The line clicked and the bland elevator music came on. Remington waited thirty seconds before the line was answered.
“This is Gil Dickerson,” the senator said angrily. “Who’s this?”
“Hello, Governor Dickerson.” Remington emphasized the new title. “We have some things to discuss. Some very important things about your little trip to Canal Point.”
The line went quiet. After a few long seconds, the senator cleared his throat. “Not on this line,” he said.
“Understood,” Remington replied. “Come to the Pollo Tropical on 27th in one hour. Come alone. I’ll know if you’re followed.”
“Done.”
Remington hung up his phone. He heard a light scratching noise on the door to Gram’s room.
“Screw you, skunk,” he said to the closed door.
12
Tied Up At The Moment
Mindy Colpiller felt the tears streaming down her face trickle over the edge of the duct tape covering her mouth. Her hair was stuck beneath the tape in places and pulled harshly on her scalp. It was dark, but a faint light filtered in from what appeared to be windows above her. They circled the room, which was completely circular. No corners, no doors… just the high apertures all the way around. She was lying on her side with her hands tied behind her back with a shoelace. No matter how much she tried to wriggle free, she was bound tight.
She squirmed toward the wall behind her and was gradually able to work her way into an upright sitting position. As her eyes adjusted, she could definitely make out windows above letting in what appeared to be moonlight. The room was empty, except for an old trunk in the center next to a platform with a massive glass ball on top. The air was thick with some sort of foul odor. It smelled like the inside of a restaurant dumpster. Looking around more, she noticed the outline of a hatch in the floor. Since there were no doors, she guessed that must be the way out.
As her vision increased, she made out a stenciled label on the trunk: OIL. And suddenly it came to her. The lighthouse. She was in the Cape Florida Lighthouse. And, since it was closed to the public and no one ever came up here… she was highly unlikely to be discovered. She inched her way toward the trap door in the floor and found it impossible to budge with her feet or her fingers behind her back. She screamed behind the tape, but the sound was muffled and quiet. Panic began to set in.
Why, Taz, why? she thought. He had tried to deny that he knew anything about Caroline’s whereabouts, but she pressed him on it. Grilling him about their last lesson, he snapped, and told her to shut the hell up if she knew what was good for her. She didn’t know why she’d said she was going to the police, but it had been the last straw. He’d grabbed her by the neck, shoved her into a Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck, tied her hands with his shoelaces, and blindfolded her with his tennis headband.
After what seemed like an hour on the bumpiest road known to man, he’d picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Metal stairs clanged as he carried her up and up and up. He dropped her on the floor and left her. She’d been able to slip the blindfold off by rubbing her knee up and down on it. And now she was stuck here until he came back… if he came back. And God, the smell… the awful smell.
The tears came again.
Troy Bodean clicked the button on the express elevator to the penthouse. It dinged open and he stepped inside. An attendant in a getup that could only be described as a monkey grinder outfit, complete with a red vest lined in gold ribbon and a red fez hat with a gold tassel, ushered Troy inside.
“Good evening, sir,” he said and eyed Troy up and down.
He probably didn’t look like the typical visitor to the penthouse, but at this point he didn’t care.
“Floor?” asked the monkey grinder.
Troy looked at the buttons on the panel. It didn’t have numbers one or two, and instead had names; Sheringham at the bottom, Colpiller on top.
“Colpiller please.”
“Very good, sir,” the attendant said and pushed the button and the doors slid closed.
The inside of the elevator was burnished brass, and Troy could see his reflection. Khaki cargo shorts, white t-shirt, straw cowboy hat… basic beach bum attire. He saw the elevator attendant’s eyes flash over to look at him, then back up to the glowing buttons.
“I’m a friend of Mindy’s,” Troy blurted, then immediately regretted it.
The attendant pursed his lips disapprovingly.
“A concerned friend of the family,” Troy added, trying to amend his story. “We met at the Sonesta bar and—”
The man cleared his throat. “I’m quite sure it’s none of my business, sir.”
Thankfully, the elevator whooshed to a stop and the doors slid open. Unlike most elevators, this one didn’t empty into a hallway or lobby; it opened right into the penthouse apartment.
Troy stuffed his hand into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, and shoved it into the monkey grinder’s gloved hand.
“Thanks for the lift, brother,” Troy said, and smiled.
The man held the dollar in between two fingers like a dirty tissue. “Quite unnecessary, sir.”
“I insist,” Troy said, beaming as the doors began to slide closed.
He turned around and stepped into the impressive residence. The floor was ridiculously shiny terrazzo marble that clicked slightly even under his sandaled feet. The expanse was unbelievably open. To his right sat a grouping of white leather couches and an immense flat screen television. The chachkies all looked like they’d been ordered to match from some ocean cottage catalog and the artwork looked original and expensive. Directly in front of him was a massive grand piano, glossy and black, and without a single fingerprint to be seen. There was an empty glass, still coated in condensation, sitting on the bench, and to the left of the piano was a small bar with a couple of bottles of brown liquor, a silver ice bucket with tongs sticking out of it, and a white towel with blue stripes folded and hanging from a hook on the side.
Farther left of that was a modern, open-plan kitchen with stainless appliances that looked like they belonged in a gourmet restaurant.
A glass wall behind completed the airy space, affording a darkening ocean view that was spectacular, almost dizzying.
Somewhere down the hall, Troy heard a toilet flush. He removed his hat and slicked his hair back with his hand.
The man, who had to be Jack Colpiller, strolled into the room, wringing his hands lightly to dry them. He wore a v-neck t-shirt, a pair of island red shorts, and Birkenstock sandals. He looked Troy up and down.
“Well,” Jack asked, “what is it this time? Alternator? Fuel pump?”
Troy raised his eyebrows. “Beg your pardon, sir?”
“The Ferrari,” Jack said as he walked toward the piano, “what’s wrong with it?”
“Danged if I know, sir,” Troy said, “I don’t know anything about any Ferrari.”
“You’re not here about the car?”
“No, sir.”
Jack Colpiller stopped rubbing his hands together and turned toward Troy. “Well, then,” he asked, “who the hell are you?”
Troy inhaled deeply, mulling over the best way to put this whole situation into words. He decided on the straight-forward, simple approach. “I know your daughter, Mindy,” he said, “and she has expressed a concern about the well-being of your other daughter, Caroline. And now, I’m worried that something has happened to Mindy.”
Jack Colpiller sniffed and walked toward the piano where his drink was sitting. “Listen, Mr. um…?”
“Bodean,” Troy said, “but most of my friends just call me Troy.”
“Listen, Mr. Bodean,” —Jack emphasized the fact he wasn’t going to call him Troy— “my daughters, whom you say you know…”
“Well, I don’t know Caroline, exactly.”
“Of course you don’t,” Jack said, eyeing Troy up and down, and continued, “My daughters, good girls as they are, are given to flights of fancy from time to time.” He took his empty glass to the
bar and filled it with some sort of brown whiskey. “Drink, Mr. Bodean?”
Troy shrugged. “Beer, if you got it.”
Jack nodded and pulled a bottle of Sam Adams from under the bar. He handed it to Troy with a bottle opener. “It isn’t chilled, but there are pint glasses in the freezer,” he said and gestured toward the refrigerator.
Troy walked into the kitchen. “Jack, I know that you—”
“Mr. Colpiller,” Jack corrected him.
Troy cleared his throat as he poured the beer into a cold glass. “Right, Mr. Colpiller,” he continued, “I know that you know your daughters better than I do, but I’m afraid that they’ve run afoul of a certain not-so-nice character named Taz.”
“Pfftt, the tennis pro?” Jack scoffed. “Nothing but a harmless flirt. They all are, you know?”
“Well, sir,” —Troy took a sip of his beer— “I don’t know about that, but I have run across several characters like him and it has never turned out well.”
Jack fell silent for a long moment, then said, “Mr. Bodean, I have things well in hand. I have the best investigator on the case and I’m sure things will be just fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Troy drank the last of his beer in a big gulp. This wasn’t getting anywhere. He turned toward the elevator, mentally switching gears. He figured he would have to take care of this on his own.
As the doors slid open, Jack Colpiller’s cell phone rang. He answered it. “This is Jack.” His face went pale. “I’ll be right there.” He clicked his phone shut and looked over at Troy.
“It seems the Miami Police Department has found my daughter’s car. And they found blood in it.”
Troy stepped out of the elevator, his heart jumping in his throat.
“Blood? Which daughter?” he asked.
“Caroline.”
“Mr. Colpiller,” Troy said quietly, “I think we need to consider the real possibility that something very wrong is going on here. We need to move fast.”
Jack turned his glass of whiskey up and swallowed the rest. He reached into his pocket and tossed a jangling ring of keys to Troy, who caught them and raised an eyebrow.
“You’ll have to drive, Mr. Bodean,” Jack said, walking briskly to the elevator, “I’ve had a few too many drinks tonight.”
“Yes, sir.” Troy clicked through the keys. “Which car?”
“We’ll take the Lambo.” Jack punched the garage button as they entered the elevator. “The Ferrari’s in the shop.”
Troy raised his other eyebrow so they were both lifted in surprise. “You sure about that, Mr. Colpiller?”
“I’m certain,” he said as they doors slid closed, “the Jag is much too slow. And call me Jack.”
“You got it, Jack.”
Troy gunned the bright yellow Lamborghini’s accelerator and squealed out of the parking garage below the Grand Bay. The g-forces pushing him back in the driver’s seat reminded him of the rush of taking off in an Apache, and he said as much out loud.
“You used to fly Apaches?” Jack Colpiller asked him in apparent surprise.
“Yup,” Troy said, nodding, “back in Afghanistan.”
“You should’ve told me you were a soldier,” Jack said and clapped Troy’s knee.
“Would it have made any difference?”
“None.”
Troy smiled as they raced over the causeway toward Miami. The local police must’ve recognized Mr. Colpiller’s car, because no one even gave them a second glance. Privilege does indeed have its benefits, Troy thought.
Jack Colpiller tapped a button on the radio—which looked more like a computer than a sound system—and spoke to the car.
“Call Mindy,” he said.
The computer answered, “Calling Mindy.”
The sound of a ringing phone filled the car. It rang three times and went to voicemail. He repeated the process for Caroline. Same thing. Both phones were off.
“It would be quite odd for both girls to be off the grid at the same time, wouldn’t it, Troy?”
“Yes, sir,” Troy agreed, “I do believe it would.”
“I’m beginning to think you’re right about this whole situation,” Jack said, worry creeping into his voice.
“Whose blood did they find in the car?” Troy asked.
“Couldn’t tell me on the phone,” Jack answered, “but he said they got the hit from immigration.”
“Taz,” Troy said, “something’s up with Taz.”
“I do believe you’re right, Mr. Bodean…” Jack’s voice trailed off and he stared out the window at the street lights racing past.
“Call me Troy, Jack. And don’t worry about a thing. I’ve been through this all before and I think I know of a friend at the Miami P.D. who might be able to help out.”
“Well, then, Troy,” Jack said as he looked pointedly at him, “do you think you can stop driving like my mother?”
Troy turned back to the road and put the hammer down.
13
Scratch My Back
Adrian “Taz” Hull sat in the parking lot of the Liberty Square apartment building where he’d had the run-in with Mr. Smith… or whoever the guy was that had been following him around. He had the man’s briefcase open in the passenger’s seat of the Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck next to him. He sifted through the papers again and had pieced together that the man was a private investigator, hired by Jack Colpiller, to find out what had happened to his daughter, Caroline.
“Good luck with that,” Taz said, and grinned.
In return for finding out what happened to Caroline Colpiller, the investigator would receive a payment of two-hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. Not too shabby. It was also apparent from the man’s notes that he was on Taz’s trail… hence the reason for following him around. As far as he could tell, the man had no real evidence on his involvement with the disappearance of Caroline, just a bunch of hunches.
However, it was the other stack of papers in the folder that had sparked an idea in Taz’s mind. An idea that might make Mr. Smith’s investigation of him go away. From what he could tell, the man was investigating some senator who’d been having an affair with, and had possibly murdered, some poor intern. It was a stack of evidence that Taz thought the man would pay dearly to get back.
He wasn’t sure exactly how to proceed, but he knew he needed to get Mr. Smith off his back. The investigator knew who he was, but he didn’t think he knew Taz was the one who had stolen the briefcase. It seemed as if maybe the best thing to do was knock on his door and let him know.
He got out of the truck and was immediately hit by a strong odor. A pungent, disgusting odor. Skunk. Someone had probably hit one on the road nearby… very close, apparently, as it stunk to high heaven.
“Geezus Croist,” Taz said, pinching his nose as he stepped into the elevator.
Riding up three levels trapped with that stench was almost enough to make him throw up… and it got worse when he stepped into the hall where Mr. Smith’s apartment was. Okay, maybe the skunk had died in the building somehow…
Taz’s eyes watered as he approached the door where he’d fled from the man. The skunk had definitely died in Mr. Smith’s apartment. He could barely , and the urge to vomit grew progressively stronger. He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing.
“Fookin’ A,” Taz said, knocking more urgently, “open a damn window or somethin’.”
His stomach churned hard and he couldn’t keep it down any longer, retching all over the door… three times. Vomit trailed down the door and onto the carpet. He knocked violently, until an old lady stuck her head out the door from across the hall. Her nose was literally held shut with a clothespin.
“He ain’t home, damn ya,” she growled. “Now get out of here.”
Taz opened his mouth to reply, but was afraid more vomit would spew forth. He flipped her the bird and jogged to the elevator. The smell grew progressively weaker as he rode down, and when he got back into his truck, he turned the air condition
er on high. He wiped his forehead and breathed slowly to gain his composure. He thought about simply waiting there until Mr. Smith returned, but he had to get away from the smell. He needed something to drink to wash the barf from his mouth, too. Over above the next building, he saw a sign that read, Pollo Tropical.
“Perfect.” He wiped his chin on his sleeve and pulled the truck out onto the road.
Slowly, the smell began to weaken enough that he felt better. He pictured himself smashing the old lady’s face and taking her clothespin next time. He couldn’t help but smile as the restaurant came into view.
Remington Hoyt Reginald sat in a booth sipping an ice-cold unsweetened mango tea. He chose a seat near the back of the restaurant, away from the bathroom and the front registers. He could see two of the doors where Dickerson might come in, but was sat behind a short wall covered in pictures of chickens; hard to spot, unless you were looking specifically for him. As he sat there contemplating exactly what he would ask for in return for burying this explosive evidence against Governor-elect Gil Dickerson, two haggard looking women stumbled into the restaurant with a two-year old child in tow. Cute kid, dark curly hair, blue eyes, but the two women looked like they’d been in the sun a little too long and perhaps had one too many cigarettes. Leathery was the best word he could think of to describe them.
“I’ll get whatever I dang well please, Ellie Mae,” one of them shouted as they entered.
“Now, Daisy Mae, you know you cain’t get nothin’ with too much caffeine in it since yer still breast feedin’ little Troy,” the second girl said.
The little boy looked from one woman to the other, smiling, and oblivious to the fact they were clearly not interested in his opinion on the subject.
“Oh, c’mon now,” the girl called Daisy Mae protested, “he won’t care none at all.”
“You’re a terrible mother,” Ellie Mae said, and sneered at her.
As if on cue, the two women started smacking each other. Bleach blonde hair flew in all directions as they grunted and fought. The boy just stood by quietly as they pushed and shoved each other.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 57