He waited a second, and then the professor came into view. He wore an apron over a light lavender sweater, linen shorts, and leather flip-flops. The apron had scripty lettering on it that read: Baroque – when you don’t have any Monet.
Troy smiled tightly and nodded. This was sure to be awkward. LeFleur opened the screen door and the cat skittered away.
“Don’t take that personally,” he said, “Fluffy doesn’t care much for anyone but me.”
He ushered Troy in, grabbed his arms and pecked him on each cheek, European style. Troy tried desperately to keep his eyes from widening, but was sure he’d failed.
LeFleur laughed. “Come on in, Mr. Bodean,” he said waving Troy into the living room, “and have a seat. The tetrazzini is almost ready. I don’t have a formal dining room, so we’ll just eat in the parlor.”
“Thank you,” Troy said as he plopped down on one of the gaudy sofas.
“Wine?” LeFleur asked as he drifted around the corner into the kitchen.
“Sure,” Troy said, glancing around the room.
All along the walls of the small living room were canvases and framed artwork. None were hung on the walls, yet, just on the floor leaning against the walls. In one corner were several loose canvases in rolls, bound with twine or string, some with a rubber band. Troy stood and walked casually over to check out those rolled works a little closer.
He picked up one of the tubes and peeked down into it. Too dark to tell what it was… he’d picked up the one with the rubber band around it. That seemed an odd choice for an art professor to use… a rubber band? He slid the band down and unrolled the top of the painting. It wasn’t an original, it was a print. A giclée print… of Savannah Smiling.
Holy dangit, thought Troy, this son of a gun is guilty… He must’ve had a couple of prints made and switched one of ‘em out at the museum.
Creaking footsteps approaching down the hall made Troy quickly wrap the print and slide the rubber band back over it. He acted like he was stretching, casually checking out some of the other leaned paintings.
Mortimer reappeared with two plates piled with steaming noodles in one hand, a wine bottle and two upside-down wine glasses clinking in the other. Troy continued stretching. Then he noticed LeFleur was extending the hand with the plates.
“Little help?” LeFleur asked.
“Oh, right.” Troy grabbed the two heaped plates and sat them on the table. “My bad.”
The professor smiled and shook his head. “I never hang them, the paintings. I go through so many that I’d just be putting them up and taking them down every day.”
“Ah, I gotcha,” Troy said.
“Long day at the museum?” LeFleur asked, sitting the empty glasses on the coffee table.
He pulled the cork from the wine and filled the two glasses almost to the top – a healthy pour.
“So, Mr. Bodean,” – he sat down, swished his wine, sniffed it, and took a sip – “we both know you’re not gay. And it’s not likely that you often visit professors from the college. Am I right?”
Troy coughed, nearly spitting out the sip of wine he’d just taken. “That’s right,” he said cautiously.
“Well, then,” LeFleur said, then picked up the nearest plate and swirled a fork into the noodles, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company tonight?”
Troy took a deep breath. He decided to go with the cards on the table approach. But, he didn’t plan on showing everything he had.
“Well,” he started, “I guess I’m just looking for a professional opinion on this whole Tayler thing.”
LeFleur said nothing. Did Troy see a flash of something cross his face? Maybe. Maybe not. He decided to press a bit.
“And, I suppose you could say I’m a little skeptical of how the thing went down, ya know?”
“Go on,” LeFleur said quietly, picking up his wine glass.
“You see,” Troy said, feeling very much like Detective Columbo, “I just can’t figure out why Tayler would take his own life… what with the new painting gettin’ so much attention and all. I mean, I figure that’s about the best thing that could happen to a student… right?”
“It is.” LeFleur took a sip and then sat his glass down. “Young Tayler was the most gifted student I have had in many years. Many, many years. He might’ve gone on to become famous and perhaps rich… but then again, that doesn’t happen often for artists. You see, many of them don’t achieve such things until after their demise. Even more so if it’s an untimely demise.”
Troy nodded. He figured he’d let LeFleur talk as long as he wanted. Maybe paint himself into a corner.
“Would such fame and fortune have come to Tayler?” LeFleur said in a faraway voice. “I suppose we’ll never know now that… well, now he’s gone.”
“Professor,” Troy decided to show another card, “do you suppose someone might’ve killed Tayler? Ya know, to make that painting more valuable?”
LeFleur leaned his head back and laughed. “Preposterous,” he said. “To predict something like that would be like winning the lottery. Impossible.”
Troy sniffed. “Not for someone who had knowledge of how such things work… right? I mean, if such a person studied art and history and knew how artists became so famous and such after they died… maybe the odds aren’t so high after all… am I right?”
“Mr. Bodean,” LeFleur said, his tone icy, “I see what you’re insinuating, and I assure you I had nothing to do with young Tayler’s death. He was a talented young man, that was widely known. But apparently, he was also a troubled young man. It’s unfortunate that we didn’t discover this sooner.”
An awkward silence descended as the record player went silent, the arm lifting off the vinyl Moulin Rouge.
“Where exactly were you that night, Mr. LeFleur?” Troy asked as the cat rubbed up against his leg.
LeFleur wiped his mouth and stood up.
“I think it’s time you left,” he said, motioning toward the door. “Good evening, Mr. Bodean.”
“Oh, uh… okay.” Troy took one last sip of wine to wash down his food. “Thanks then.”
Mortimer LeFleur walked him to the door.
“I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of my business, Mr. Bodean,” he said through the screen. “That young man’s death was a sad business, but not one I’m party to.”
“Yup,” Troy said, stepping down off the porch.
As he walked down the street, wheeling his bike toward the corner, he wondered if he could get some background on this guy. Maybe something in his past. Perhaps see if he could figure out where LeFleur had been that night. Troy was pretty sure he was either involved, or at least knew something about it. He made a mental note to do some snoopin’ around.
16
Ain’t That A Peach
Eddie Vargo dialed through the channels on the ancient AM only radio. The only thing that he could receive clearly was a church service called New Hope Today from down in Florida. Some preacher named Brant Reginald was preaching about forgiving those who had wronged you in the past, but Eddie didn’t wanna hear anything about that. He clicked the radio off and stretched the latex glove tighter onto his fingertips.
This car would never leave this spot and there would never be anything linking him to it, he’d made sure of that. It was an old Buick clunker he’d bought from a friend who knew a friend who had a junkyard up in Valdosta. It barely ran, but that didn’t matter; he just needed a car to put the drop money in.
He eased the ancient car through the roundabout at the entrance to the Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, and took the gravel road that started just past the main gate. The Tesla Supercharger used to be located inside the security gate in the parking garage, but with the burgeoning population of electric cars, the airport had decided to build a whole new bank of charging stations out in front of the airport. They were outside of the security checkpoint, but even if they had stopped Eddie and T.D. all they would’ve found were a couple of guys and a
couple of suitcases. And if they had asked to see tickets, Eddie had bought a couple of round trip airfares to Daytona. He figured if worst came to worst, he and T.D. could spend a day bettin’ at the greyhound track. Always pick the dog that takes a dump right before they run.
“You sure you got that thing workin’, right?” he asked T.D. as he switched off the radio.
“Yeah, boss.” T.D. was fiddling with a small, handheld device that looked like a walkie-talkie.
Eddie Vargo wasn’t so sure, but he’d been through a lot with the big man, and trusted him to get things done.
“It’ll ping us when the cases are moving and then we can track ‘em.” T.D. looked up and grinned.
“Perfect,” Eddie said and spat the toothpick he’d had in his mouth out the window.
He pulled into the first row of sparkly new, space-age looking charging stations, and eased down the newly paved lot. Then he saw it. A silver Honda Civic with an Enterprise sticker on the back.
He pulled the Buick in beside it and scanned up and down the row of chargers. Besides the rental car the thief had dropped, and the clunker they were in, there were no other cars charging at the new station.
“Good call on the million-dollar toasters,” Eddie snorted.
“Yeah,” T.D. said, looking like he had no idea what his boss was talking about.
“Okay, let’s test that thing.” Eddie pointed at the device T.D. was holding.
The big man clicked it on and it pinged once. T.D. gave a thumbs-up. “Got it,” he said.
“Good,” Eddie said, “now let’s talk plan. We’re gonna get in that car there. Then we’re gonna head over to the Double Tree and wait for the call, right?”
“That’s the plan, boss.”
“Meantime, I’ll get the painting outta that lock-tube, and when the car with the money starts to move, we’ll know about it, right?”
“Yeah, boss.”
“Then we’ll follow that car and get our money back.”
“That’s the plan, boss.”
There was a part of the plan Eddie Vargo hadn’t discussed with T.D., but it was early yet. The matter of what to do with the thief once they’d recovered the money was still a loose end.
In Eddie’s mind, they would follow the thief after they secured the painting – which was supposedly in a stainless-steel lock-tube. Upon securing the money, the thief was to send them the combination to open the tube. But what the thief didn’t know, was that Eddie was a master at cracking the simple combination locks in such tubes. They weren’t exactly high-security, just a deterrent to amateur theft. Anyway, upon securing the painting, they would follow the tracker on the suitcases, incapacitate the thief, take the money, then drive the thief back out to the airport and dump it all back where they started. It was the incapacitate part that Eddie hadn’t discussed with T.D. yet.
But the big guy was super-loyal, so he figured he’d bop the thief on the head without much coaxing. It was simple and elegant, and Eddie felt sure… or at least mostly sure…it would go off without a hitch. The thief had obviously sold hot items before, but didn’t seem as professional as the guys Eddie was used to dealing with. But something kept nagging him about the drop, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck.
“We goin’ now, boss?” T.D. asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie said, and turned the Buick off. “Let’s go.”
The two men stepped casually out of the car. Eddie acted like he was stretching and T.D. mimicked his actions exactly. He walked over to the Honda and pulled the driver’s side door handle – it was open, and the key was in the ignition. He slid in, while T.D. wedged his giant frame into the passenger’s side, his knees touching the dash. He grabbed the seat handle and slid it back. Looking over the headrest of Eddie’s seat, T.D. reached his arm behind him.
“Got it, boss,” he said, lifting a metal tube and showing it to him.
“Nice,” Eddie said, starting the car. “Doubletree here we come.”
“Boss?”
“Yeah, T.D.?”
“You think they got a breakfast bar?”
Eddie looked at his watch. “It’s after noon, T.D.”
The large man’s face sunk. Eddie thought for a second.
“But we could go to The Frog and the Peach,” he said, his mouth suddenly watering, “it’s just on the south side of the airport.”
“Now you’re talkin’, boss.” T.D. rubbed his hands together.
“Just keep your eyes on that transmitter,” Eddie said, “and if she starts movin’, we gotta bolt.”
“Don’t worry, boss,” said T.D., nodding vigorously, “I’m a fast eater.”
“You sure are.”
Eddie turned right on Gulfstream Avenue. It was a long way around the airport, but it didn’t really matter. He’d let T.D. grab some greasy buffet food while he worked on the lock. After that, they’d follow this thief and get the money back. It was turning out to be a great day.
17
Gotcha!
“You gotta be freakin’ kiddin’ me!” Eddie Vargo slammed his hand on the dashboard of the Honda Civic.
“What’s wrong, boss?” asked T.D., his belly distended from too many servings of scrambled eggs, bacon, waffles, pancakes, grits, and biscuits from The Frog and The Peach.
“I’ll show you what’s wrong,” Eddie fumed as he slid the rolled-up sheet of paper out of the tube.
He’d cracked the code on the combination lock in less than an hour. The sheet came, out and unfurled with a rustling sound… unusual for a canvas… which was to be expected, since this wasn’t a canvas. Eddie unrolled the print and spread it out on the dashboard. T.D. blinked and crinkled his nose.
“Boss, that don’t look like the painting we’re supposed to have.”
“Ya think?” Eddie backhanded T.D. in the chest.
The poster laid out on the dash of the Honda Civic rental car was a full color movie poster with a young, blonde Anthony Edwards holding a gun up, movie-style, next to his head over a sexy, lingerie-clad Linda Fiorentina lying on her back while rubbing a hand on her stocking-covered leg. In the middle, under the night scene of the sparklingly lit Eiffel Tower, was a single word in red capital letters: GOTCHA!
“Dammit!” Eddie slammed his hand on the dash again. “You check that transmitter?”
“Yeah, boss.” T.D. held it up.
The red light was solid. If the suitcase had been on the move, it would’ve been flashing. The faster it flashed, the closer they were to the transmitter… and thus, the suitcases… and thus, the thief.
“We’re going back to the airport!” Eddie jerked the car into reverse, throwing T.D.’s knees toward the front and cracking against the glove box. “If that Buick ain’t there, dis is gonna get ugly.”
T.D. sat in silence, rubbing his knees and looking at the light on the transmitter. Twenty minutes later as they rounded the airport, the light began to flash. Pulling off the gravel drive into the charging lot, it began to flash faster.
“It’s still there, boss.” T.D. pointed at the light. “See?”
“You better be right, T.D.”
The junkyard Buick was sitting in exactly the same spot they’d left it in. The trunk was popped open.
“Sonofa…”
Eddie jerked the Honda into the space next to the Buick. He jumped out and ran to the open trunk. Inside were the two suitcases, open and empty.
“Dammit!” Eddie shouted as he slammed the trunk shut.
He walked back to the Honda, slumped into the driver’s seat, and banged both hands on the steering wheel three times.
“Dis thief don’t know who he’s messin’ with, T.D.” he said through gritted teeth.
T.D. said nothing.
“Okay, let’s get back in the Buick,” Eddie said when he finally cooled down, “Leave this piece of shit here.”
T.D. nodded and heaved himself out of the Civic. As the wheels of the junker crunched down the gravel road, E
ddie’s phone rang. Blocked Number.
“Listen here, you sonofa—”
“Now, hold on a second,” the thief interrupted him, “I’ve got your painting. I just had to be sure you weren’t trying to double-cross me. You’ll have a package waiting for you when you get back to your shop.”
“If dat paintin’ ain’t there when we do—”
“It’s there already,” the thief said. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”
The line went dead.
“What’d they say?” T.D. asked carefully.
“The painting’s at the shop,” Eddie said, inhaling deeply, “I hope—”
“Boss?”
“Yeah, T.D.?”
“How’d they know where the shop was?”
Eddie Vargo felt a chill run up his spine. The garage they’d been working out of was a secure location. No one ever picked up or dropped off anything there. Every deal took place off site.
“Dunno, T.D.,” Eddie said, “but I got a bad feelin’ ‘bout dis.”
“Yeah, boss,” the big man agreed.
“I don’t think we’re gonna go back just yet.”
T.D. nodded and clicked on the radio. He turned the dial until he found the New Hope preacher again.
Eddie reached down and turned the radio off. “Not now, T.D.,” he said, “I gotta think.”
18
Touchy-Feely
Samantha Eliza Dawn was buck-naked and RayRay had his hands dangerously close to the part of her breasts her mama told her nobody but God, her mama, and her future husband should ever see. But, it wasn’t a sexual thing. RayRay was blind, and this was how he “saw” his subjects. His request to sculpt her had been innocent enough; all the students at SCAD had a final project due and naturally they all wanted to use Samantha as their subject. The furor the painting had caused now meant Sami’s face was all over every news report and internet news board. She knew it wasn’t her face that made Tayler’s painting so amazing… it was his talent that had brought to life such a beautiful piece.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 78