The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  Remington wondered if there was a father figure in the boy’s life or if, God forbid, these two cackling hens were all he had. But then again, not all father figures were that great anyway. His own dad wasn’t exactly a saint… except to the tens of thousands of people who supported his ministry with tithes and offerings every single week. Good old Brant Reginald of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama. A son of God indeed, and father of Remington… the black sheep of the Reginald family.

  Remington was snapped out of his daze when the two Daisy-Duke wearing women and their cute little boy plopped down into the booth right beside him.

  “Ellie Mae!” Daisy Mae nearly shouted. “You farted!”

  “Why, hell no, I did no such thing!” Daisy Mae shot back.

  The first woman stuck her nose in the air, looking like a mangy yellow lab. She sniffed for a second and then shrugged her shoulders.

  “Well,” she said, passing out bags of food, “you sho’ do smell like one.”

  “Shut up, Ellie Mae.”

  Remington gave a light sniff of his shoulder. He knew the women could smell the skunk on his clothes. He had doused himself in cologne and fabric refresher, hoping to control the odor. It didn’t take much to become desensitized when you’d been sitting in the strong rankness of his apartment. He shrugged it off.

  At that exact moment, Senator—or rather, Governor-elect—Gil Dickerson walked into the Pollo Tropical.

  Are you freakin’ kidding me, Remington thought, and shrugged as Gil shot him a questioning glance upon seeing the boisterous trio sitting in the next booth.

  He quietly slid into the seat across from Remington, and steepled his hands in front of him on the table. He sniffed, adjusted his tie, and spoke softly.

  “Okay, Mr. Reginald,” he said, “I’m here. I came alone. Let’s hear what you have to say.”

  Remington leaned to one side, eyeing the group in the next booth. “Not yet,” he said and nodded toward the commotion.

  Gil sniffed again. “I suppose I’ll get a drink then. What do you recommend?”

  “Mango tea, unsweetened.”

  “Fine,” he said, getting up and walking to the counter.

  Remington had never seen a movie star or a rock star in person, but when Gil Dickerson walked up to order his tea, the response from the proletariat was insane. Workers, customers and loiterers were all scrambling around just to shake his hand and tell them how happy they were to vote for him. It was eye-opening. He kissed babies, he kissed grandmothers, he shook hands with veterans… the man had a gift. He wondered what kind of father Gil Dickerson was, but then he remembered the man was a murderer. After the manager of the store insisted Governor-elect Dickerson would absolutely not pay for tea in this store, he shooed his people back to work and told them to leave the man alone. He was obviously a man of the people to come down here and eat at the Pollo Tropical.

  Gil slumped down into the booth. He glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the two women and child were still sitting in the booth behind them, and sipped his tea quietly.

  “They love you,” Remington said.

  “Mmhmm,” Gil replied.

  “You could’ve had it all.”

  The Governor-elect of Florida froze. Remington knew it was a passive threat, stated to imply that the man wouldn’t have it all.

  He let the silence—or rather, the silence at their table—hang between them. He wanted Gil Dickerson to realize the power that he had over him. He could end the man. For the first time in his life, he was the one with the power.

  “Mama, we go see Mickey?” said the child sitting in the next booth, breaking through the din.

  Remington was absolutely certain an immediate rebuke would be coming from the two women he was unfortunately sitting with… but it didn’t.

  “Oh, that’s a great idea, Lil T,” said Daisy Mae, “donchu think so Ellie Mae?”

  “We would have so much fun!” Ellie Mae agreed.

  “If you finish off them fries, we’ll go right now,” said Daisy Mae. “It’s a big place, and you’ll git hungry walkin’ round thar.”

  “Yayyy, Mama!” The little boy was ecstatic, jumping up and down in his seat and shoving fries into his mouth.

  Remington couldn’t help but smile. He wanted to go too. The great Brant Reginald would never take him to a place like Disney World. Too many sinful things happened there. Gram would’ve taken him… if his father would’ve allowed it… but no. He watched longingly as the three of them shoved their trash into a nearby can, filled their soda cups to the limit, and skipped out the door.

  “Finally,” Gil Dickerson grunted. “Now, let’s get down to business. What exactly is it that you think you know and what the hell does it have to do with me?”

  Remington inhaled deeply. Here we go. Crossing the Rubicon metaphorically.

  “Chief of Staff,” he said simply and sipped his tea.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “When you’re elected, you will appoint me your chief of staff,” Remington said matter-of-factly.

  Gil Dickerson leaned his head back and roared with laughter. Some of the patrons even glanced in his direction it was so loud.

  “Now, that my boy, is a hoot,” Gil said and slapped the table. “I can’t even tell you how much I needed that laugh.”

  Remington picked up a folder from the seat beside him and slid it across the table. Gil Dickerson sucked his teeth and opened it. His expression wavered a little, but then turned to stone as he looked over the papers inside the folder.

  “Her name was Jackie Ranchero-Doral,” Remington said, as the Governor-elect flipped to an 8x10 photograph of the girl, “and her husband hired me to find out if she was having an affair, and if so, who with.”

  “Okay,” Gil said slowly, “and what does this have to do with me?”

  Remington slid a large envelope onto the table. Gil opened it and pulled the corner of some photographs out of the envelope a little, and then shoved them back in.

  “These photographs, which, of course, are duplicated and stored in a safe location, show exactly what it has to do with you.” Remington felt his pulse quickening as his palms started sweating.

  Gil Dickerson stiffened and blustered. “That girl is nothing but a whore and a liar,” he growled, “telling stories in the hopes that it will further her political career.”

  “Seems nothing will be furthering her anything at this point,” Remington shot back, “since you left her at the bottom of Lake Okeechobee.”

  A flicker of panic raced across the senator’s face, but disappeared as quickly as it came. His responses led Remington to believe he’d been coached on how to deal with this situation. Deny that the girl was dead… at least until there was actual proof of it… which technically, Remington didn’t have.

  Gil leaned over the table and whispered harshly at Remington. “Mr. Reginald, you are playing in waters much deeper than those at Canal Point right now. You have nothing but pictures of a senator enjoying time with his intern. Okay, maybe call it an affair. I’ll still be elected. Hell, Clinton was a damn hero after fooling around with old what’s-her-name-inski.”

  Remington inhaled deeply. He decided to go all in. He’d never been a good at poker, but he knew the stakes had to be higher to have any shot at beating the best players.

  He took a small baggie from his pocket. It contained two teeth and a white cloth with blood on it. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward the senator.

  Gil Dickerson’s face went alabaster white, and the straw from his mango tea hung on his lower lip. His eyes went slack and his shoulders slumped. The lab had not been able to match the teeth or the blood to Jackie Ranchero-Doral, or anyone else for that matter. Remington had suggested that they check the results against anything they could find on her, but her records had been sealed… conveniently. He suspected that someone in the shady circle of power grooming Gil Dickerson for a presidential run had something to do with that. He decided
to bluff that hand.

  “We both know what you’ve done,” Remington said and leaned forward, matching the senator’s whisper. “Eventually, they’ll find her body. Might not be today, might not be tomorrow, but someday. Will you be in the White House when that happens? Who knows? Will a lowly little private investigator from Hialeah, Florida, leak photographs of you with her on a boat at Canal Point? Will that same P.I. come up with blood and teeth that will match the body that were found on the boat that you both were on at Canal Point?”

  He paused to let all of that sink in. It was a damning trail. A trail that started with the body… a body that Remington never saw… she was alive and well in the last picture he took of them. But she never came back to shore, and Gil returned alone. Remington had pictures of that too.

  “None of this ever has to come out,” he said, and leaned back and pulled the baggie off the table, shoving it into his pocket.

  Gil’s hand shook slightly on his cup. He steadied it and sipped the last of his tea.

  “It is really good tea, isn’t it?” he said.

  Remington nodded and took a sip of his.

  Gil Dickerson stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and extended his hand toward Remington.

  He took the Governor-elect’s hand and shook it.

  “I’ll draft the announcement of your appointment tomorrow,” Gil said. “When the election is over, give me a week to start the transition. I’ll announce your appointment then.”

  “Perfect.” Remington fought to contain his excitement that his play had worked.

  He was going to be the freaking Chief of Staff to the Governor of Florida. Take that, Dad!

  Gil turned away from him and walked to the door. He pushed it open slightly, but looked back at Remington.

  “Oh, but take a goddamn shower, man,” he said. “You smell like a damn skunk.”

  Remington swallowed and nodded his head. When Gil was gone, he sat in silence, barely able to keep himself from grinning like an idiot. He decided to celebrate by getting a large mango tea to go. He’d definitely spend a few minutes in Gram’s room when he got hom— His thought was interrupted by the memory of the skunk. He checked his phone… nothing from animal control. He dialed again and got what sounded like a part-time employee who knew nothing about nothing. She took his name and number and said the techs would call him back.

  He got into his car and pulled out. Maybe, if he was lucky, the skunk would’ve found a way to get out and would be gone when he got home. He didn’t care. In a month or two, when he took over his new office, he’d be moving out of that crap-hole anyway. He lowered the windows and cranked the A.C. Geezus, the smell was still so strong.

  He was so distracted that he never saw the Ritz-Carlton maintenance truck pull out of the parking lot behind him.

  14

  Whadda Ya Know, Joe?

  Troy Bodean and Jack Colpiller sat in the Miami Police Department waiting area. The seats were rigid plastic half-egg shapes with metal legs—middle school style contraptions that seemed more appropriate for the Spanish Inquisition than a classroom.

  Detective Joe Bond walked into the room with his hand outstretched and a huge smile on his face. “Now, there’s a face I never thought I’d see again,” he said and practically jerked Troy out of his seat, wrapping him in a bear hug.

  Troy thought Joe looked good. His skin was tan and taut, his desk-cop paunch was a little smaller, his eyes were bright, and his shoulders were pulled back. In short, he looked nothing like the burned-out NYPD—and then Key West—cop, that Troy had met a few years ago.

  “Joe,” Troy said, smiling back at him, “you look good… dang good! What’s up with that?”

  “Here,” he said, motioning him toward his office, “let’s step in here.”

  “Oh, um,” —Troy looked back at Jack— “and this is Mr. Colpiller. The father of the girl whose car you’ve got.”

  Joe reached is hand out to Jack. “Right, right. Come on in, sir. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  Jack Colpiller shook Joe’s hand and they all scooted around the array of steel desks toward his office. He motioned for the two men to sit. The chairs were old steel and covered with faux leather, but at least they were cushioned. Troy sat and rubbed his knee. Sitting too long was the worst on his old injury.

  The office was decorated in typical cop décor; a few medals here, a couple of certificates there, pictures of Joe with other cops, and all that jazz. Troy spotted a picture on his desk of Joe standing next to R.B.—Troy’s brother, Ryan Bodean—on the floats of Gidget. Gidget was the seaplane of R.B.’s flying ferry business out to Fort Jefferson in the Keys.

  Troy pointed at it. “So, what gives? Why’d you leave all that to come back to this?”

  “Well, hell, you know as well as I do that it was paradise,” —the detective leaned back in his squeaky chair— “but I found that sitting in the cockpit of the plane for more than thirty minutes aggravated my back.”

  He turned toward Jack, seeing that the man was completely out of the loop of the story.

  “Had a bullet near my spine from an old NYPD shootout,” he said.

  Jack nodded.

  “But anyway,” Joe said, and turned back toward Troy, “I just couldn’t do it. Your brother was amazing, by the way. Helped me get hooked back up with this job.” He leaned forward and turned a picture frame around to face the two men. “And that’s when I met Olga.”

  The picture showed Joe lying in a hospital bed with a beautiful blonde nurse leaning over kissing him on the cheek. “The pain in my back got worse and worse,” Joe said, absentmindedly rubbing his leg, “shootin’ down into my legs. I don’t know, maybe somehow all those hours cramped up in the plane dislodged the bullet or something, but it got to where I couldn’t sit, I couldn’t stand, and I sure as hell couldn’t lay down.”

  “Geezus, man,” Troy said, whistling, “what’d you do?”

  “Hell, I got a consult from a doc here in Miami,” —Joe clicked his tongue— “said he could get the bullet out, and there was a chance it would paralyze me.”

  Jack Colpiller grunted. “Damn.”

  “You’re telling me.” Joe nodded toward him. “But I was in such pain, you just wouldn’t believe it. And I hadn’t slept in weeks. I checked into the hospital, thinking I may never check out again.” Joe’s voice cracked slightly, and he took a moment to regain his composure.

  “After the surgery, I woke up to the face of an angel. Olga Nielsen, my recovery nurse.” He traced his finger on the picture frame as he spoke. “I woke up fine. No paralysis and no pain. It was a miracle. For two weeks though, I was rehabbing in the capable arms of Olga. When I went in for my last session, I asked her out on a date. The rest is history.”

  “Hot dang, man,” Troy said, slapping his knee, “that’s one hell of a story!”

  “All true, my friend,” Joe said, smiling widely.

  Jack Colpiller cleared his throat. “I appreciate the catching up and all, I really do, but is it possible that we could move on to my daughters?”

  “Oh, wow, Mr. Colpiller,” Joe said, “I am so sorry.”

  Joe pulled a folder out of his desk drawer and opened it in front of them. There were several pictures of the car with numbered evidence cards positioned in various places of interest. Beneath that was a sheet clearly showing a D.N.A. test. There was also a set of keys in a baggie, and shockingly, another containing a cell phone.

  “We found the car parked in a nightclub parking lot. It had not been valeted. It was in perfect condition, meaning, it hadn’t been vandalized or broken in to. The keys were under the driver’s seat and the car was unlocked when we found it.”

  Joe read the report, then looked up at Jack Colpiller. “We found a trace amount of blood on the steering wheel.”

  Jack leaned forward and started to speak. “I—”

  “Some of it matched a man named Adrian Hull,” Joe cut him off, “an immigrant from New Zealand. We also found secondary blood… but
we couldn’t get a match on it.”

  The revelation sat heavy in the air.

  “So we’ll need a D.N.A. swab from you, Mr. Colpiller.”

  “Of course. But who the hell is Adrian Hull?” Jack asked, “and why the hell was he in my daughter’s car?”

  Joe shuffled a couple of papers. “He is employed at the… Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden of Key Biscayne. According to his employee file, he listed his home as Tasmania.”

  “Taz,” Troy said, the information clicking into his brain.

  “Beg pardon?” Joe asked.

  “He goes by Taz,” Troy said, “a nickname maybe from bein’ Tasmanian, the ol’ devil.”

  Troy smiled and looked up, expecting a response to the Looney Tunes reference. He got nothing, so he let it drop.

  Joe scribbled a note on the report. “We’ll want to talk to this guy. We called the Ritz, but they don’t have anything—or at least that’s what the girl said on the phone. He may not have been able to rent an apartment or get a phone in his name, since he was moving from overseas when he applied for the job. You know of his whereabouts?”

  “He was supposed to have a tennis lesson with Mindy—the other Colpiller twin—tonight,” Troy said, “but, I went down to the Tennis Garden and there was no sign of either of them.”

  A sense of dread settled quietly in the room. First Caroline had gone missing, and now Mindy. And seemingly at the center of it all was this joker named Taz. And now he was gone too.

  “May I see my daughter’s phone?” Jack asked.

  Joe pulled a pair of latex gloves from his desk. “Put these on please.”

  Jack complied and Joe handed him the phone. Jack clicked the power button and the phone flashed to life. He entered a passcode and looked up at the two men.

  “I paid for the phones and the service,” he said. “I know the codes.”

  Troy raised an eyebrow.

  Jack clicked a few times, then turned the phone to face Joe. “This must be it,” he said to the detective.