He banged on the door more forcefully.
“Miami P.D.,” he called loudly. “Open up!”
No answer.
From behind him he heard a voice that could only be described as a cross between the Wicked Witch of the West and Golem from Middle Earth.
“He’s not home, sonny,” she screeched, “so quit yer bangin’. I’m tryin’ to sleep over here!”
Joe turned to see an old woman, who wasn’t far off actually looking like Golem, pointing a bony E.T. finger at the door he was knocking on.
“Left a few minutes ago,” she added.
“You know who lives here?” Joe asked.
“Course I do,” she said, licking her thin, wrinkly lips, “I own the building.”
“Adrian Hull?” he asked her, stepping away from the reeking door.
“Eh?” She shook her head, clearly confused. “Nah, nobody living here by that name. That’s Remington’s place.”
“Remington?”
“Yeah, Remington Reginald.”
Joe stopped short. This was an interesting development.
He opened his phone to call the station.
19
Walk In My Shoes
Troy Bodean sat with his court-appointed lawyer at a conference table across from the Judge, Linda Big Boobs Morgenstern, and her slick-back-haired attorney.
Troy was certain this wouldn’t end well for him. He had tried—in vain—to get someone to get Joe Bond in there to vouch for him and explain the situation. The judge, who actually stared more at Linda’s big boobs than anyone else at the table, seemed completely disinterested in the case… but wanted to extend the afternoon so that he could ogle the woman more.
“So, Mr. um” … The judge looked down at a piece of paper in front of him.
“Bodean,” Troy said.
“Yes,” the judge said, and looked over his reading glasses, “Mr. Bodean. What you’re telling me is that you were invited to look at Mrs. Morgenstern by a security officer at the Ritz-Carlton while she was um…” He searched the paper again. “Taking a tennis lesson?”
“Yessir,” Troy said quickly. “You see, she was playing tennis and then Billy—”
“Billy?” the judge interrupted.
“The security guard at the Ritz-Carlton.”
The judge made a note on his pad and then looked up at Linda and smiled.
Troy glanced over at her. She was actually wearing what looked like a tennis outfit… a tennis outfit a stripper might wear. Her voluminous breasts looked as if they might topple out of her top at any moment. Troy turned back to the judge. Did he just lick his lips? Terrible time for justice not to be blind, he thought.
“Yes,” Troy continued, and the judge’s eyes snapped back to him. “You see, Billy had stopped me on the way into work and said I had to check somethin’ out. He pointed me to the hedge at the tennis courts.”
“The hedge?” the judge asked.
Troy nodded.
“At the tennis courts?”
“Yup.”
He looked back at Linda. “So you were in public when the alleged peeping took place, Mrs. Morgenstern?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but her attorney touched her arm to stop her.
“The Ritz-Carlton Tennis Garden provides its guests with the expectation of full privacy when they are on the grounds,” the attorney said.
Troy’s attorney said nothing. He pulled a document from his briefcase and slid it to the judge.
The judge read over it and looked over his glasses at Linda’s attorney. “The tennis facility is apparently zoned as public property,” he said, sliding the document toward Linda’s attorney.
“My client will be leaving now.” Troy’s attorney stood up and pulled Troy up by his elbow. “Good day to you, Judge.”
Troy stood, not exactly sure what was happening, but eager to get out of there.
Linda Morgenstern stuck out her bottom lip and pouted. Her attorney looked dumbstruck.
“Mr. Bodean is free to go,” the judge said.
“But, your honor,” Linda protested.
“Now, Mrs. Morgenstern,” he said, and held out a hand to touch hers, “let’s proceed to the more important matter.”
She looked confused, but also smiled a little at the judge’s touch. She batted her eyelashes quickly and leaned forward, exposing more cleavage. “What matter is that?” she asked.
“Billy,” he said.
She cocked her head sideways, like a puppy who didn’t understand what its master was saying.
“The security guard at the Ritz,” the judge said from beneath furrowed eyebrows, “he’s the one to blame here. Why, if I have anything to do with it, that young man will not only lose his job, I’ll throw the book…”
Troy didn’t hear the last of what the judge said as his attorney practically pushed him out of the conference room.
“Okay, Mr. Bodean,” —his attorney stuck out his hand— “you’re free to go.”
Troy took his hand. “Like, Gone, Baby Gone? Audi 5000 free?”
“Yes, sir,” he said, “like Escape from Alcatraz free, or Free Fallin’.”
Troy smiled broadly. “Thanks Mr. uh…”
“Steakley,” his attorney said, “John Steakley.”
“Thank you, kindly, Mr. Steakley,” Troy said, “but I just need to know one more thing.”
“Sure, Mr. Bodean,” John said and shrugged his shoulders, “what’s that?”
“You got any idea where they’re keepin’ my hat?” he asked. “I gotta get to work.”
Joe Bond was thunderstruck by the discovery that Taz’s cell phone was somehow at the apartment of Remington Reginald (the private investigator Jack Colpiller had hired to find his missing daughter). Whatever connection existed there, he couldn’t figure it out. But that was going to have to wait. Another development had just exploded in the case. When Joe called in to report his findings at the apartment building, Ted—a crime lab tech—had insisted that he needed to speak with the detective… he had a bombshell in the Colpiller case.
Joe took the call as his cruiser pulled out of the apartment garage. He left Derek and Greg there to wait for Remington to return.
“Go ahead, Ted,” he said to the tech.
“Okay,” said Ted, sounding out of breath, “so, you remember that we found secondary blood in the car?”
“Yes.”
“It’s definitely one of the Colpiller girls. Likely Caroline, since it’s her car.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Well, we also removed the mats and tested those. In fact, we were able to get a partial shoe print in blood from the driver’s side mat. We didn’t see it earlier because the interior was black.”
A car honked behind Joe. The light in front of him had changed, but he hadn’t noticed. He pulled out quickly. “Get to the point, Ted,” he said.
“Okay, so, we tested that blood,” Ted continued. “Same as the steering wheel. Caroline’s. And that would’ve been the end of it… except for when the shoe came in.”
“Which shoe?”
“The shoe that made the print.”
“Where did this shoe come in from?”
“A bum had it in his cart. He was causing a ruckus down by the old lighthouse, beating on the door, screaming at everybody walking by.”
“Okay, and…”
“Well, as we were checking in his possessions—all one-hundred sixty-nine of them—we noticed this single shoe. The sole was covered with blood… like, a lot of blood. Oh, and there was a lot of sand inside the shoe… maybe from being down in the water.”
Joe was having trouble connecting all the dots. “So, Ted,” he said, shrugging to no one, “what exactly have we got. I’m not following.”
“We have the shoe of Caroline’s killer.”
The pieces suddenly snapped together.
“Holy moly,” Joe said and sucked his teeth, “nice work, Ted. Email me the particulars on that shoe and the tests.”
Another call beeped in. Joe took the phone from his ear and saw it was Jack Colpiller.
“Shit,” he said, putting it back to his ear, “I gotta take this. Thanks, Ted.”
He started to click over, but then something jumped into his thoughts.
“Ted, wait,” he said quickly, “the shoe. What’s it look like?”
“Oh, well,” the tech said, “it’s a white tennis shoe. A right one.”
“Hot damn,” Joe said, clicking the phone over to talk to Jack, but he was already gone.
He flipped the switch to turn his sirens on and raced south toward Key Biscayne. He didn’t know where Taz was, but the last place he’d actually been seen was at the Tennis Garden at the Ritz. He slammed the gas pedal to the floor. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got there, but it was the only place he knew to start.
Troy jumped off the bus at the stop nearest to the Ritz-Carlton at Key Biscayne. He’d been mildly surprised to find that Joe was gone from the police station and that Jack had gone home as well… leaving him stranded. He glanced at his phone to check the time. Dangit, he thought, Don’s gonna be pissed.
He jogged through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton and out onto the sand. Sure enough, Don was trying desperately to service the customers waiting for their water rides, but he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Troy ducked into the Tiki hut.
“’Bout time, Tony-boy,” Don said as he slammed the cash register shut.
“It’s Troy, Don.”
“Whatever.” Don pointed out toward the sailboats. “Get your butt out there and get those boats in the water.”
Troy jerked his shoes off and tossed them into his bin. He put his shades on and trotted down the beach to where a family was waiting—not quite patiently—for their boat to be shoved out for them. The dad shot him dark glances when he noticed his wife biting her bottom lip every time she looked at Troy.
Troy worked his way through the line of waiting beachgoers until every board, boat and jet-ski was launched. They had nothing else to rent, so it was just a waiting game until the riders’ times elapsed and they came back in… or needed rescuing.
“Sorry, Don,” Troy said, dripping with sweat as he walked back to the hut.
“That’s it,” he said, “I’ve had it. You’re done.”
“Don,” Troy protested, “I’m sorry, man. I got caught up at the p…” He started to say police station, but left that hanging without handing Don any more ammunition.
“Forget it.” Don was furious. His faux-Aussie accent was gone, and a little spittle was dangling from his lips as he yelled, “I want you and your crap gone, now!”
Troy opened his mouth to plead his case, but Don held up a finger.
“Nope,” he said. “Get out!”
Troy took his whistle off and handed it to Don, who promptly jerked it out of his hand and threw it on the counter next to the register.
“I’m sorry, Don,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “My bad.”
Don crossed his arms and said nothing.
Troy leaned under the counter and picked up his bin of belongings. It wasn’t much, but he sure as heck wasn’t leaving it here. Couple of pairs of sunglasses, his shoes, a towel, some half-used tubes of zinc oxide, and an empty bottle he filled with water and reused to stay hydrated.
Troy glanced out at the ocean and saw almost all the people struggling to command their water crafts. He knew at least half of them would need a rescue and retrieval.
“Don, look,” he said, “I’ll be at the apartment. If you find that you need a hand, just give me a call.”
“Horseshit, dude,” Don spat. “You blew it. I will NEVER call you to help me. You will NEVER work here again.”
“Alright, amigo,” Troy said, and held up two fingers in a peace sign, “but the offer is there… if you need it.”
“Out.”
Troy nodded and walked out of the hut. He paused long enough to slip on his sandals; the sand was scorching hot again. He wondered how long it would be until Don called him. The guy had no experience with boats and would be lost trying to wrangle them back onto the beach. Troy figured he’d just chill out at his apartment and wait for the call.
As he walked down the access road between the Ritz-Carlton and the Grand Bay Resort, he gave a thought to calling Jack, but realized he didn’t have his number. He dialed Mindy instead. It went straight to voicemail. Dangit, Min, he thought, I hope you’re okay.
He walked past the tennis courts, scanning for any sign of Taz or Mindy, but saw only empty courts. He peeked into the glass doors of the lobby, but the only two people inside were the older lady behind the counter and the other tennis pro dude.
He wasn’t sure what to do next. Chill at home? Wait by the phone? Call the police? Joe!
He opened his phone and clicked the button to dial Joe Bond. It rang once and Joe picked up.
“Joe,” he said, “it’s Troy. What’s going on? Got anything new?”
“Troy,” Joe replied, “a lot has happened. Where did you disappear to?”
Troy shook his head, recalling the peeping Tom lineup incident with Linda back at the station.
“Long story,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you just get in and I’ll bring you up to date?”
“Huh?” Troy asked.
“I’m pulling into the parking lot right in front of you.”
Troy looked up to see the Miami P.D. cruiser crunch into the space right beside the Tennis Garden.
“That was good timing,” Troy said, sliding into the passenger seat of the police car. “Why don’t we just hit my place and work out the particulars.”
“Good plan,” Joe said. “I wasn’t really sure where I was headed, but I thought I’d come back to the place where it all seems to be pointing and see if I could find out…”
Joe’s voice trailed off. He looked down at the bin Troy had shoved into the floorboard as he’d gotten into the car. It was a bunch of typical beach-going junk… except for the shoe. The one, random white tennis shoe, left foot.
“Joe?” Troy realized the detective wasn’t finishing his thought. “Everything okay?”
Joe reached up and turned his radio off. “Troy?” he asked quietly.
“Where’d you get that shoe?”
Part III
The Miracle
“Out of difficulties grow miracles.”
- Jean de la Bruyere
20
Mama, I’m Coming Home
Brant Reginald woke to a bright, early-morning light flashing by the windshield of Christopher Saint Juneau’s old Buick LeSabre. The highway was streaming by without much to see. Long, flat and straight tree-lined stretches of road whooshed past him with the occasional farm field of cotton, or corn, or something he didn’t recognize. The landscape had somehow become vaguely tropical with a random palm tree scattered along crunchy, sandy side roads.
The radio was low, but played gospel music through the static of a faraway tower. Chris was intent on the road, but his lips moved along with the lyrics to the song. Brant sat up from his sleepy slump, stretched his arms out to a cacophony of pops and cracks, and rubbed his drooping eyelids.
“Well, hello sleepy head,” Chris said as he slapped Brant’s shoulder. “You must’ve really needed the rest, my friend. You’ve been out for hours.”
“Yeah,” Brant said through a yawn, “where are we?”
He scanned the roadside for evidence of their location, but aside from the random street sign, he found no help in pinpointing their whereabouts.
“We’re just a little Southeast of Bradenton, on 70,” Chris said.
Brant had absolutely no idea where that was. “I have absolutely no idea where that is,” he said, and smiled at Chris.
Chris laughed heartily, and said, “About an hour east of Okeechobee. We’ll be there soon.”
“Wow,” —Brant only then realized the time jump— “how long was I out?”
“
Bout seven or eight hours, I’d say.”
“Holy moly.” Brant looked at his phone and saw that it was indeed the next day. “I guess I was tired.”
“You needed the rest, friend,” Chris said and turned the radio dial to find a new station.
“Chris,” Brant said and turned toward him, “I can’t thank you enough for the ride. I’ve been blessed by your company.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Chris replied. “If you’ll drop me off at my buddy’s house in Okeechobee, I can let you borrow my car to get you all the way to Key Biscayne. If you promise not to scratch the paint!” He let out another boisterous burst of laughter.
“Oh, Chris, I couldn’t…”
“Sure, ya can,” he said, “I won’t need it for another week, what with the revival goin’ on and all.”
“But I…” Brant felt his throat tighten up.
This man, who barely knew him, was basically giving him everything he had… everything. He couldn’t help but make the symbolic connection with one of his favorite passages from the Bible. This man was giving all he had to the poor and following Jesus to the revival. Brant wondered if he should stay in town and check it out.
“Chris,” he asked, “when is the first service?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, smiling broadly. “Tonight. Five o’clock meet ‘n greet. Six o’clock meeting.”
“You know,” Brant said, feigning a big yawn, “I’m still feeling a bit groggy… probably shouldn’t drive the rest of the way today.”
Chris nodded expectantly.
“What if I just crashed out this afternoon and came to the revival with you this evening?” Brant asked.
“Pastor,” Chris blinked as his eyes became moist, “it would be an honor if you’d join me. Of course it’s alright!”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 62