl said, a tinge of fear in her voice.