The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  Samantha swung the machete with all her might but it only seemed to glance off the side of the thief’s leg. A yelp escaped into the air. Male? Female? She couldn’t be sure. But she did see the thief drop down to kneel and clutch the leg Sami had apparently struck. Without thinking, she took off running. She could see she was in a long row of storage units – tan buildings and bright orange metal doors.

  Running down the row as fast as she could, she saw no one around. She screamed.

  “HEELP! HEEEELP!”

  Behind her, she heard the crunching footsteps of the thief chasing her, sounding faster and closer. She couldn’t have done much damage with the blade. She rounded a corner and saw the industrial complex of the airport in the distance. I’m near the Savannah International Airport? Maybe to the south?

  She ran hard as darkness fell around her, and turned a corner and slammed hard into a chain link fence. Turning from side to side, she could see she’d made a fatal mistake… she’d run toward the back of the storage building lot, but there was no opening in the fence as far as she could see.

  The thief slowed, probably realizing Sami was trapped.

  “Noooo,” she moaned and held up her hands.

  “Goddammit, Sami,” the thief growled.

  The voice. She recognized the voice. The thief wasn’t using the voice modifier.

  “Why?” she groaned, hoping to hear more of the thief and figure out who it was.

  “Because, dear Samantha,” the thief said, closing the distance between them, “there’s no other way I could possibly make this much money. And when I have you and Troy out the way, I’ll disappear… not that anyone sees me anyway.”

  Tears streamed down Samantha’s cheeks as the thief’s – the killer’s – face slowly came into view. She could now see clearly the face of the person who was likely about to kill her… and would probably kill Troy Bodean too. She wished she could get a message to him, somehow and warn him. They both knew the killer, but Troy would likely never suspect— The thief slammed a heavy hand into Sami’s head and she blacked out again.

  35

  Distribution Office

  Troy Clint Bodean knocked on the DISTRIBUTION OFFICE door and peered through the dark industrial park glass door. Nothing looked unusual about the space, except for the fact that there didn’t seem to be much stuff inside for a distribution office… not that Troy knew what such an office should have in it. He knocked again and figured nobody was home. Pulling on the door, just for kicks, he wasn’t surprised to find it locked. He stepped back from the door and glanced to the left and right. The next door to the right led to what looked like a furniture warehouse, and on the left, a vacant office with a sign on the front advertising the realtor who had it listed. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed the number on the placard. A sweet sounding woman named Kimberly answered.

  “Yes, darlin’,” Troy laid on his charm as thick as he could, “I’m interested in the office space out at the…” – he paused and looked back to the road at the park’s entry sign – “the Savannah Industrial Park,” he continued, giving himself a mental face-palm for not knowing such a simple name. “Suite 102.”

  “Sure, sure,” Kimberly said and clicked a few keys in the background. “When would you like to see it?”

  “Well,” Troy said, “I’m lookin’ in the door right now. Any way you could make it out now?”

  “Oh, um… uh,” she stuttered then quickly recovered, “I’ll be right over, Mr. uh…”

  “Bodean,” Troy said, “Troy Bodean.”

  “Alright, Mr. Bodean,” she answered, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you kindly, Kimberly.”

  As they hung up, Troy turned around and leaned against the doorway. He tipped his hat back and chuckled to himself. He’d done it again. Seemed like everywhere he went these days, he got fouled up in some kind of mess with a murder or kidnapping or something. He thought idly that his adventures might make for a good book… but he’d failed every English class he’d ever had, so it would have to be written by a ghostwriter.

  True to her word, Kimberly pulled up ten minutes later and stepped out of a massive black GMC Yukon Denali. It looked brand new… and expensive as hell. Her heels clicked the pavement as she walked up. She was short, not more than five-foot-two, and wearing a form-fitting black skirt with a white flowing blouse. Professional, yet sexy. She jingled her keys and smiled.

  “Thank you for meeting me so quickly, Kimberly.” Troy put out his right hand to shake hers and tipped his cowboy hat with his left.

  “Any realtor worth her salt would never say no to a customer standing at the door of a property she has listed.” She shook his hand and let it linger for a second.

  Troy laughed and nodded. “I s’pose not.”

  “Here,” she said, fumbling with her phone and holding it up near the lockbox hanging from the door, “let’s go inside and check it out.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What kind of space are you looking for, Mr. Bodean?” she asked.

  “Oh, uh, well,” he stumbled for a second, “I’ve got a, um… I make fishing rods. Need a place to assemble ‘em and ship ‘em out.”

  “Huh,” she nodded, “that’s interesting. How long’ve you been doing that sort of thing?”

  “Oh, gosh,” he said, “goin’ on two or three years now. Just got the business built up enough to need a separate space this year. Garage was gettin’ too tight.”

  “Fantastic,” she said as the lockbox popped open and a key fell into her hand. “Then I think this space will be perfect for you.”

  She opened the door and pushed inside, with Troy following right behind. Waving her arms back and forth at each point she made, Troy made a mental note that the ceiling was a drop ceiling and seemed to extend over the adjoining wall… perhaps connecting to the DISTRIBUTION OFFICE next door. All he had to do was figure out a way to get rid of Kimberly and still have access to this place.

  “Is there a back door?” he asked, interrupting her ongoing description of the office’s features.

  “Oh, why yes,” she said, “leads out to the dumpsters and such. No loading dock on this unit, but all the others that have them are on the back side of the building.”

  She led him back and ushered him toward the glass door that faced the rear parking lot. Troy made a show of looking out and around.

  “Nice,” he said, pointing at the tree-lined hill behind the lot, “because I sometimes have to get some fresh air from the uh… the chemicals, and such.”

  “Sure, sure,” she said, pretending to know what he meant, “then that space should be just what you need.”

  “It certainly looks that way,” he said with a wink. “Oh, and did you say there was a kitchen?”

  “Well, there isn’t a functioning stove,” she said, “due to local regulations, but there is a room with a wall of cabinets and a powder room for washing…”

  She continued on and turned around to show Troy to the makeshift break room. Behind her, Troy unlocked the back door, quietly coughing to disguise the click. She didn’t notice at all. He followed behind her nodding at all her commentary.

  “This looks absolutely perfect,” he said when she had shown him the whole place. “I think I’ll take it. But I’ll have to talk this over with the wife.”

  For the first time, Kimberly looked flustered. “Oh…” she said, obviously taken aback, “you’re married?”

  “Ten years now,” Troy beamed.

  “But you don’t wear a ring?”

  Oops. Clever girl. Troy whipped up a story about how he and his make-believe wife didn’t put any stock in the old conventions. No, ma’am, they were trusting of each other and didn’t need a silly ring to prove their love to one another.

  “Well,” her tone seemed to stiffen, “let me know what Mrs. Bodean thinks.”

  “Thank you kindly.” Troy let her lead him into the parking lot.

  She clicked back into her giant SUV and the
engine rumbled to life. With a tight-lipped smile, she waved curtly and screeched back out of the parking lot. When Troy was sure she was gone, he jogged around to the back of the building. Exactly as planned, he pulled the door open and ducked inside.

  Troy was able to hoist himself up on the cabinets in the break room and tilt back one of the ceiling tiles. He’d been slightly wrong about the two offices connecting; there was in fact a wall between them. However, there was a vent that allowed air to flow between the two spaces that only required a couple of quick turns of a flathead screw with his knife to grant him access. He pulled the vent screen away from the wall and poked his head through. Still empty. He shimmied through the opening and lowered himself so it was only a few feet down to the floor. He dropped down and paused to listen. He was truly alone, and didn’t hear any sort of alarm sounding off.

  Not exactly sure what he was looking for, he poked around the front office a bit. There were a few random boxes stacked here and there, and he peeked in the ones that were open and soon found what he thought might be valuable paintings and artwork. Without an expert, though, he had no way of knowing for sure. But, he didn’t see any sign of the painting he knew as Savannah Smiling by Tayler Evan.

  A couple of larger boxes held pieces of sculpture that may or may not have been valuable as well… same problem; he simply didn’t know. And on top of all of that, it could simply be a legit art sales and shipping company. Troy wasn’t sure how he’d check to see if any of it was stolen.

  He nosed around the desk sitting in the front and found a few notes about meetings and phone calls… all were cryptically coded, and he couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. Meet so and so here, deliver such and such there… looked like a bunch of gibberish to Troy.

  He was careful not to move anything, and left it just the way he found it. Moving toward the back, he found a box full of tubes. Working at the Jepson, he’d become very familiar with these tubes. Inside, he was sure he’d find rolled up paintings or drawings. Doing a quick mental calculation, he figured there were between eighty to ninety tubes. He took a deep breath… this was going to take a while.

  The first tube proved to be empty, as did the second, and for a moment Troy thought they’d all be empty. But the third had a painting in it, rolled carefully and tied with a ribbon. He untied it and unrolled the end. Not Savannah. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it looked like an original of something.

  He proceeded to re-tie it and slip it down into its tube. He had made his way through about forty of them when he heard the clink of a key in the front door.

  Dangit, he thought. Shoving the tubes back into the box, he ran toward the hallway where he’d climbed down from the vent in the ceiling. The tile was still out… but looking up at it, he realized he had dropped down with nothing to stand on to get back up. He heard the keys drop to the ground. And then he heard a muffled curse.

  36

  Mariner Grove

  “Dangit Troy, think,” he told himself.

  Inspiration hit and he jogged back toward the bathroom with the ceiling tile in hand. He stood up on the toilet, stepped onto the sink and was just able to reach his hands on the top edge of the wall and hoist himself up. He stuffed the extra tile up and through the hole and had just gotten up into the ceiling when he heard the front door jerk open and two voices enter the building.

  “Dammit,, T.D.,” a voice called, “watch it.”

  “Sorry, boss,” a second voice said, quickly followed by a crashing sound.

  Troy heard footsteps thumping quickly across the floor of the office and before he could process what was happening, he heard the door of the restroom open beneath him.

  “I guess that coffee shop stuff ran right through me,” he heard the second voice (the one belonging to the person called T.D.) call out as he slammed the lid to the commode open.

  What Troy heard next could best be described as the sound of fifteen giant whoopee cushions being squeezed in near unison and a rush of gurgling liquid pouring into the bowl. But that was nothing compared to the smell. Troy pinched his nose shut with his hand as tears stung his eyes.

  Dang dude, Troy thought to himself, what in Pete’s name did you eat?

  As if he’d heard him, T.D. flushed and called out, “must’ve been some cinnamon in that honey bun.”

  “Oh, my God,” the other voice said from the front office, “will you turn on the frickin’ fan in there T.D.? Smells like something crawled into your butt and died.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Troy flinched as the fan flared to life next to him, but then realized the noise gave him the cover he needed to crawl through the ceiling. Careful not to punch through the flimsy tiles, Troy crept slowly back toward the wall that connected the two offices. He could see the empty space where he’d dropped down and slowly slipped the tile he’d been carrying back into place. As he was doing so, he heard the first person pick up the phone.

  “Well, well,” the voice called to T.D., “we already got a bite on that paintin’.”

  “Sweet, Boss,” T.D. answered back as the toilet flushed again.

  “Yeah, somebody named Troy,” the first voice – Mr. Vargo – answered,.“Vito sent ‘im.”

  “Ah, cool,” T.D. said. “We gotta go see him soon. Been a few ticks since I’ve been to Vegas.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Vargo said, “just too bad we ain’t got no paintin’ to sell ‘im.”

  “Don’t worry, boss,” T.D. said, “when I get done in here we’ll go to that last address, and I bet you we’ll find out who has it then.”

  “I hope you’re right, T.D.,” he said. “I’m gonna call this dude real quick and see when he wants to see the paintin’. Give us a timeline to work with.”

  After another flush T.D.’s voice drifted into the main office. “Okay, Boss, I’m ready now. Sorry about that.”

  “Geezus, man,” Eddie said, “we’re gonna have to torch this place after that bomb you dropped.”

  T.D. laughed sheepishly. “Sorry, boss. No more cinnamon.”

  “You got that right,” Eddie said, “now where we headed?”

  “President Street,” T.D. said, “Mariner Grove apartments.”

  So, this was Eddie Vargo… the not-so-reputable art dealer that Vito had recommended to him. And he’d just listened to the message Troy had left on his voicemail and was about to call him. Troy froze.

  Dangit, he thought, I’m about to ring. He shuffled as quickly as he could toward the vent between the two offices as he heard the clicking of digits on Eddie’s desk phone. He heard the familiar strains of his ringtone start in just as he plopped through the opening. He jerked his phone out of his pocket and hit silence before AC/DC began singing about the Dirty Deeds they were doin’. He held his breath and waited in silence.

  “Ah, shit,” he heard Eddie’s muffled voice say, “he ain’t answering. I’ll call him later.”

  Troy breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the two men walk out of the next-door office, lock it up, start their car, and pull out of the lot.

  “That was too close, Bodean,” he muttered to himself. He lowered himself onto the cabinets in the break room on his side, and froze. Mariner Grove apartments. Why did that sound so familiar? He knew the name. It was an apartment used by a lot of the SCAD students… Tayler’s friend Becky had said she lived there.

  So, Eddie Vargo thought the painting would be there… but that didn’t make sense… unless…

  “What are you up to, Becky?” Troy asked nobody as he jogged toward the back door.

  37

  Ninja Challenge

  Alain Montgomery knocked on the door labeled 4B at the Mariner Grove apartment building. He’d been debating this meeting for quite some time now. Something in his last conversation with Becky hadn’t sat well with him and he had to find out what the hell was going on with her. He was pretty sure she’d had nothing to do with Tayler’s murder or the theft of the painting, but… the more he pieced things together, the more he
worried he might not be as sure as he thought.

  He put his ear against the door and listened. Inside, he heard the muffled sound of a television with a game-show type announcer droning on about some contestant’s physical prowess and the difficulty of tonight’s course. It was one of those obstacle course shows that Becky always watched. He never understood the appeal, but, eh, to each their own.

  He was about to knock again when he heard a thumping sound… loud and abrupt. Then he heard Becky’s voice in what might’ve been a scream… or a yell… or something.

  He pounded his fist on the door. “Becky!” he yelled.

  No answer, more thumping, and definitely more of Becky grunting. Shit, she’s in trouble. The killer has found her and is attacking her. He put his back against the opposite wall of the hallway and rammed his foot into the door.

  Alain felt his ankle jerk to the side and a sharp pain shoot up into his calf. Ignoring the sprain, he slammed his foot into the door again. It wouldn’t budge.

  “BECKY!” he shouted again.

  Still no answer. He raised his foot again, the shockwaves of pain now shooting up into his leg. It felt as if he hit the door again he’d break his ankle.

  He pulled his foot back and shoved it hard toward the door. As he did, it suddenly swung open and his heel slammed into the midsection of the person standing there. It was Becky.

  She stumbled backward, yelping in pain and grabbing her stomach. He stepped down on his foot and it collapsed under him. Falling forward, he landed squarely on top of Becky. She grunted and the air whooshed out of her lungs into Alain’s face.

  “What the fu—” she started.

  “Becky?” Alain gasped in pain. “Are you okay? Who’s hurting you?”

  She put both hands on his shoulders and threw him off to the side. Sitting up, she dusted her hands off and pulled herself up to her knees on a nearby side-table.