Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4)

by David F. Berens

  Within a month of posting photos of his sculpture online, he had over one thousand requests for commissions. He worked so hard on them that he broke several of the beginner’s set tools and had to order new, professional grade replacements. To say he was rolling in the dough was an understatement.

  He enrolled in the Savannah College of Art and Design the next year, and paid cash for everything not covered by his fellowship. His professors immediately discovered his talent and put him on a fast track into three-dimensional artwork – skipping all the beginner crap. His work was widely regarded as the best in the school and many were jealous of his talent. He was shunned almost universally. With no friends and lots of time on his hands, the commissions continued to roll in and RayRay made more and more money.

  And that’s when the I.R.S. stepped in again. RayRay hadn’t realized that there were independent contractor taxes due on his commissions, and since they had all come through the Dragonshoppe website, there existed a record for every transaction.

  Once again, his money disappeared overnight. Luckily, he was still receiving fifty or more commissions every week and he was able to at least pay his remaining college bills.

  He mainly kept to himself until he met Alain. RayRay had enjoyed Alain’s paintings because the paint was thick – too thick for what he was trying to capture – but the texture was just right for a blind person to enjoy. They discovered that they were both misfits at the school, one shunned due to his immense talent and the other due to his immense lack of talent.

  They spent hours at the coffee shop drinking lattes and discussing their respective work, and for a short time they were actually roommates, until a single room became available for RayRay.

  Soon, Becky and Samantha had been folded into the group as fellow misfits, and they shared each other’s woes. RayRay often had a completed sculpture with him ready to be shipped to its new owner, and Becky had asked him about it once. He explained that they were commissions for gamers who took part in various dragon, superhero, and fantasy role-playing games.

  Within a week, they were involved in their first game, Dragon Reign. They finished it quickly and decided that their coffee meetings would become gaming opportunities. Soon, they began to play on Thursday nights… just like RayRay had done back in his home-school days.

  RayRay was packing up his things from tonight’s session when Samantha and the others reached the door.

  Samantha’s phone rang; he knew it was her by the ringtone, something new by Beyoncé.

  She clicked it and said hello. She then fell silent and he heard her stumble over the doorjamb.

  “Sam?” Becky asked. “Is something wrong?”

  He could almost picture the scene. He imagined Samantha turning around to look at Becky. The look on Sam’s face must’ve been devastating – he could sense the quaver in Becky’s voice.

  “Oh no,” she said. “What is it?”

  He heard the rumpling sound of Samantha sagging to the floor, her phone tumbling from her hand. He heard her sniff, as tears must’ve begun streaming down her face.

  “It’s Tay,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “He’s dead.”

  8

  It Ain’t Me

  Troy Bodean was once again sitting in a jail cell. This time it was in Savannah’s Chatham County Sheriff’s Office, in connection with the apparent suicide of his roommate, Tayler Evan. He wasn’t being booked for any crime; he was just waiting to be interviewed. In fact, though the cell door was closed, it wasn’t locked.

  His input would only be used to establish Tayler’s mental state, his ability to commit the act, and a timeline of when the act had occurred. At least, all that was true until they found a tiny piece of blue latex wedged under the buckle of the belt Tayler had used to hang himself.

  This fact was not altogether unusual, as many painters at SCAD used latex gloves when they were painting, or if not then, when they were cleaning up their brushes, easels, and palettes. The piece had been sent to the crime lab, but had not yet come back with a result.

  The sheriff had immediately suspected Troy was involved, but there ended up being too much evidence exonerating him. The coroner had established the time of death as somewhere between three-thirty and five-thirty in the afternoon, which put Troy on the boat doing tours. Papa and Mama Cass had been found, and had both signed affidavits stating they were with Troy all afternoon.

  The report also showed that there were no physical signs of a struggle or a fight. No bruising or scratches. And Tayler had been drinking. The empty bottle of Beaux Freres Pinot Noir they found in the apartment, combined with the drinks he’d had at the Rail Pub, provided the necessary depressants to push him over the edge.

  The last people to see him alive were his friends from SCAD, and they had been celebrating his recent signing to do labels with the wine company in Amsterdam. Witnesses saw him leave alone, and attested to the fact that he was very intoxicated.

  “Okay, Mr. Bodean,” said the sheriff, a large man with a double – maybe triple – chin. “Let’s run through it one more time.”

  Troy was staring at the man’s shirt and wondering just how long it would be before one of the buttons pinged off in his direction. If the man ate one more of the doughnuts in front of him, it was coming his way… he was sure of it.

  “Mr. Bodean?” the sheriff drawled again.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Troy snapped out of his daze. “Like I said before, when I left for work Tayler was asleep in his bed, likely sleepin’ off the hangover he must’ve had from the night before.”

  “And what time was it that you left for work?” the sheriff asked, chewing the inside of his cheek.

  “Reckon it was ‘bout three o’clock.”

  “Three o’clock,” the sheriff repeated, and scribbled on a note pad. “Okay, go on.”

  “Well, when I got home,” – Troy thought about it for a second – “I’d say around six o’clock, I found him there… hangin’.”

  “Six o’clock?” The sheriff didn’t look up. “And he was already dead?”

  “As a doornail, sir.”

  Now the sheriff looked up, and he inhaled in such a way that Troy believed the man thought for sure he was guilty. He tapped his pen on his desk.

  “And the night before?” the sheriff, whose nametag read – I kid you not – Jebediah T. Hogg, asked. “Where were you then?”

  “I was unloadin’ at the museum until—”

  “Which museum?” Jebediah asked, interrupting him.

  “Jepson,” Troy said, “I was there until around ten p.m. Never saw Tayler at all that night. Guess he’d been with friends or whatever, gettin’ some drinks.”

  “That he was,” Sheriff Hogg said and leaned forward, “but you didn’t go out to meet him?”

  “No, sir,” Troy said, “I was dog tired from unloadin’ all those new boxes for the Rodin exhibit. Heavy stuff, ya know?”

  “Uh huh.” The sheriff clicked his pen several times then laid it down on the pad. “Mr. Bodean, I suppose you are free to go.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But don’t skip town or anything,” the sheriff added quickly as he stood and hiked up his pants. “We may still need more information from you before this is all through.”

  Troy nodded and tipped his hat. “Yes, sir.”

  9

  I Like Your Hat

  Troy wasn’t exactly friends with Tayler, but when the funeral plans were made and his parents had asked if he would attend, Troy said yes. He wondered if it was okay if he showed up in a linen shirt and khaki shorts… that was all he owned. As it turned out, Tayler’s father, Mic, was wearing an almost identical outfit – without the hat. Tayler’s mother didn’t come… she was too sick with cancer.

  Troy spoke to Mic briefly after the service. He thanked Troy for being there and informed him he had already paid the rent for Tayler’s place through the next month. After that, however, he wouldn’t be able to keep paying, what with the medical bills a
ll piling up for his wife’s treatments. Troy shook his hand and moved along, letting others come through and pay their respects.

  At the back of the church was a group of kids Troy recognized as artists from SCAD, likely friends of Tayler’s. As he passed by their group, he heard them whispering to each other.

  “I just don’t buy it, RayRay,” said a black girl sitting next to a chubby Asian kid. “Tayler had everything going for him. He was doin’ great work, he was gettin’ noticed… heck, he was gettin’ paid. I mean, ain’t that what we all want?”

  “This is true, Samantha-san,” said the kid called RayRay, “but one never knows what is hiding in someone’s heart. Tayler may have been clinically depressed, which would have nothing to do with how well things were going for him.”

  “I don’t think that’s true either,” said a white girl sitting with them. “I never saw him take any medicine and he was always happy around me.”

  The black girl shot a glance at the white girl when she said this, but didn’t say anything.

  “I m-m-mean,” she stuttered, “he was always happy around all of us.”

  As Troy passed by, they all fell silent, aware of his presence. He nodded at them and felt sure they recognized him.

  The white girl batted her eyelashes and smiled broadly at him. Whoa, girl, Troy thought, what are you, twenty? He quickly broke eye contact with her and walked past.

  As he reached the door to exit the church, he overheard the white boy, who had been silent up to that point, say, “I bet he was murdered. Somebody killed him and made it look like a suicide.”

  Troy stopped.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Alain-san,” said the Asian kid, RayRay. “It was suicide. The police say there was no evidence of a break-in, no evidence of a struggle, and we all know that Tayler was very drunk.”

  “Yeah, Alain,” the girl they called Samantha said, “you need to shut it.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Alain,” the white girl said, “are you really saying that? Here and now? At his funeral? That’s just wrong, dude.”

  Troy edged back into the doorway so he could hear them better.

  “I’m just saying it seems like there wasn’t any reason for Tayler to commit suicide,” Alain said.

  “Is there ever a good reason?” Samantha asked.

  “You guys, just stop,” the white girl said. “We’re all hurting, and we don’t know how to deal with it. It never gets any easier.”

  “Oh, geez, Becky,” Alain said, “do we really have to hear about Darryl again?”

  Troy heard the sound of a stinging smack and turned to see the boy, Alain, holding his hand against his cheek. Apparently, Becky had just slapped him.

  “Friends, please,” RayRay said, holding up his hands. “This is neither the time, nor the place. Show some respect to Tayler’s family.”

  “And just what are you lookin’ at?”

  Troy realized that the black girl, Samantha, was staring right at him, one eyebrow arched. He looked from person to person… they were all watching him now… except the Asian kid, who must’ve been blind behind his dark glasses.

  “Oh, um, me?” Troy sniffed. “Look, I’m sorry. I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

  The girl named Becky fluttered her doe eyes at him. He struggled not to look at her.

  “Name’s Troy,” he said. “I’m Tayler’s… well, I was Tayler’s roommate.”

  “I’m Becky,” Becky said, and held out her hand.

  None of the others said anything. Troy didn’t take her hand, pretending he hadn’t seen her extend it toward him.

  “Look, I’m the one who found Tayler,” he said, “and I’ve been talkin’ to the police about all this. It’s pretty clear it was a suicide. Forensic evidence, and what not.”

  Samantha lowered her head.

  “I’m sorry,” Troy said. “I don’t know why he did it. Seemed like a pretty happy kid most of the time. It’s just hard to tell what people are thinkin’, I guess.”

  “It is true, Troy-san,” RayRay said, “and thank you for saying so.”

  “I’m really sorry for your loss, you guys,” Troy said, “but it seems pretty clear to me that, for one reason or another, Tayler just didn’t want to go on livin’.”

  They were all quiet now.

  “Okay, well, I’m gonna go,” Troy said. “Gotta get down to the museum.”

  “That’s where I recognized you from!” Becky suddenly looked up at him. “You work at Jepson, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” Troy replied, and rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortable talking to the girl again. “I’m just a helpin’ hand unloadin’ and sometimes sweepin’ up.”

  “Maybe we’ll see you around?” She batted her eyelashes again.

  The dark looks were back, mostly from Samantha, and now from the boy they called Alain.

  “Maybe so.” Troy held up a hand and turned away.

  “Hey, what’s your name?” Becky called.

  Dangit, Troy thought.

  “Troy,” he said over his shoulder, “Troy Bodean.”

  “I like your hat, Troy,” he heard her say as he walked out the door. “If you’re ever out by the Mariner Grove apartments…”

  He didn’t hear the rest.

  10

  Pay To Play

  Eddie Vargo tilted his black slick-backed hair covered head and laughed heartily. He looked at the screen of his cell phone and shook his head. Showing the blocked number notification to his associate, he shrugged his shoulders.

  “Do youse believe dis, T.D.?” he asked the giant Samoan man standing next to him.

  The man, T.D., looked up from polishing a silver urn and also shook his head no. His belly stuck out from under his shirt and he tugged on it to cover the protruding gut.

  “Don’ believe it, boss,” he replied and looked back to the urn.

  Eddie put his mouth back to the receiver and spoke calmly but firmly.

  “Ain’t happnin’,” he said. “Even if I wanted to give youse that ridiculous sum of money fa that paintin’, there sure as shit ain’t no way I could get it by nine tonight.”

  He paused, listening, as the person on the line responded.

  “Cause on account of there ain’t no banks open this time of night,” – Eddie clicked his tongue – “and I don’ know about youse, but my bank don’t let me get two-hundred grand a time out the ATM.”

  He clicked shut the phone and tossed it on the metal worktable in front of him. “I dunno what dis world is comin’ to, T.D.,” Eddie said, “when people think they can jus’ ask any price for anything. I ain’t even heard of dis piece they’s sellin’.”

  “Me neither,” T.D. said, putting down his urn. “What’s it called again?”

  “Somethin’ about Stolen Savannah or somethin’ like that. I dunno, I ain’t never heard of dis Tayler Evan dude, neither.”

  “Yeah.” T.D. stood up and tugged his shirt down over his belly again.

  T.D. was not the big fella’s real name. His real name was the very Polynesian sounding Tausa’afia, which Eddie’s New Jersian accent just couldn’t handle, so he’d shortened it to something more manageable.

  At six-foot-eight, the Samoan towered over Eddie. He was built like a defensive lineman and had actually played a couple of downs of football in college. Thus, his new nickname, T.D. – shorthand for touchdown.

  But Eddie had thrown some serious cash at the big guy, and apparently that was enough to get him to drop out of school and become his full-time muscle. Eddie was tough, but he was more average in size… like five-foot-eight or so. Didn’t matter. His gun was huge, and it never hurt to have a giant come with you on a deal.

  “Anyways, what we got goin’ out today?” he asked T.D.

  The massive hulk of a man lumbered over to a stack of crates. He picked up a clipboard lying on top of one of them and scanned it.

  “We got the Wyeth and the Picasso.” He looked up at Eddie.

  Vargo grinned widely. “Y
eah, that Picasso was a good find, eh?”

  “You bet, boss,” T.D. agreed, and nodded.

  Eddie knew T.D. had absolutely no clue what he was talking about and he liked it that way. He didn’t need to put ideas of running off with something into his associate’s head. To the Samoan, the art they transacted through their warehouse was pretty… but so were the posters down at the Walmart.

  “Cool,” Eddie said, “get those on the truck and we’ll head down to that new donut shop. Everyone says it’s frickin’ amazin’.”

  T.D. grinned and flashed a double thumbs-up. The big guy began carrying the paintings out the door and Eddie’s phone rang again. Blocked number. He answered it with a sniff.

  “Yeah?”

  “Turn on your TV,” the voice on the line said.

  “Yeah?” Eddie asked. “Whadda I wanna do that for?”

  “You might want to see the breaking news about an important piece I have for sale.”

  Eddie recognized the caller from earlier. The same one who was trying to sell him a painting from a virtually unknown artist for a couple hundred grand.

  “Who da fuck is this?”

  “Just turn on your TV. You’ll thank me, I promise.”

  Eddie walked into his office and clicked the remote. A flashing red graphic that said Breaking News pulsed across the screen. Police cars with blinking red and blue lights surrounded an apartment building in downtown Savannah. Eddie wouldn’t have known it was Savannah; the bottom ticker had told him that. A young local news anchor was reading the story.

  “The body of highly regarded artist, Tayler Evan, was found hanging in his apartment this morning, dead from an apparent suicide. He is best known for the current piece at the Jepson Center called Stealing Savannah. The painting was originally estimated to have been worth around ten-thousand-dollars, but upon hearing of Evan’s death, collectors have been offering hundreds of thousands of dollars to buy the piece.”