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 ha
d 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.
“Hurting me?” she questioned. “Alain, what in God’s name are you talking about?”
Alain looked around the room. There was no one else there. The TV was on, with the U.S.A. Ninja Challenge program blaring on its screen.
“I thought I heard someone… attacking you,” he said rubbing his ankle gingerly. “I mean, I heard you screaming.”
Becky inhaled deeply. It was obvious she was out of breath. As Alain looked her over, he began to surmise the mistake he’d made. She was wearing a sports bra, spandex shorts, gloves with the fingers cut out, and workout shoes – the kind that had separated toes. Her wrists and ankles were taped with athletic tape and all of the above was covered in sweat and chalk.
“Dude,” she said between breaths, “I was working out. I was grunting… not screaming.”
“Yeah, but I heard someone throwing you around the room.”
“You heard burpees, ya douchebag.”
“Burpees?”
Becky rolled her eyes and stood up. In an apparent demonstration, she performed a burpee – squatting to touch the floor at her feet, thrusting her feet backwards behind her, putting her in a pushup position, doing a pushup, pulling her feet back in toward her hands, then jumping as high as she could and lowering her hands so they wouldn’t hit the ceiling. It had produced a pretty significant thump when she’d dropped to the floor.
“Oh…”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I just thought… okay, well, never mind what I thought. Are you okay?”
Becky walked toward her kitchen stripping off the gloves as she went. “Of course I’m okay,” she said. “I do my burpee challenge every night while I watch… sort of my penance.”
“Your penance?”
She reached into her refrigerator and pulled out two bottled waters. She tossed one to Alain. He grabbed it out of the air, unscrewed the top, and took a long sip.
“Ice?” she asked, pointing at his ankle.
“Yeah,” he said, “definitely a sprain.”
She pulled an icepack out of the freezer and tossed it to him. “I use those a lot,” she grinned.
“I guess so,” he said, laying it across his swelling ankle. “So, what’s this penance you’re talking about?”
She nodded toward the television. “I didn’t make it.”
“Huh?”
“U.S.A. Ninja Challenge,” she said. “I went out on the burpee slide.”
“The… burpee slide?”
“Hard to explain,” she said, “but it’s damn difficult and I couldn’t do it.”
“Ah, so you’re working on your burpees.”
“Yeah,” she said shrugging, “and it’s a good time to do it cause the roomies downstairs are in a Bible group that meets in the lobby. I don’t disturb them, they don’t disturb me.”
“Oh.”
Becky walked into the living room and turned the TV down. Reaching out a hand, she helped Alain pull himself up onto the couch. She plopped down beside him and took a swig of water.
“So, what the hell are you doing here, anyway?” she asked. “Not that I care, but you’ve never come over here before… hell, nobody every comes over. We always go to Samantha’s place.”
“Becky,” he said, “that’s not true. We go to the coffee shop.”
“Yeah, well,” she said defensively, “before that we did”
“Before that we went to Tayler’s place.”
Becky was stumped, but managed to find a way to turn it against Samantha. “Yeah, and that was because Samantha was dating him at the time.”
“They never dated.”
“She wanted to date him.”
“But they never went out unless we were all together.”
“Whatever,” she said. “Doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“Yeah,” agreed said quietly, “I guess not.”
A long awkward pause in the conversation filled the air. Alain took a deep breath and laid the icepack to the side.
“Becky,” he said quietly, “what happened to Tayler?”
She gave him a strange look he couldn’t quite read. Then she sucked some air in across her teeth.
“Ohhhh,” she said, “I see. You’ve got it in your head that maybe I had something to do with it. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Al, but I don’t know what happened to Tayler and I had absolutely nothing to do with it.”
“I know that,” Alain shook his head, “I just had to make sure.”
“I mean, what the hell, dude?” she huffed. “You really think I’d do something like that to someone I lov—” She stopped short, and Alain winced. “Someone I loved,” she continued, “the same way I love all of you guys… including Samantha.”
“I’m sorry,” Alain sighed, “but with Samantha missing now and all this shit going on… I was just paranoid. I mean, I thought maybe Tayler’s killer was after her now and—”
“Look, Alain,” she interrupted him, “I’m sure Sami is just fine. Why would the killer be going after her for, anyway?”
“Maybe she found something out,” Alain said, “figured out who did this. I think she told Troy she thought LeFleur had something to do with it.”
“It wasn’t LeFleur,” a voice came from the doorway.
Alain jumped and turned his head toward the voice. He realized that in all their tumbling around they’d left the door open. The figure in the doorway was familiar. A reasonab
ly tall man wearing a short-sleeved linen shirt – unbuttoned down to mid chest, a pair of khaki shorts held up with a black canvas belt, olive green Keen sandals like a fisherman might wear, and a hat – an Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat.
38
Alibi Hunting
Troy Bodean strolled in and tipped his hat, first toward Becky, and then Alain.
“In case you two lovebirds were wondering,” he said in a steady voice, “I checked LeFleur out, and he’s got a rock-solid alibi for the whole time period that Tayler was most likely murdered.”
“He has an alibi?” Becky asked.
“Yup,” Troy said, “on video, sittin’ at a bar, sippin’ on a cosmo, or maybe an appletini or whatever the hell they drink at the…”
He stopped short, and Alain couldn’t quite make out the inflection in his voice.
“But that ain’t what matters right now,” the man in the hat continued. “What I need to know, Becky, is do you have an alibi?”
“I don’t need a frickin’ alibi,” she huffed, “cause I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yeah?” he said. “Well there’re two bad guys on the way over here right now, and best I can figure, they think you’ve got the paintin’.”
“I don’t,” she said. “But wait… who the hell is on the way over here?”
“Coupla art dealers who deal in stuff that ain’t exactly above board.”
“And why do they think I have it?”
“Somethin’ about a G.P.S. unit with your address on it,” he said, raising his hands, palms upward, “and they’re likely gettin’ close. So, I really need to know what the hell is goin’ on.”
“Look, Troy,” she said, “I have no idea. I don’t have the painting…”
He stared hard at her. Alain started to speak, but Troy lifted a hand to stop him without looking over at him.
“And?” he asked quietly.
“And I sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with Tayler’s death,” she said as tears began to well in her eyes.
Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4) Page 16
