Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4)

by David F. Berens

  “Let’s go have a look,” he said, ushering Troy toward the door.

  As they went into the backstage hallway, several of the performers gave Troy a round of applause.

  “Don’t worry, girls,” Charles said into the air, “he won’t be performing regularly.”

  Laughter filled the hall as they walked toward his office. He unlocked the door and sat down at a gunmetal gray office desk. Next to a laptop was a framed picture of Charles, a beautiful Asian woman, and a small child… maybe two years old. Noticing Troy’s stare, he smiled.

  “Not all performers are gay, Troy,” he said, “but if you couldn’t tell, we’ve done our job.”

  He tapped a few keys on the laptop and turned it around so Troy could see the screen.

  “Push the arrow keys to slow down or speed up, hit the number keys to make a certain camera feed full screen, and the spacebar to pause,” Charles said.

  Troy quickly figured out the system and toggled through the feed, watching as the club got more crowded as the hour got later. And then he found him. Sitting at the bar, and sipping on a tall, pink drink with an umbrella and a twisty straw… was Mortimer LeFleur.

  He hit the forward button and watched the entire evening flutter by in super high speed. With the exception of a couple of quick bathroom breaks, Mortimer stayed on the barstool all night from seven p.m. to one-thirty a.m. So, he wasn’t the figure that Troy had watch steal the painting on the video from the museum.

  “Dangit,” he muttered.

  “So, your number one suspect is in the clear, eh?” Charles asked.

  “Yup, for the heist anyway.” Troy’s mind flashed with another thought. “Can we dial up the Wednesday night footage?” he asked.

  Wednesday was the night Tayler allegedly hung himself… the night he suspected the killer had murdered him.

  “Sure thing,” Charles said, and Troy noticed he’d stopped calling him sugar… all part of the act he supposed.

  He clicked a few keys, brought up the video, and watched as Troy made his way through the feed. He watched through all of the various views from around the club and scanned hour after hour of the Wednesday night recording. No sign of LeFleur.

  “Well, he wasn’t here the night that Tayler died,” Troy said, “but it wouldn’t make sense for him to be the killer if he didn’t take the painting.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Charles idly clicked through a couple of the video feeds. “Have you ever considered that the two things might be coincidental? I mean, maybe the thief is just taking advantage of the suicide… or maybe murder.”

  “Yeah.” Troy felt his shoulders slump. “I guess that could be the case. It just made so much sense for—”

  “Hold on a second,” Charles interrupted. “Isn’t that… isn’t that the boy you’re talking about?”

  He turned the computer screen toward Troy and there, walking into the front door of Club One… was Tayler Evan. Troy clicked the spacebar to pause the video and looked at the time and date stamp: August 16th – 9:13:12 PM.

  “Hot dang.” Troy hit the play button.

  In slow motion, he watched Tayler come into the club followed by his friends: the white girl who’d liked his hat, the boy he thought they had called Alain, and holding onto his arm, the blind Japanese kid. Behind them all, walking in as if she was trying not to be seen, was Samantha.

  He watched the night unfold as Tayler drank more and more – all bought for him by his friends – and eventually, he watched him get carried out to a cab by Alain. The others stayed at the bar for a few minutes, but then, one by one, they all left too. Except for Becky. He rewound the tape and saw that she’d disappeared earlier… around 10:15.

  “Coulda been any one of ‘em,” Troy mumbled.

  “Or LeFleur,” Charles chimed in.

  Troy jumped as he realized the man was still watching with him.

  “Hey, could you copy these on a drive or somethin’ for me?” he asked.

  Charles Fry nodded. “Come by tomorrow morning. I’ll pick up a flash drive and copy the whole week for you.”

  “Thanks,” Troy said as he stood up.

  Numb with shock and confusion at the events he’d just watched, he walked out of the club and out to the street. He clicked on his phone and dialed Samantha. At this time of morning, he expected to get voicemail, but it sounded like someone picked up.

  “Hey, Sami,” he said, “is that you? Where are you? What’s going on?”

  The line went dead.

  “Dangit,” Troy mumbled as he jogged back down the street toward his apartment.

  28

  Cracking Up

  Samantha Eliza Dawn awoke with the taste of blood in her mouth. She was sitting in a rickety wooden chair and her hands were bound behind her. It felt like they were wrapped with half a roll of duct tape. Similarly, her ankles were wound tightly and strapped to the legs of the chair, and her mouth was covered with tape as well. The room around her was nearly pitch black… the floor felt like cold, smooth concrete under her bare feet

  She grunted from behind the tape and a metallic echo reverberated into the blackness. She tried to turn to look around, but the back of her neck stabbed her with a knife of pain. That’s when she remembered she’d been attacked when she answered her apartment door.

  Whoever it was had been wearing a dark hoody with their face hidden in shadows. The intruder had slammed the door open, grabbed Samantha by the neck, and thrown her down on the floor. Her head hit the carpeted floor so hard it sent stars flying across her vision. Within seconds, she had blacked out.

  The next thing she knew, she was here. Alone, in the dark, and bleeding from some kind of injury to her mouth. She wondered if she’d forgotten the intruder hitting her there… or maybe she’d bitten her own tongue when she fell. Either way, her mouth was taped shut, so she had to swallow the blood. Her stomach was protesting and she hoped she wouldn’t throw up behind her gag.

  As she sat in the darkness, she went through a gamut of emotions. First, naturally, was fear. Sheer terror screamed in her brain as she wondered if she would be the next victim of Tayler’s murderer. But then it struck her that she wasn’t entirely sure this was Tayler’s murderer. Had to be. Was it LeFleur? Maybe. She couldn’t see who the figure was, but they were definitely strong. And then more confusion began to take over. Why?

  Why was she being attacked? Had Troy told LeFleur she was onto him? Oh, God… what if something had happened to Troy? What if nobody realized she was missing until it was too late? She groaned behind the tape. What if she was about to die? Terror took over again and she strained against her bonds.

  “So,” said an electronically altered voice from behind her – a cross between the Jigsaw killer from the Saw movies and Darth Vader – “you’re awake.”

  Samantha froze. She could see nothing. The room was beginning to fade into view a little from a light source she couldn’t see behind her. It appeared to be an empty garage or storage room of some kind. The walls were concrete block and the roof was metal.

  The sound of metal scraping against something rough echoed behind her. Shhhhingggg. Then again. Shhhhinnnggggg. A knife against a sharpener? Her terror took on a whole new level, as tears began to form in her eyes and run down her cheek and a groan formed deep in her chest.

  “Just had to start poking around,” the altered voice said. “No reason to, really. But you just had to dig deeper and start poking holes in the story… poor Tayler’s tragic story.”

  She shook her head and mumbled under the tape. The scraping sound got closer and Samantha involuntarily shrieked. She heard the sound of something heavy dropping to the floor… a thunk… maybe the sharpening stone?

  Her breathing became frantic and mucus began to run from her nose and mingle with her tears. She jerked back and forth, but a heavy gloved hand grabbed her shoulder to steady her.

  The ice-cold metal of the long, sharp blade she still couldn’t see slipped in between the tape and her skin. It nick
ed her a little, but then sliced the duct tape and the gloved hand jerked it off her face. She screamed as it ripped away from her head, pulling out hair as it went.

  “Please, God, don’t kill me,” she moaned.

  The room was silent.

  “Why are you doing this?” she said, and sniffed.

  Footsteps seemed to move away from her into the darkness and she tried to turn her head. The tiniest crack of light was sneaking in under what might’ve been a door. She could see heavy black boots on her attacker’s feet.

  “Everything was going exactly as planned,” the strange voice said, “and then you and your friends started talking. Talking about what happened to Tayler.”

  “So, it’s true,” Samantha said. “Tayler didn’t commit suicide. You killed him.”

  The voice laughed… a strange, echoing sound through the electronic filter.

  “An untimely death, I know,” the voice said, “given his recent success with the painting of you.”

  Something sounded odd about the emphasis on the word you. Something familiar.

  “A painting that would’ve lived and died in oblivion if not for me,” the voice continued. “In a way, I’ve given young Tayler the greatest gift an artist could receive. Immortality.”

  Samantha began to feel emboldened and angry.

  “Not like that’ll do him any good since he’s dead now,” she spat, “and if I have anything to do with it, you’ll go down for his murder. I know exactly who you—”

  Samantha was interrupted as the gloved hand suddenly slammed into the back of her head. She screamed in pain and she tumbled, chair and all over on her side. Her face rested on the cool concrete. It felt good against her throbbing head.

  “You’ll do nothing,” the voice said quickly, “except die by your own hand. A sad, moody little girl who lost her boyfriend to a senseless suicide. The papers will love it. Romeo and Juliet for the modern world.”

  Samantha felt new tears streaming from her eyes. “But why?” she moaned.

  “If you don’t know that,” the voice sneered, “then you clearly don’t know anything about me.”

  That was a weird thing for the killer to say. Samantha didn’t know who it was… why would she know anything about—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the strong, gloved hands jerking her chair back upright.

  “But, I can’t have you dying with any marks on you,” the voice said, getting farther away from her. “For now, I’ll let you heal. A week should do the trick.”

  “I won’t eat,” Samantha said, “I’ll die of starvation first.”

  “All the better.”

  Samantha thought she heard a smile in the voice.

  “The lovesick girlfriend starves herself to death.”

  Dammit, thought Samantha as she realized how hungry she was right now.

  Footsteps approached from the other side of the room and she heard the familiar sound of duct tape being unwound from the roll. The killer wrapped it around her face, covering her mouth again. She wondered how she would be able to eat like this… but didn’t really care.

  “Take care, poor Juliet,” the voice said, and the sound of a metal door screeching open poured light into the room. “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

  It slammed shut, throwing Samantha back into darkness. That had to be Mortimer. Sounded like something he would say. As she sat in the black room, letting her head recover from the slap and the fall, she began to try and put pieces together from all that had happened. The more she thought about it, the more her head swam.

  Surely, if it was Professor LeFleur, Troy was onto him and would follow him here to rescue her. But what if Troy had tipped his hand and LeFleur had killed him, too. It just got worse the more she thought about it. She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. Willing herself to meditate, she concentrated on the one thing she knew for sure. She was not going to sit here and die for the killer. Rocking back and forth, she pushed harder and harder with her feet until the chair slammed backward onto the hard floor. Through the pain, she grinned as she felt the chair crack under her weight. That was all she would need to get free… a crack she could work on.

  29

  I Know A Guy

  Locking the door, the thief – Tayler’s murderer – walked out onto the street. The sun streamed down in bright rays… it was a beautiful day. There was no one walking here like there would’ve been back at the college. It was the perfect location to keep Samantha – quiet, industrial, and remote. It wouldn’t have mattered if anyone had seen the thief; this place was all part of the thief’s regular day-to-day activity.

  Overhead, an airplane rushed by, the jet engines screaming into the sky. The thief grinned, wondering if the art dealers had ever found the painting. Skipping down to the curb, the thief hopped onto a scooter, unlocked a rope chain from a nearby streetlight, and drove away. The plan was coming together nicely. With Samantha gone, the way would be smooth sailing. The thief made a mental note to bring some protein shakes over tomorrow... with a straw. The girl would get hungry soon enough.

  Troy plopped himself down on the leather club chair in his now roommate-less apartment. He had dialed Samantha’s number over and over, hoping whoever had picked up before would do that again. No such luck. It went straight to voicemail, so he hung up. Then a thought hit him… what if the person who had possibly killed Tayler had taken Samantha… and her phone. He dialed again. After a few seconds, he spoke into the receiver.

  “Hey there,” he said, starting unsurely but gaining momentum as he spoke, “this is Troy Bodean. I know who you are. I also know what you’ve done. We both know where this is headed. I’m thinkin’ we can strike a deal. All I want is Sami back. If you drop her somewhere and let her come on, I’ll convince her to drop this whole Tayler thing and you can run away with the painting.”

  He paused for a second and decided to go out on a limb.

  “Unless you’ve already sold it,” he said, “in which case, you can run away to ole Mexico or somethin’ like that. Either way, you’re off scot-free. That is… if I get the girl back.”

  He started to add something else, but his line beeped. He held the phone out to see who was calling. Vito Mantiaglio from out in Vegas was returning a call Troy had made to him earlier. If anyone would know how to find a painting being sold on the black market, it was Vito. Troy clicked to hang up on the voicemail he was leaving on Sami’s phone, and clicked over to pick up with Vito.

  “Yo,” Troy said with a smile in his voice.

  “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Vito’s big Italian voice boomed over the phone. “If it ain’t the infamous Troy Bodean.”

  Troy laughed. “Infamous? I doubt that.”

  “How the hell are you, Troy?” Vito asked. “I ain’t seen you since… friggin’ ten years ago, right?”

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s about right,” Troy said.

  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of dis call, Mr. Bodean?”

  “Vito, I got a question about a paintin’,” Troy said.

  “Hold up,” Vito said, and Troy thought he heard the man standing up and walking away from other people talking in the background. “Aight, cool. I had to step outside for a sec. So, I’m guessin’ we’re talkin’ about a hot paintin’?”

  “Yeah,” Troy said, “somethin’ like that. There’s a pretty famous one that’s gone missin’ down here in Savannah.”

  “Shit,” Vito breathed, “you talkin’ about that black girl one? The one where the dude offed hisself?”

  “That’s the one,” Troy said. “You know anything about it?”

  “Dude,” Vito said, “that thing is so hot right now, it’s on fire. If anyone tried to sell it already, every Fed in the country would know about it. As such, I ain’t heard a peep.”

  “Nothin’ at all?”

  “Nuttin’.”

  “Dangit,” Troy muttered. “Thanks, Vito. Hey, listen, do me a favor. If you hear anything about it, let me know, okay?”r />
  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I’ll call you. In the meantime, lemme hook you up with a local guy I know. He’s in the business. Mighta heard summ’n.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Vito said, “but be careful. Eddie ain’t always the most up and up guy.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Yeah, Eddie Vargo.”

  “Cool.”

  “I’ll text you his number,” Vito said. “Tell him I sent you, but don’t expect that to get you no favors.”

  “Thanks, Vito.”

  “Yeah, don’t thank me yet,” Vito said, “I dunno how helpful that’ll be. Anyways, when you gonna get out to Vegas again?”

  Troy shook his head. “Not sure ‘bout that one. I’ll let you know if I ever do.”

  “Aight, cool, brother,” Vito said, “be safe.”

  “You too,” Troy said and hung up the phone.

  As soon as he did, a text came through with a phone number and the name Eddie Vargo. Troy sniffed and punched the number to dial it. It went to voicemail.

  Dangit, Troy thought, don’t nobody answer the dang phone anymore?

  He left a short and sweet message: “Vito sent me. Call me back. I’m interested in that paintin’ I keep seein’ on the news. Name’s Troy. Call me back on this number.”

  He dropped his phone on the coffee table and picked up a Ziploc bag full of dollar bills. He proceeded to count his haul from Club One. As he counted, he couldn’t help but grin.

  Part III

  Finishing Strokes

  “Art is never finished, only abandoned.”

  -Leonardo da Vinci

  30

  Pumpkin’ Chunkin’

  Troy was belly up to the bar at the Rail Pub when the cute blond girl almost young enough to be his daughter hobbled up and stood next to him. He was four Coronas in and sipping on number five and not necessarily against some company. His head had begun to ache, thinking about all the heavy stuff he’d been involved in with the suicide… er, murder, of Tayler.